by Lee Brainard
“Done!” he said triumphantly. “Now we wait.”
At 4:49 p.m., as they were winding things up for the day, Irina heard the fax machine chirp and whine. When she stepped into Dr. Goldblum’s office, he smiled and handed her the page. As she suspected, it was her acknowledgment of receipt from the MPC. She looked at him and grinned, then glided out of his office and down the hall.
16
Cornell University
Wednesday, November 8, 2017
Irina arrived at work early, about 7:45 a.m., buoyant with anticipation. Today she would receive her confirmation letter from the MPC. She stuck her head in Dr. Goldblum’s office. It was empty. She looked around dumbfounded. His chair was still pushed in. His coffee cup was cold and empty. That was strange. He was always at his desk by 7:30 a.m. unless he had a conference or a meeting somewhere. And when he was going to be gone, he let everyone know at least a few days in advance. Maybe he gave me a heads-up and I wasn’t paying attention.
She headed to Valentina’s office. Mrs. Constantia, Val to her friends, would know where Dr. Goldblum was. She always knew where he was. She had been his assistant for eleven years and knew his schedule and appointments better than he did.
“Is Dr. Goldblum coming in late today?” she inquired. “Did he have a meeting this morning at the country club?”
“No dear,” she replied, in her rich, Hispanic tones. “He left a message last night on my office phone that he would be at a NASA function for the next two or three days. Said he might be back on Friday. Otherwise, we shouldn’t expect to see him until Monday.”
“That’s strange. He didn’t say anything to me about a NASA function, and I don’t recall seeing anything on his calendar.”
Val replied, “I didn’t hear anything about it myself until this morning. And you’re right. It is unusual . . . very unusual. He always gives me a heads-up well in advance when he is going to be gone, sometimes months ahead. But I suspect that it has something to do with the NASA Bill. I feel sorry for him. That project has already consumed a year of his life and will certainly consume even more. My guess is that he received a phone call for an urgent face-to-face conference to discuss last-minute changes to the bill, which is scheduled to be debated in Congress this coming week.”
Irina shrugged her shoulders, muttered “Okay, thanks,” and walked to her cubicle. Could this have something to do with the Rogue? . . . nah . . . probably nothing . . . silly girl . . . you have watched way too many conspiracy movies.
She was antsy the entire day. Once or twice per hour she jumped up and walked to Dr. Goldblum’s office to check the fax machine, just in case her confirmation letter had come in and she hadn’t heard the characteristic chirps and screeches. It would have been far more convenient for her if they had sent the report in by her email account instead of his fax machine. She wondered why Dr. Goldblum had such a love-affair with the noisy dinosaur. It was old-tech and headed for extinction, yet he insisted on using it whenever he had the option. She suspected it was pride . . . it made him feel important when the relic raised a ruckus . . . it telegraphed to the entire department that he was sending and receiving important messages.
At 4:36 p.m. the fax machine came to life, its grating whine echoing down the hall. Irina’s heart began to race. She rose out of her chair and strode quickly down the hall to Dr. Goldblum’s office. The page was starting to roll out. She grabbed it anxiously, barely able to wait for it to finish printing. When it finally spit out, she snatched it up and . . . was crestfallen. It was from the MPC. But it was not a confirmation letter. It was a standby letter.
Dear Miss Kirilenko:
Thank you for your recent communication on a possible comet in Taurus. We here at the MPC, along with teams at NASA, JPL, and PDCO are still in the process of investigating the anomaly that you have discovered. We must require you, under the guidance and authority of NASA and other federal agencies to refrain from all communication or publication on this discovery, both public and private, until we have concluded our investigation of this phenomenon.
We also request that you forward to us the names and associations of every party with whom you have communicated on this phenomenon. We need to get a handle on this unique situation posthaste.
Respectfully,
Barry Naylor, Director of the MPC
The letter seemed odd . . . obscure. Why did Barry himself send the letter? Usually, the underlings take care of the day-to-day transactions of the MPC. Anomaly? Phenomenon? That was pretty bizarre language to describe what appeared to be—except for its size—a straightforward case for a long-period comet. Why involve the Jet Propulsion Lab and the Planetary Defense Coordination Office? They aren’t normally involved in a discovery unless there is a significant threat of impact. A ban on communication? That was . . . unprecedented. The names of every individual with whom she had spoken regarding the comet? That was inconceivable . . . it sounded more like the FBI than the MPC or NASA.
She wrestled with the possibilities. What was going on here? Was NASA exercising caution lest anyone come to unwarranted conclusions? Or were they exercising caution lest anyone come to warranted conclusions? Was this the subtle tip of a cover-up? Were the authorities trying to keep the knowledge of the comet from the public? Or was she in danger of sliding into a misguided conspiracy mentality? She was at an impasse . . . she didn’t know for sure what was going on . . . she could do nothing but wait.
17
Cornell University
Friday, November 10, 2017
As she pulled into the parking lot, she noticed Dr. Goldblum’s Mercedes sitting in its usual spot. Hallelujah! . . . now we can talk about the strange letter from the MPC. She went straight to his office and stood in his doorway.
“Good morning, boss,” she exclaimed cheerfully.
Without looking up he muttered “g’mornin,” turned his back to her, and started rifling through the top drawer on his right file cabinet, looking for something.
Irina watched and waited for a moment. She wasn’t sure, but he seemed to be ignoring her.
“So, how did your meeting go?” she asked.
He shook his head and groused, “Same old bureaucratic horse apples, just a bigger wagon load.”
“Did you read the fax yet?”
“Fax? What fax?” he muttered.
Really? No idea what I’m talking about? “The fax from the MPC.”
Dr. Goldblum shrugged his shoulders and, with his back yet turned toward her, retorted with a touch of exasperation, “Sometimes these things just take time.”
Irina was a little stunned. He obviously didn’t want to talk about the comet, and she didn’t feel like pursuing the matter further. Dejected, she slunk away. She could hear him continue to paw in his file drawer—almost frantically—like a hungry bear tearing apart a rotten log hunting for grubs.
As Irina walked down the hallway, a premonition sent a shiver down her spine. What if the Rogue was no longer in his hands—or hers? What if there really was a conspiracy brewing in the cauldron—something that would make the conspiracy mavens drool if they found out about it?
But if the project had been wrenched from his hands, the perpetrators were not his colleagues in astronomical circles. Nor were they incompetent bureaucrats in the upper echelons of the aerospace agencies. Dr. Goldblum would probably have bulldozed his way with such men or at least wrestled some significant concessions out of them. This could only be the work of agencies that were over the MPC and NASA, agencies determined and able to squelch information flow. But why? She suspected why, but she hardly dared to admit that it might be true. The federal government regarded the comet—its existence, diameter, and trajectory—as sensitive information. They were determined to keep this information out of the hands of the public as long as possible. If true, the Rogue posed a greater threat to Earth than she had imagined.
Irina realized that she had been standing at her desk, holding her coffee cup with both hands, staring into space, dee
p in thought. She recovered herself . . . back to the here-and-now . . . and tried to disengage herself from her fears and concerns about a potential cover-up. Get a hold of yourself girl. Sure it was possible that there was a conspiracy here, a cover-up in the making. But the concept was a pretty big leap emotionally and intellectually. It seemed . . . preposterous. Before she could allow herself to go down that path, she needed more information. She didn’t want to be guilty of the shortcoming Pastor Vargas disdained in men inflamed with the conspiracy mindset—“strong on fear, weak on facts.”
18
Cornell University
Wednesday, November 15, 2017
Shortly after morning coffee break, Irina was standing near the fax machine talking to Dr. Goldblum when it began to chirp. She nearly jumped out of her skin. Anxiously she watched as the first page rolled out. She recognized the MPC letterhead—her heart skipped a beat. Finally! But once again her expectations were dashed. It was another standby letter, apologizing for the unusual delay and reiterating the ban on all communication regarding the phenomenon. This course was defended with a hackneyed observation, “Extraordinary finds demand extraordinary verification.” She groaned to herself. Clichés and agency-speak can’t hide the lack of transparency.
She handed the letter to Dr. Goldblum. Despite the coolness and aloofness he had shown since he came back from his recent NASA trip, he put on a pretty decent act—he almost seemed genuinely frustrated. “A whole week without an answer?” he snorted. “This is beyond unusual. In twenty-some years of dealing with the MPC, I have never heard of such a thing. What’s going on down there? Are they taking their cues from Congress on how to get things done? Are they all on vacation? Maybe our report clued them in that the world is coming to an end and they are busy moving their operation to the Cheyenne Mountain Complex.”
Irina wanted to believe that Dr. Goldblum was sincere in this little tirade, but it seemed hollow and over-the-top. Looking back she wondered whether the last statement was a Freudian slip or a crude attempt at humor. At any rate, she had a nagging suspicion that he was privy to the content of this letter before it arrived and that he already knew the content of the next one too. She felt like Christmas had been canceled. The day would still come, but there would be no presents and no tree.
19
Cornell University
Tuesday, November 21, 2017
Dr. Goldblum failed to show up for work again. Val knew nothing except that she found a voicemail from him in her mailbox—sent at 8:15 the prior evening—informing her that he had another meeting at NASA come up at the last minute. He might be back on Friday. If not, then Monday.
“Sorry dear,” she said to Irina, “I have no other details. Wished I knew more myself. The Jonathan of the past few weeks . . .” She trailed off, sighed glumly, and shrugged her shoulders. “I feel like I’m dealing with a different man.” She looked at Irina, started to say something, hesitated, looked down at her desk for a moment, then back to Irina. She poured her heart out. “I don’t know if I should tell you this or not, but I got a strange phone call last night from my friend Margie who happens to live across the street and two doors down from Jonathan—she plays bridge with us on Wednesday nights—anyways, she said that she saw a black SUV pull up to his house last night at about 8:30. There were two men wearing suits and ties in the front seat, and another in the back seat. The one in the back seat got out, walked up to the door, and rang the doorbell. Jonathan emerged from his house carrying a suitcase and a suit bag, followed the young man to the SUV, and climbed in the back seat. I have to admit, that does sound strange. Margie is afraid that he has gotten himself tied up with organized crime . . . maybe selling cocaine or one of the new designer drugs. I assured her that he would never do something like that . . . But how can I know for sure? . . . The whole thing” . . . Her lower lip started to quiver . . . “I don’t even want to think about it.”
Irina watched Val with compassion as the emotionally distraught woman fought back the tears and tried to compose herself. Poor thing.
Val wiped her eyes with a tissue, steeled herself, then spoke with a force and finality that caught Irina off guard, “Well, I need to get back to work.” She was done talking.
Irina replied, “I need to get to work too,” and graciously retreated. Her mind started racing. Dr. Goldblum was picked up by men wearing suits . . . driving a black SUV . . . that’s not NASA . . . that’s not a cab . . . plus, he would have driven himself to the airport if he was going to a NASA meeting . . . something is definitely fishy here.
20
Ithaca, New York
Wednesday, November 22, 2017
Around 2 a.m. Irina woke up from a vivid dream that seemed to warn her that her fears were right, that there was a cover-up brewing, and that if she didn’t do something soon, the window of opportunity was going to close. In the dream she handed her research to Dr. Goldblum. He flipped through it, nodding approvingly a few times. Then his face changed into a sinister demeanor and he tossed her research into a garbage can with a cavalier wave of his hand. When she protested, he warned her not to retrieve it. He turned to a chalkboard, wrote the word comet, then crossed it out and wrote anomaly. He then proceeded to fill the chalkboard with physics gibberish trying to prove that what appeared to be a comet wasn’t actually a comet. While she protested against the nonsensical arguments, agents wearing suits and ties entered the room and placed her in handcuffs. At this juncture . . . furious at Dr. Goldblum and the government . . . she woke up.
Irina didn’t believe that the dream was a direct revelation from God. But she did suspect that he had providentially prodded her subconscious mind to warn her that a cover-up was in play and that time was short if she was going to do something about it.
Her mind was racing. She slowed it down and tried to focus. The first thing she needed to do was safeguard her research. But how? She needed to . . . download it onto her thumb drive . . . and upload it to Buster. She trembled as she mulled this idea. She had always been a good girl. This seemed like it was crossing the line. On the other hand . . . if her hunch was right . . . if there really was a cover-up going on . . . then protecting the material wouldn’t be wrong . . . it would be like protecting the Jews during World War 2 . . . it was the Nazis and their evil designs that had crossed the line . . . on the other hand . . . if her suspicions were wrong . . . then such a course of action would run afoul of school policy and could result in her dismissal.
She was conflicted and wished she could call her father and ask his advice. But that was out of the question. If there really was a cover-up being overseen by the highest levels of government, as she feared, then talking to him about the situation would endanger her entire family—father, mother, and three siblings yet at home. The price was simply too high. She would have to walk the dark road alone.
After turning the issue over in her mind several times, she decided that safeguarding her comet research was the right choice. It had to be available to the public if time proved that she was right. Too much was at stake. Just need to buy a 50 GB thumb drive tomorrow during lunch break.
That brought up the next step—a plan to disseminate her research. Several ideas came to mind, but as she tried to compare and consider them, drowsiness weighed upon her weary eyes, and she decided not to fight it. The first step was figured out. The next step could be dealt with later. She rolled onto her side and drifted off to sleep.
***
She stayed at work late, trying to appear busy at her desk. At 5:11 p.m., ten minutes after the last person besides herself had left for the day, she reached into her bag for her thumb drive, then wavered . . . should she? . . . shouldn’t she? . . . she had been certain last night . . . now she was embattled with doubts. Gripped with anxiety and uncertainty, she found strength in her grandfather’s sage advice, “Things don’t look as clear in the heat of battle as they do on the drawing board.” She laughed to herself and decided to execute the plan she had formulated in the com
fort of her own bed. Here goes . . . the start of my new career as a spy and conspiracy vigilante.
She placed the thumb drive in her workstation, opened up the file transfer window, and started the download of all her files on the Rogue. Then she settled into her chair—this would take a few minutes—and cradled her coffee mug with both hands—silly me . . . the coffee’s not even hot anymore—watching the green bars that marked the progress. A subdued smile crept across her face. Despite her frazzled nerves over the sneaky operation, she felt a sense of satisfaction for answering the call of duty in the face of risk.
When the transfer finished, she placed the thumb drive in her purse and purged the log for the activity. Glad dad made me read that book on security and privacy. Then she opened her Loose Notes file and quickly entered a page and a half of thoughts and observations from her legal pad. Information entry would be her cover story—if one was needed—for logging out late. After she finished, she logged out, slumped back in her chair, and breathed out a deep, slow sigh. She was done. If her fears were founded in reality . . . she would be ready.
***