The Rogue (Planets Shaken Book 1)

by Lee Brainard

  This changed the dynamics of the situation. She could no longer indulge the hope that perhaps those sounding the alarm were overstating the case . . . that maybe the only real threat posed by the Rogue was dislodging a few asteroids when it passed through the main belt . . . sending them into orbits which could threaten Earth. Now the situation looked dire. Either the comet would brush Mars, perturbing the orbits of both, or the comet would directly impact Mars. Either scenario raised the specter of an existential threat that far surpassed anything that Hollywood had ever conceived.

  She felt vulnerable. The comet wasn’t merely a point on a trajectory on a computer screen that held no interest for Earth beyond academic consideration. It was a projectile in space that threatened Earth. And whatever this projectile was—whether an undiscovered planet with an elliptical orbit of prodigious periodicity as some Nibiru fanatics supposed, or a rogue planet from outside the solar system as Dr. Youngblood had suggested, or the iron core of a former planet as Irina had theorized—it was stupendously massive. What would happen if a body far larger than Mercury with a mass equal to Mars slammed into Mars while traveling at 100,000 to 300,000 miles per hour? How big would the pieces be? Where would the pieces go? The thought made her shudder.

  She also felt conflicted. While her scientific side enjoyed a sense of satisfaction for the part she had played in the most profound astronomical discovery in modern times, her moral side felt guilty for finding enjoyment in a discovery that posed a serious threat to the inhabitants of this planet. She rolled her eyes at herself. Deal with it chick . . . there’s no shame in science . . . just get the message out . . . redeem the research.

  Ariele did what she always did when she felt conflicted. She started a deep bath with a chamomile ball, added a little Epsom salt, and lit a sandalwood-beeswax candle. Then she walked into the kitchen and made herself a large mug of organic hot cocoa with half-and-half. It was time to relax, rejuvenate, and refocus. She couldn’t make the trouble go away. But she could face it with a revitalized spirit.

  36

  Drive back from Mount Wilson

  Friday, May 31, 2019

  Ariele was rounding a curve halfway down the Angeles Crest when the analogy struck her. Her life over the past six months had been very much like this highway—winding and dangerous, yet invigorating. All because she was chasing the Rogue. Chasing it was like chasing Moby Dick—pursuing something so big and so elusive that most who heard about it regarded it as mythical. But some dark day the Rogue was going to rear its ugly head close to our little boat, and then all the make-believe talk would go overboard.

  Silly girl . . . got to get my mind off this Rogue issue. To help get her mind off the subject she moved the dial off her favorite indie station and started scrolling, hoping she might find a late-night talk show. She didn’t care what they talked about—far left politics, far right politics, the supernatural, or UFOs. She just wanted something that could distract her. It didn’t matter whether it made her laugh or made her angry. Anything but worry. Too bad the “Down the Rabbit Hole” program went off the air. The official story was that the FCC had taken it off the air after FBI agents determined that it was a front for an anti-American group working to promote instability and anarchy here in America. She suspected that the real reason was that the program’s owner and host, Mr. Krakenhavn, had divulged knowledge about the Rogue that people in high places did not want to be divulged.

  As she rolled through the channels, she thought she heard the word Rogue among the garbled squawks and words. She turned the dial back and tuned in the channel. Bummer. It was the Smackdown show—Lou Hendrickson’s obnoxious voice gave it away—probably her least favorite of the night-time radio programs. While she often agreed with him, she was annoyed by his constant vitriolic diatribe against “imbecilic conspiracy theories”—as he labeled them. He mocked those who claimed that GMOs weren’t safe and the FDA wasn’t neutral. He reviled the notion that groups like the Illuminati, the CFR, the Trilateral Commission, and the Federal Reserve were conspiratorially aligned in an effort to manipulate the world’s economic system, American foreign policy, and international affairs. And he derided those who claimed that the global warming message was really a globalist agenda aimed at weakening the industrial and economic strength of the West. Maybe she was naive . . . but it seemed to her that his program would be improved if he majored in facts and minored in pejorative insults.

  Lou’s raspy voice roused her from her drifting thoughts. “Reports have been circulating on late-night talk radio, on conspiracy websites, and on a few nutjob YouTube channels claiming that the Down the Rabbit Hole program has been resurrected from the dead. There are even several recently uploaded podcasts and YouTube videos which claim to have been produced by Krakenhavn and his team. But why the computer-generated voice? Wouldn’t you use your real voice if you were doing a comeback? Wouldn’t that be key to proving to your listeners that it really is you? I think the odds that Krakenhavn’s show has come back from the dead and produced these podcasts and videos is zero—zilch—nada. Those whack jobs were a Russian front that posed a serious security threat to America and now they have met their fate in a God-forsaken FEMA camp. I feel no pity for them and neither should you. I hope they choke to death on maggot-infested, horse-meat stew. Sadly, there are droves of people out there gullible enough to believe this rubbish.

  “By the way, I forced myself to watch several of the purported Down the Rabbit Hole videos earlier today, all three of which were riding the latest iteration of the Planet X hobby horse—the outrageous claim that there is a comet far larger than Mercury that is going to smash its way through the asteroid belt, sending a wave of asteroids on orbits which could threaten Earth, then pass terrifyingly close to Mars. The latest report from these wackos claims that the Rogue is now inside Neptune. Folks, there is no such comet. This story has been debunked by NASA, JPL, the ESA, the American Astronomical Society, the Pentagon, and the White House. Besides, if there really were a planet-size body in Neptune’s neighborhood, we would be able to see it from our own backyards with any large backyard telescope. But not a single telescope in the world—not even the largest on the planet—has observed this body. That means there is no comet. Folks, don’t let the fearmongers get you into a panic with their end-of-the-world apocalypse scenarios. The next extinction event is not mere years away. It is tens of millions of years away.”

  Ariele muttered to herself, Thus saith the gods from their thrones in the pantheon of science.

  Lou continued, “As a footnote, we received a bulletin this morning that the feds have rounded up another dozen conspiracy-theory fruitcakes who were foolish enough to post videos or blogs on the non-existent comet which they claim is lurking in the shadows of Neptune and threatens to bring the end of the world as we know it. My hat is off to the FBI and Homeland Security for looking out for the interests of the American public. These scoundrels ought to be removed from the internet and talk radio.”

  The reminder that Krakenhavn was likely being detained in a FEMA camp somewhere rekindled her mental battle on whether or not she should give her research on the Rogue to her boss. If she did give it to Sally, she was risking arrest and—worse—disappearing in a FEMA camp. She shuddered at the thought. On the other hand, if she didn’t give it to Sally, then to whom could she give it? She had no other options. She was torn. Common sense told her she shouldn’t trust Sally because she was one of the heavyweights in the astronomical world—she might even be privy to the cover-up. Gut instinct said she could trust Sally, though doing so seemed like leaning a ladder against a cloud. But what did she expect from Sally? Did she expect her to right the ship? Possibly. She was influential, one of the leading scientists in NEO research and the CNEOS project. If anyone could right the ship, she could—unless, of course, the ship couldn’t be righted. Did she think that Sally would run off and join the Rogue Underground—if such a group actually existed? Maybe.

  Despite her waffling, which had pers
isted for weeks, she sensed, instinctively, that she ought to give her research to Sally and press her on the threat that the Rogue posed to the world. Though it was a risky move, it was her only viable option . . . she would just have to leave the results in God’s hands . . . kind of like Esther in the Tanakh.

  In case things went south with this venture, she archived a copy of her research in Buster and GASmailed copies of the files to her ProtonMail account, giving her backups in two secure locations. When she finished, she was glowing with satisfaction. Knowing how to use cool security tools gave her the same sense of reward that she got when roasting and grinding her own coffee beans. While she was by no means a hack—she was clueless on how to breach security—she did have some savvy when it came to protecting herself on the internet and avoiding prying eyes, whether voyeurs, crooks, or Big Brother.

  37

  Sierra Coffee Company, Glendale, CA

  Monday, June 3, 2019

  Woody Lundstrom swung into his favorite pitstop, the Sierra Coffee Company. Several times a week he stopped here to unwind after work, enjoy a mocha, and chat with the regulars. As he passed through the door to the familiar sound of bear bells jangling, Joby looked up and grinned. Woody acknowledged his friend with a nod—a good western chin jut and two seconds of eye contact. They had met here five years ago and had slowly developed a relationship. Joby had helped Woody with a few furniture projects and Woody had visited him several times at his homestead in the San Gabriels when two sets of hands were needed.

  Joby was a good-looking young man in his twenty-seventh year, sporting a medium build, an infectious smile, a light Latin complexion, piercing blue eyes, and sandy-blonde hair that was naturally curly. But it was his sentiments that Woody found fascinating. He was a back-to-the-land, do-it-yourself type, with a counter-culture streak. While still in his teens, he had attended a few Rainbow Family gatherings, but wasn’t impressed with the movement—too much pot, too little hard work—and had decided that their worldview and lifestyle wasn’t compatible with his own. Since then, he had carved his own path of self-reliance and avoidance of the big controllers—he distrusted big government, big agribusiness, big pharma, big banks, and major media. In his mind, they made a living by forcing crap on men that was bad for them.

  Six years ago he had purchased a ten-acre parcel in the San Gabriels from a relative on his mother’s side who needed quick cash to pay an unexpectedly large tax bill. It was a gem—an old mining plot surrounded by national forest, with a year-round spring. He had torn down the old homestead his first two summers on the property. Only the foundation and stone cellar remained. The projects he had finished showed a creative flair that impressed Woody—a quaint micro house with a sleeping loft, a garden shed, a chicken coop, and a workshop with an attached lean-to.

  Every week he worked three twelve-hour shifts at the Sierra Coffee Company as a barista. While the hourly pay wasn’t that great, he enjoyed the work—he was a people person and loved organic origin coffees. More importantly, he enjoyed having four days a week off.

  He supplemented his income by selling chairs, tables, and other pieces of furniture that he repaired and refinished. In the evening on his way home from work, he swung by his favorite haunts, looking for repairables and resellables, and placing his finds in the back of his 1972 Toyota Hilux. In the morning on his way to work, he dropped his refurbished projects off at the Junken Treasure. It never ceased to amaze him what a guy could find in dumpsters and on the curbside. He didn’t talk much about this part of his life, though. People, especially the educated women that he found himself attracted to, didn’t tend to be impressed by a man who made a career out of dumpster diving and curb shopping. But it was too lucrative and too utilitarian to give up . . . yet.

  Joby’s real name was Joseph Rosenthal. His mother was a Chilean Jewess of Italian descent, and his father was from an old German family with Scandinavian infusion. They had met at a grape and wine conference three decades earlier. Her family owned a vineyard in Napa Valley, and he worked as a wine taster. Joseph picked up his nickname Joby during the summer after his junior year in high school. After his third misdemeanor, the local sheriff, a family friend, got him assigned to a trail crew in the Klamath Mountains—eleven weeks without access to alcohol or marijuana. The summer changed him. He hadn’t been in trouble with the law since. He enjoyed the hard work, the mountains, and the freedom from the gang mentality. Early in the summer, his crewmates tagged him with the moniker Joe Bandana because his usual headgear was a bandana. Eventually, this was shortened to Joby. The name stuck. Even his family used it.

  When it was Woody’s turn to order, Joby smiled and rattled off the order from memory, “Cinnamon Griz’—double mocha with extra cream, lots of cinnamon, a dash of nutmeg, and two heaping tablespoons of malt powder.” Then he leaned in close and said quietly, “I have a message for you. Western Style says that it’s time to float the Sundown River. He also says you should bring a real fly rod along.” For a moment Woody stared vacantly at Joby, then nodded as if he understood and blurted out, “Sounds like a good idea to me.” But even as the words were leaving his mouth, the significance of the message hammered its way into his conscious mind . . . the Sundown River . . . he hadn’t heard that phrase for years . . . or thought about it . . . he had scoffed that he would live to see this day . . . now it was here. A cold chill spawned goosebumps through his body.

  As Joby prepared his mocha, Woody mused upon the note. That’s so Jack . . . his sense of humor stays intact in the worst circumstances . . . sends me a message to warn me that the world is soon coming to an end . . . and can’t pass up the opportunity to remind me that he is a crusty old traditionalist who isn’t impressed with tenkara . . . don’t understand why he won’t even try Japanese fly fishing.

  When Woody turned around with his Cinnamon Griz’ in hand, the man in line behind him—a short, pudgy fellow wearing a freshly pressed Bahama shirt, a brand-new Orvis hat, and unscratched Oakley sunglasses dangling around his neck—said quizzically, “I know all of the floatable trout streams in California and Oregon and most of them west of the Continental Divide. But I’ve never heard of the Sundown River. Where is it located? The Cascades? Colorado?”

  Woody just smiled and said, “Sorry bud. That’s a trade secret.” As he surveyed the pudgy fisherman’s face, warning bells began to go off in his gut—something didn’t add up. He felt the same uneasiness that he had sensed on several occasions during the First Gulf War when locals pretended to be friendly but later proved to have malicious intentions. His battle instincts came online—this fisherman shouldn’t be trusted, if he actually was a fisherman. I doubt that he even knows a nymph from a scud. Woody decided to change his normal pattern. Instead of enjoying his mocha at a window table with a view of the foothills, he nodded to the fisherman and headed straight for the exit. As he passed through the door, he felt eyes honing in on his back, like a laser target designator.

  Woody climbed into his Jeep and decided to dawdle a bit, hoping to get some indication of who the awkward dude in the Orvis hat was and what his intentions were. He pulled out a map of Angeles National Forest and pretended to be looking for backcountry roads to explore. As he waited for the dubious angler, his mind was racing in high gear . . . float the Sundown River . . . what had precipitated this message? Whatever the cause, he knew it had to be serious. His cousin, Jack Lundstrom, wouldn’t have sent this message unless the planet faced an existential threat.

  When he figured he had waited long enough for Pudgy to get his coffees, he folded his map carefully and put it back in the glove box, started his Jeep, pulled out of his parking spot, and stopped at the street entrance, waiting for the light to change at the intersection. When the light turned yellow, he pulled out into the street. That bought him a couple minutes. Scanning his rearview mirror every few seconds, he noticed Mr. Orvis walking across the parking lot, carrying a tray with three coffees. He walked up to a black SUV, fumbled with the door, climbed into the
back seat, and handed coffees to the two men in the front, who were wearing suits—likely agents. He smiled to himself. Looks like Big Brother has me on their radar . . . most likely because they have Jack on their radar . . . and Jack is on their radar because he is privy to sensitive information on a potentially apocalyptic scenario that Big Brother doesn’t want anyone to know about . . . guess it’s time to make my way to Montana . . . wonder if Jack knows that they are on to him?

  The light turned green and he proceeded up the street, distracted . . . trying to come up with a plan . . . frustrated with himself. He had written off the possibility of an apocalyptic-sized threat . . . to him the probability seemed astronomically small. He had never even given the matter a serious thought. Now apocalyptic trouble was knocking on his door and he didn’t have a plan. Way to go Woody . . . right in character . . . a day late and a dollar short.