by J. L. ROBB
The strategists determined that it would take three waves of approximately one thousand ICBMs per wave to have any chance of diverting the massive and dense object headed toward Earth. Unfortunately, because of missile treaties, the world didn’t have 3,000 ICBMs anymore. Russia and the United States had been eagerly disenfranchising and destroying the missiles under the new peace agreement. Now the question, assuming the world powers could actually work together: Could 1500 ICBMs do the trick?
The world powers should have 1500 or so ICBMs and would have more except for the two that were being stationed on the ocean floor, about thirty feet below the surface of first, the Indian Ocean, and then the Gulf of Mexico.
Melissa interrupted Jeff’s thoughts.
“Of course, Audry wants to go with us to Grand Cayman, it’s the beach you know; but she doesn’t seem worried either. That seems so strange, but I know she’s just a kid.” Melissa’s world had turned very Twilight Zonish of late. “Jenni and Jami want to stay here with their friends. They want to have an NEO Party. Can you believe that? I assured them there would be no NEO hitting the Earth.”
Jeff silently questioned how Melissa could be so confident that it wouldn’t hit but said nothing.
“Well, like we discussed, if we are going to be exterminated, I can’t think of a better place for it to happen than on Seven Mile Beach in Grand Cayman. Gray and Andi feel exactly the same. We will go down a few days before Christmas and stay until the ICBM diversion plan is activated. That should be about January 12th if everything goes right. Our missiles can only travel so far and so fast. Then we will have Audry fly to Grand Cayman to be with us.
“The plan is to intercept when the object is about fifteen million miles from impact; and that will be the maximum range, assuming the powers-that-be can come together. The launch will have to be well before Christmas, probably by December 10th.”
Jeff had no confidence the plan would work, but if he could die with Melissa and Audry, that was fine with him. It would be quick.
Melissa felt that she and the girls would go to heaven for their entry into the next life, the eternal one. Jeff did not believe in eternal life.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
But you, Daniel, roll up and seal the words of the scroll until the time of the end. Many will go here and there to increase knowledge.” Daniel 12:4
Bill “Wild Willy” Briggs, Jeff’s buddy from long ago, had been in Israel working with Senator Russell and Mossad on the new, almost microscopic, Spybots. They were designed to look like small bugs, flies, mosquitoes, whatever, and were powered by a small, invisible-to-the-eye and almost weightless nuclear power plant. The Spybots could fly indefinitely. If the world still existed in the Spring, small bugs would be flying through the Korengal Valley on a routine basis and into the cave dwellings of al- Qaeda, Taliban and other jihadists, those bent on destruction of the West, as well as their own neighbors.
Mossad, the Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations, was Israel’s national intelligence agency, reputed to be the world’s best. It was Mossad who verified that Saddam Hussein’s missing WMDs were actually moved to the Bekaa Valley just prior to the Iraq war.
A few weeks before Christmas, Mossad conducted a trial run with two of the Spybots. They lost communication with one of the bots almost immediately, but the other one sent a live-feed and the sound of wind as it maneuvered from beneath the Predator drone flying over the Valley of Death. The Spybots were tiny and made of carbon fiber, protecting them from destruction by the force of the Predator’s surrounding turbulence. NATO soldiers had long ago pulled out its forces, the Valley of Death too dangerous for troops.
When Wild Willy wasn’t working with Mossad or some other intelligence service, he was a high-classed repo man. He planned a trip to Grand Cayman Island the week before Christmas, just ten days to the future. There he would repossess a $4,000,000 Learjet, hoping he could fly away without the angry past-owner chasing him down the runway in a Lexus, like happened last time. He would fly the plane to Miami and then return to Grand Cayman for another repo, this time a Hatteras 80’ motor yacht.
If the yacht repossession proved successful, Bill would be able to spend some time with his dear friends Jeff and Melissa, once married but no more. Then he would divulge to Jeff the interesting conversation recorded in a cave by the trial Spybot, something about a missing fish and Diego Garcia.
***
Ricky made it to Atlanta, making only throne-stops along the way. He arranged to meet Nimrod through a clandestine website that was allowed by the U.S. Supreme Court due to privacy laws.
Ricky and Nimrod met for breakfast at an IHOP in Suwanee, a small town just north of Duluth and just as pretty. The downtown area was revitalized and gorgeous. Suwanee was only about twelve miles from Lake Lanier Islands, the home of Bubba’s new luxury submarine port. Nimrod had become very familiar with the lake and felt he had a better idea than that promised by the Christmas surprise.
They spoke in Arabic, their native language, while others spoke in Spanish and Korean. It was, after all, the International House of Pancakes.
“Aboud, can I please make a suggestion?” Nimrod was cautious because he knew of Aboud’s temperament.
“Of course, what is it?”
“I believe a New Year’s Eve surprise would be a better choice than Christmas.”
“Why do you think that?” Aboud would not be an easy sell and was suspicious, initially.
“At Christmas, everyone will be home with their families. They won’t be at the lake. However, on New Year’s Eve, Leon the Jew has been granted special permission to take the submarine out. He plans a late night fireworks cruise.
“I can pilot the sub as close to the dam as possible without raising suspicion. The guests won’t know we are supposed to stay on the surface, so I will suggest we dive and check out the Buford Dam just before the fireworks. If anyone disagrees, I will kill him. I have a gun already hidden in the pilot’s compartment, and the compartment can be safely locked and sealed from the guests.
“Do you see my point, Aboud? New Year’s Eve will have many revelers participating in their decadence. There will be much more death and destruction with a New Year’s Eve blast.”
Nimrod took a sip of coffee. He loved the coffee at IHOP and would truly miss it; but within a few days, he would be in paradise, sipping coffee with the seventy-two virgins the hadith promised.
Ricky liked the idea. The Christmas surprise would become the New Year’s surprise. His conscience liked it even more. He had been a little hesitant to kill thousands of people over Christmas. Jesus was, after all, a great prophet. Not as great as Muhammad, but great at any rate. When Muhammad and Jesus returned in the Last Days, Muhammad would teach Jesus how to pray and seek glory from God.
Ricky and Nimrod finished their breakfast and departed. Ricky headed north. They had eaten breakfast, exchanged pleasantries and briefcase nukes and now the fun would begin.
He would be in New Jersey tomorrow. There he would meet Jamal the Jamaican, a relatively new convert to Islam but eager to share his life for the cause. In Jamaica, Jamal had been the senior pilot with the Montego Bay Helicopter Tour Service. He had many hours of flying experience. Since his wife and two children had been killed in an auto accident caused by an American on the way to Negril, Jamal had remained depressed and suicidal. He wanted revenge and sought out an old friend who was a Muslim convert. His friend believed in voodoo one day and Islam the next. Jamal would’ve laughed had he not been so angry, and depressed.
Jamal was now a helicopter pilot for Life Care in New York City, flying donated organs to hospitals in need, just trying to save another life. He never failed to feel the irony, saving others just to be blown up later; and it reminded him of the crazy Americans. Their legal system mandated that a convicted murderer, a serial killer, would be provided with the best medical care should there be the need. Just so they could cure him, and then kill him.
As Ricky headed north,
leaving the Suwanee IHOP a distant picture in the Dodge truck’s rear view mirror, he reached back and removed the Confederate Flag from the rear window. It would not get a good reception where he was going.
Merging onto I-85 North, Ricky passed within seven miles of Jeff’s home in Duluth where Melissa was getting his stuff together, just like she used to do. Ricky didn’t know Jeff, but Jeff was in his future.
***
“Did you call Wild Willy?” Melissa had given Jeff the message, but lately he seemed a little confused and forgetful, probably still blast exposure. And Willy wasn’t nearly as wild as he used to be.
“I did. I reserved him a room at Cayman Grand. I also reserved a room for Abe, though I may let him stay in my suite if I can put up with his snoring.”
Cayman Grand was the crème-de-la-crème of older hotels, a light-peach stucco façade with open-air restaurants galore. With 4 floors, the Cayman Grand was one of the loftier structures on the island and sat on eight beachfront acres at the less-developed end of Seven Mile Beach, an exaggeration.
The Cayman Grand also housed Come On Down, a dive shop of distinction owned by Jeffrey Ross and Associates, only he had no associates. Because of Jeff’s lease arrangements and friendship with the Cayman Grand’s owner, Jeff always got his choice of any rooms that were available, even the $ 2800 a night Presidential Reggae Suite, either at no cost or heavily discounted.
“So did you decide to stay with me?” Jeff knew the answer before he asked, and Melissa obliged.
“Jeffrey, we talked about this. I am staying at Rum’s Point with Gray and Andi. I will see you plenty while we’re there, but not every night. Can you deal with that? We’ll do some diving.”
“Yep, I will deal with that. Just have a few Bloody Marys on the beach with Abe and Bill. Then the asteroid hits, and we never see each other again. I hope nobody thinks Abe, Bill and I have anything going on, know what I mean?”
“Just flex those muscles Navy Boyvy.” She smiled, thinking about the nickname she had given him when he was just a young, buff Navy man. Now he was an old buff SCUBA man. She shared the thought and they laughed together.
A kiss on the cheek later, Melissa was gone, making her way back to Sandy Springs with a quick stop at Church of the Apostles to drop off some clothing for Haiti. They would be leaving in two days. The kisses seemed nicer in some way, more sincere maybe.
Eight thousand miles eastward, the K-155 Nerpa made its way, slowly and silently. There was no need to rev-up the engines, the Commander thought to himself. No hurry. Time was on the side of Allah.
The advanced sonar perfectly projected the surface of the Indian Ocean onto a plasma flatscreen. The Indian Ocean was deep with a twelve thousand foot average depth, but the surface began to rise as the Nerpa approached the Chagos Atoll, a U.S. Military base leased from Great Britain. The Commander knew if the sub could make it around the atoll without being tracked, the mission would be half accomplished. And they did make it.
The robotic launch pod exited the submarine escape hatch and deployed noiselessly and automatically, the robotic appendages silently climbing and balancing, its sensors seeking a thirty-foot depth for deployment.
After stabilizing on a coral reef off Nelson Island, 250 miles north of Diego Garcia in the central Indian ocean, the 5-megaton ICBM pod, though it wasn’t actually an ICBM and would not be going intercontinental on this journey, remained at the ready, pre-programmed for midnight, December 31.
While Ricky drove northward through South Carolina, the Nerpa K-155 continued to move slowly and silently toward the Gulf of Mexico; and Melissa entered her Sandy Springs three-car garage. Ten minutes later she was packing and thought this might be the last packing of her life. Her faith was strong and rarely shaken, but what if… what if life was destroyed by a single hit from an alien world. That did not fit in with God’s plan, at least as described in The Good Book.
She entered the kitchen and opened a fresh bottle of Duckhorn.
CHAPTER THIRTY
“And I will give power to my two witnesses, and they will prophecy for 1260 days, clothed in sackcloth.” Revelation 11:3
Raleigh, North Carolina
“Mothers of America, once a blessed country, I must ask you a question from Yahweh. Mothers of Europe and other free societies, I ask you the same. Listen carefully.
“Why do you go to church or synagog and then you let your little girls dress up to look like prostitutes? Does your eleven year old daughter really need thong underwear so her panty lines won’t show? Do you think that’s suitable with Yahweh? It isn’t.”
“Whoooaaaa! Who’s that?” Jeff was shocked. He hit the recall button on the remote. WRAL-TV was simulcasting from a park or somewhere, a CNN satellite van in the background.
Melissa didn’t answer Jeff’s question, her head elsewhere, the trip, the comet, Soufriére Hills and the loss of Robert.
“Did you hear what that guy just said, Melissa?” Jeff turned up the volume. “Who is that? Somebody’s gonna throw a shoe at him, I feel it. And who is Yahweh?” He had not heard the term before.
The crowd for the most part was quiet and listened to the man speak; but many looked confused? The broadcast continued.
“Yahweh is not as concerned for the unbeliever as he is for the believer. Are you confused? When you let your daughters go to the prom, why do you allow them to wear dresses so short that leaves nothing to the imagination, and garters and tattoos and piercings? Do you really think that is what Yahweh would want from you? Is that your sacrifice? Don’t you remember the Scriptures about corrupting the children? You idolize tattoos, not Yahweh; and then you call it body art? That’s not art. That’s narcissism. You love yourself more than you love Yahweh. It’s all about you.
“Fathers of this land, I deplore you, where are your children? Do you know if you even have children? Will you ever be faithful to Yahweh? You men, you know who I’m talking about, can’t even be faithful to your wives!”
Melissa interrupted, suddenly excited.
“That’s the man from Raleigh! The one who was in the wreck! The man Audry knows. And Yahweh is the Hebrew name for God. Actually, the Hebrew name for God is YHWH, but vowels were added to make it pronounceable. Is pronounceable a word?”
“It is. You mean Chuck Hutz? I thought he died?” Jeff turned the volume up slightly. Melissa was in a hurry, packing, busy-busy. She was like that, always planning. Jeff would look up pronounceable later, to see if it really was a word.
“He did die or so the doctors thought. His internal injuries were so extensive his brother had them take him off life support. His neighbor, Ophelia, stayed right by his side until his heart stopped and his blood pressure was nonexistent. His brother had a bowling tournament to attend. Nice huh?”
“He doesn’t look or sound dead.” Jeff spoke matter-of-factly.
“No, listen to me. When Chuck was declared dead, they covered him with a sheet and left him on a gurney in the hallway, waiting for someone from the morgue to pick him up.” She chuckled and continued, recalling cousin Sheri’s story and feeling a little guilty that she found it funny.
“Well, about 30 minutes later, when the morgue guy showed up, Mr. Hutz sat straight up and started talking in Hebrew. There was a drunk stumbling his way out of the emergency room when Chuck sat up, and it nearly scared the poor guy to death. He went running out the door yelling he would never drink again. Someone filmed it with their iPhone. The morgue attendant fainted.”
“Did you say he was speaking Hebrew?”
“Yes, Hebrew. Since his miraculous recovery he still speaks English, but sometimes he goes in a trance or something and starts speaking Hebrew. He says he doesn’t remember much about who he was before the accident, but he remembers Ophelia and Audry and said he had never spoken Hebrew in his life, though he is Jewish. He has no effects from the accident. Now he’s appearing on Oprah, The View, you name it, even National Geographic.
“Did you understand what he was saying?” Me
lissa asked.
“Did I what? Of course I did. Didn’t you?” Jeff was getting a headache.
“Not a word. I don’t understand Hebrew. That’s the really weird thing. Some people can understand him even though they can’t speak the first word of Hebrew. Others don’t. That’s bizarre that you understand him.” She pointed to the TV. “Audry does too.”
“See? There’s Ophelia, the little lady with the light-gray hair. She has never spoken Hebrew either but suddenly understands it like an Israeli. She translates for him. That’s how most of those people are understanding him. What did he say?”
“You’re kidding me? So you’re saying you do not understand a word of what he said?”
“Not a word.”
Jeff thought a minute and was tired. He still wasn’t sure if he believed this story, though he just experienced it with his very own eyes and ears.
“Let’s talk tomorrow. It’s late for me. I’m gonna hit the sack.”
Melissa hugged him goodnight, squeezed him tightly. Her warm body felt good against his, and a flood of memories made him feel faint. She kissed him on the cheek and left for Sandy Springs where traffic would be slow, more so than usual since the National Guardsmen were on every corner checking strange behavior, but not profiling. That was illegal.
Jeff noticed that Melissa’s goodnight hugs were getting a little more personal, maybe a little more intimate. Beyond friendly but not quite… the thought of Divine Intervention briefly entering his thoughts. He would not read anything into the hugs.
Jeff seemed to tire easily since the accident at Park Place, and his ears still rang from the blast. His intention was to get a glass of juice and turn the kitchen TV off; but he lay down on the bed first, just for a minute, and he prayed.
“God, if you really do exist, I wish I knew for sure, please bring Melissa back to me. It’s not that I think I deserve it; because if you are real, I definitely do not deserve any gifts. I would be forever grateful though. What do you think?”