While one agent heads straight to the main console, two others spread out and search the place top to bottom.
But Barnett himself is nowhere to be found.
“Looks like he bailed pretty fast,” says one of them, holstering his sidearm and gesturing to the mess and filth covering practically every square inch.
Yet the agents’ trained eyes are able to quickly pick out which items need special attention—that is, which need to be bagged and brought back to the lab for analysis. Like the multi-terabyte hard drives. And the reams of folders marked TOP SECRET, many of which appear to be stolen government or military files.
“Get a load of this little fella,” another agent says. She’s tapping a metal cage hanging from the ceiling. Inside, a large, multicolored parrot is watching them curiously.
“Holy shit, holy shit,” the bird squawks, both startling and amusing the agent.
“Forget the bird,” says another agent. “Check out the maps.”
Tacked up on the wall next to the monitors is a giant color printout of NASA’s diagram map of the Kepler-22 system, a section of the cosmos containing the first “habitable zone” planet discovered by NASA’s Kepler interplanetary mission. Interestingly, one of the planets has been circled in red marker, with a series of question marks scrawled next to it.
But the agent seated at the computer console keeps his focus squarely on the monitors in front of him. He’s rebooted the system, but can’t yet crack the password.
…feep…feep…feep…feep…
“It’s…it’s going haywire or something,” he tells his colleagues.
They aren’t used to hearing such nontechnical words come from his mouth, which they take as a sign their fellow agent is frustrated and frazzled.
Which must mean he’s dealing with something serious.
So serious, the entire contents of the computer’s central drive—still encrypted—will be archived, uploaded, and transmitted to Washington within minutes.
Chapter 6
Sealed inside the cockpit, the commander and her crew are beginning the meticulous final steps that will prepare their sophisticated spacecraft for takeoff, and carry them to their destination.
To her right sits the pilot. Behind him, the flight engineer. Farther back are the mission specialist and payload chief. All around, covering almost every possible centimeter of wall and console space, are decks of flickering controls.
The commander knows she’s responsible for the most advanced spacecraft in existence: the Epsilon Eridani. It’s structured from carbon nanotube composites, equipped with flexible alloy “smart wings,” and outfitted with advanced EmDrives and onboard nuclear power (which would have gotten NASA’s Mars rover to the red planet in seventy-five days instead of nine months). It’s vastly stronger, lighter, and faster than any ship currently in operation. The most capable spacecraft the commander has ever captained, and having access to it ensures that this mission is going to be successful—a cruel oxymoron, she’s thinking.
Her team’s equipment is just as top-of-the-line. Each crew member wears a bright-orange custom-fit space suit and helmet made of aluminized Mylar, urethane-coated nylon, and other ultra-high-strength materials. Pressurized with oxygen, each suit is designed to protect the wearer against micrometeoroid bombardment and insulated against the extreme temperature variations the team is likely to encounter during their mission.
At T-minus twenty minutes, the commander is com-linked to the Launch Control Center to initiate the preflight checklist.
“Epsilon Eridani to Mission Control. We are standing by.”
“Roger, Epsilon. This is Mission Control. Do you read me?”
“I read you.”
“Good luck, Commander. Prepare for prelaunch protocols.”
“Commence prelaunch protocols,” the commander finally replies.
As Mission Control begins rattling off a long list of system tests and safety checks, the commander exchanges a knowing glance with her pilot—a look that goes well beyond this mission, way back to when they were in flight school together.
Both were recently married. Both had been away from their spouses for six intense months. And the loneliness had begun to take its toll.
It was during a final training exercise, just the two of them inside a zero-gravity chamber, blissfully adrift in little more than their underwear. Before they knew what was happening, their athletic young bodies became entangled, slowly turning, floating. Laughter at first, until their lips locked in a brief but passionate kiss. A sign of the bond forged during their training. A desperately needed release after so many hundreds of grueling hours. But a mistake nonetheless. One that neither has spoken about since, but neither has forgotten.
Once the preflight checklist is completed, Mission Control intones, “Epsilon Eridani, you are clear for takeoff.”
The Ground Launch Sequencer is turned on and the terminal countdown begins. From here, operations will be controlled automatically by the launch director inside Mission Control. The clock is ticking, on so many levels. But for now, the commander knows, things are out of her control.
In the final moments they remain on the ground, the commander removes from her space suit a tiny item of contraband she smuggled aboard. It’s a major violation of security protocols, but that hardly matters now. She carefully affixes it to the corner of the side cockpit window. She smiles at it, her heart bursting with so many emotions.
It’s the family photo she brought with her, of her husband and two children, her daughter tightly hugging her plush toy rocket ship.
The commander is taking them with her.
Now just seconds away from liftoff, the commander watches the rest of her crew—the pilot, the flight engineer, the mission specialist, the payload chief—all hard at work. Tapping buttons, twisting knobs, making their final flight preparations. All are so deeply dedicated to their mission, though they’re prohibited by security regulations from knowing the specifics.
Even if none of them knows the truth.
The commander is briefly tempted to violate security protocols and tell them the true nature of this mission.
“Commencing final countdown” comes the voice from Mission Control. “Launch in ten…nine…eight…seven…” No, she decides. She won’t. She can’t.
Chapter 7
I’m around the corner and quick-stepping it back up the street to my apartment.
I gotta get back to my computer, give it a fresh look. See if I can figure out what, if anything, is real. If that’s even possible.
Before somebody beats me to it.
Especially if that somebody works for the United States government.
I think back to that “new neighbor” I met—Joe, with his white German shepherd. He couldn’t have been…one of them, could he? Feeling me out? Trailing me? Bullshit—right? Or is it?
No matter. Even if the feds do show up at my place, there’s no way they’ll get in. Bars on the windows, smart locks on the entrance—I’m in the clear.
But then again, if they do? I’m probably a dead man.
But then again, my computer and all its data are totally secure—and remotely backed up. The system is easily up to the DoD Orange Book specs, the highest level of digital encryption the government uses. (Thanks, Air Force!)
But then again…
I’m now just a few blocks from my place—when I balk. I take another lap around the neighborhood. My brain’s still working overtime and I desperately gotta clear it.
Rob, will you give yourself a break? You’ve always been your own worst enemy!
Wanna know why your professors weren’t quite taking you seriously? Because neither did you. You never even had the balls to ask out the girls you really wanted! If Marty hadn’t initiated things, you probably wouldn’t have ever connected with her…
And now, all of a sudden, for the first time in six years, I’m thinking about having a cold one. At five o’clock in the morning.
Insane. And of c
ourse, I know I can’t.
But man, it’s tempting.
After the Air Force, my drinking got way, way out of control. I started getting drunk at bars alone. Coming home after the kids were already in bed. And Marty started losing patience with me.
Soon I started drinking in the afternoons, right at my computer, trying to get a handle on the data I was seeing, thinking I could function even better with a bit of a buzz. But of course, the more I drank, the harder it was to focus…which made me want to drink even more…which, well, you can see where it was going.
Sure, my research started to suffer. But Marty and the girls were paying the real price. Before long, my wife and father-in-law sat me down and had an intervention.
Which was exactly the wake-up call I needed. I went to AA, bought it—reluctantly at first, then big-time. I attended thirty meetings in thirty days, got a sponsor, the whole thing. And though my marriage didn’t survive, I have not had a drink since, a genuine blessing.
But right now, oh, man…what I wouldn’t give for an ice-cold—
Stop, dude!
You’re onto something huge here! Something that could have a profound effect on the world we live in—the universe we live in! You’re out there with the noble pioneers who risked everything. Who defied logic. Who alienated (no pun intended) those around them, but ultimately made the world a better place. Nobody said it was going to be easy. You gave yourself up completely to this work because you had a vision, a belief, a question. Now you’re close. Very close.
Okay, okay!
I start to feel a little better, a little calmer, as I round the final corner to my apartment…
And then I see them.
I can’t believe it. It’s really happening.
They are onto me!
I spot eight black government sedans parked outside my building, lights strobing.
And I count at least a dozen federal agents in dark suits getting out and—holy shit—drawing their weapons!
These guys aren’t just here for my computers. They’re here for me.
I practically fling myself to the ground behind some nearby trash cans along the curb to try to hide. Of course I knock into one and it almost tips over, which would give away my position—but I grab it just in time.
Staying crouched, I watch with terror as the agents storm into my building and race up the stairs to my apartment.
Yup, I’m dead.
Obviously, they know exactly what I picked up with my computer. I don’t know how they know, but they do. And it’s clearly a matter of incredible urgency.
I gotta get the hell out of here, I realize. Get somewhere else. Fast.
But where?
Anywhere.
I just hope it’s not too late.
I turn and scurry back down the street to my car, thankfully still parked where I left it a few nights ago. I pull the keys from my pocket, climb in, and turn over the engine.
It coughs. It whines. Finally, it starts.
At least something is functioning like it’s supposed to in my life.
A life, it’s beginning to dawn on me, that will never be the same.
Chapter 8
Before long, I’m cruising west down Sunset Boulevard in my beat-up black 2005 Jeep Cherokee.
The car was actually a gift—a pity gift—from my former father-in-law, who wanted to help me get back on my feet after I got booted from the Air Force. Yeah, yeah, I know. But I was broke and jobless and needed some wheels, and I was still married to his incredible and pregnant daughter, don’t forget. It’s had more mechanical problems over the years than I can count, but it’s generally served me pretty well.
Here’s hoping that doesn’t change today.
So far, so good. The engine’s purring like a panther. The CD player’s blaring some kick-ass Stevie Ray Vaughan. And the windows are wide open. The cool September air is streaming in and it’s finally calming me some.
At least that’s what I’m telling myself.
I glance in my rearview mirror, making sure I’m not being followed. I press down harder on the gas anyway. The janky old SUV grumbles and picks up a bit of speed.
I don’t know where I’m going yet, but I know I’m in one hell of a hurry to get there.
I also know I’m terrified. Petrified. So scared outta my freaking brain that I’m practically numb. The full reality of my situation is just starting to become clear.
But strangely enough, I’m also feeling good—for the first time since I don’t know when. I’m feeling excited. Energized. Alive! There’s no substitute for being right, especially about something this major.
And I am right. Right?
Damn straight!
The friggin’ US Air Force should have listened to me from the start!
Kiss my ass, Caltech!
Up yours, NASA!
But no time to start popping champagne just yet. The FBI is on my ass—along with who knows who else.
My mind is so distracted, I don’t notice the traffic light turn from yellow to red. I slam on the brakes and skid to a stop just in time.
Which is when I realize what I have to do next.
I’ve got to get what I’ve seen—make that, the alien signal I’ve overheard—to the right people, so we can figure it out.
Thing is, who the hell are the right people?
Then it hits me.
As soon as the light turns green, I pull a screeching U-turn, cutting off cars in both directions, getting honked at so much it sounds like an angry flock of geese.
I pray a cop doesn’t see me and pull me over. That’s the last thing I need right now.
Then I stomp on the gas and start heading east, then north toward Glendale.
There’s only one place to start. Only one person I can share this with. I owe it to her. I owe a lot to her, actually. She deserves to be the first one to tell me if she thinks I’ve got something here…or if I’ve gone completely bonkers.
The truth is, I need her to be first.
And I can’t get to her fast enough.
Chapter 9
Great. I’ve just made contact with freaking aliens and now I’m stuck smack-dab in the middle of rush-hour Los Angeles traffic.
The 2 freeway is worse than a parking lot, jammed with commuters going both ways. Impatient, I start driving like a teenager, weaving in and out of cars. I even cruise along the bumpy shoulder for a bit. Horns blast at me. I get plenty of middle-finger salutes. I couldn’t care less.
When I finally reach the San Fernando Road exit, I zoom down the off-ramp, then cut through Forest Lawn Park…
And I’m suddenly flooded with memories. Like all the great concerts held here that Marty and I used to go to. Or strolling through the statuary with the kids, who would always giggle at the life-sized, highly detailed replica of Michelangelo’s David. Those sure were the days.
And now I’m pulling up in front of our old house. My ex-wife’s house.
I notice Marty has repainted it a pleasant pastel yellow instead of drab beige. God, how long has it been since I’ve visited? She’s replaced the furniture on the front porch, too. Ditched the sagging settee on which we passed many lovely summer evenings talking about life, our kids, future grandkids. The rosebushes I planted and took such meticulous care of are still there, but barely. Thanks to the California drought, they look wilted. Ancient. Dead.
Like our marriage. Oh, man…
During my otherwise fruitless, miserable time as a grad student at Caltech, Marty Garrison was the best damn thing that happened to me. She made it all worth it.
She’d just earned a master’s there in astrophysics, with high honors, and was working in the office of the dean of the graduate aerospace labs. Marty had the brains, all right, plus the beauty to match. The first time I laid eyes on her, I was done for. Tall, athletic, with rich black hair and a face that beamed self-confidence, she had me at “Hi, how can I help you?”
That was the only upside of churning through as many fa
culty advisors and meeting with the dean as often as I did—getting to flirt with her each time, even if I never had the balls to ask her out. One day, Marty offered to take a look at part of my dissertation, and gave me some really insightful comments. Soon thereafter, we became unofficial colleagues. Then friends. Then more. We discovered we were kindred spirits. We fell in love—deep, complex, scientifically verifiable love.
After we got married and I joined the Air Force, Marty landed a fabulous job at NASA’s Jet Propulsion Lab over in Pasadena. We bought this nice little home together. Had two gorgeous girls. Things were going great. What happened?
Life happened.
No, I happened.
I don’t see her or our kids nearly as much as I should. I know that. I also know I’m not exactly my ex-wife’s favorite guy. But it was some kind of instinct that brought me here today. In the past, I’ve always turned to Marty for help. She’s a good person, so she’s always given it. And Jesus, do I need it right now.
Steeling myself, I walk up the creaky wooden stairs and knock on the door.
“Daddy!” cries Claire, my youngest, just six years old, as she flings it open. She’s wearing two red bows in her blond pigtails, a Frozen-themed aquamarine skirt, brown pajama bottoms printed with Star Wars characters, and one green rubber boot. I’ve got to give my little girl credit: she’s got style. Consistency, too. Marty sent me new pictures of Claire and her sister about a week ago—which I promptly beamed up to the heavens, as always—and she was wearing almost this exact getup.
“Hey, sweetie. Is Mommy around? I really need to see her.”
Before she can reply, I hear a familiar voice call from down the hall. “Claire, get back here. What did I tell you about opening the door for…”
The House Next Door Page 20
