The Rogue (Planets Shaken Book 1)

by Lee Brainard

  She eyed Sally hopefully, “Perhaps now is not a good time, but I have something I would like you to read.” Sally looked up from her desk with eyebrows raised. Ariele, her confidence quickly vanishing, handed Sally her binder of research on the comet along with Dr. Youngblood’s paper. Hope I’m doing the right thing.

  Sally opened the binder and bit her lip nervously when she saw the title, Comet or Shock Wave From Black Hole Jet, and the subtitle, Another Look at the Phenomenon in Taurus. She rose from her desk with a muffled sigh of dismay and walked to the south window—visibly shaken—with her back turned. Ariele heard ruffling several times as she flipped the pages, apparently reading through the introduction. Abruptly she turned back to Ariele, “I will look at this material and get back in touch with you.”

  Ariele looked at her expectantly, head cocked slightly, hoping for a little clarification on this open-ended promise.

  Sally forced a smile, a mixture of pain and tenderness, “I meant sometime today, Moxie, not sometime in the next decade.”

  Ariele smiled back, nodded, said “Thanks,” and scurried out, fear and hope sloshing together in her heart.

  An hour later Sally summoned Ariele into her office. She motioned to her to close the door. “Ariele,” she began, “How did you find out that some people dispute the accepted explanation of the anomaly in Taurus?”

  Anomaly? . . . people trot that word out when they don’t like an observation that inconveniently stands in their way. “The information just landed in my lap. I stumbled upon the paper by Dr. Youngblood while doing internet research on NEOs. On a whim I googled “NEO + hairy star + threat” and his paper appeared on the eleventh page of the results.”

  “And you think his paper is valid?”

  “I do. I think his interpretation of the data is preferable to the accepted interpretation.”

  “Ariele. You do understand that you are opposing the entire astronomical community, don’t you? The experts are all agreed on the best explanation of this phenomenon—the apparent occultation of the stars is actually refraction of the stellar light waves by the shock wave from the expanding jet of a recently-formed black hole. Do you really believe that you alone have the correct interpretation of the apparent stellar occultations and that the entire body of experts have erred?” Sally watched Ariele, hoping to see some indication that she might be persuaded to back down.

  She continued. “The experts are agreed that a fairly large star in the local universe went nova in recent cosmological history, collapsed into a black hole, then rebounded and started to expand. In its expansion, it extended jets out of its polar regions, as black holes often do. From our point of observation here on Earth, we are looking straight down the barrel of one of the jets, so to speak. As the shock wave at the nose of the jet moves outward, it bends the light of the stars in its path through diffraction, giving the impression that a body is moving through space and obscuring the stars. While this is based on debated aspects of relativity, with only scant references in black hole literature, this explanation has been unanimously agreed upon as the best explanation.”

  Ariele thought to herself, You don’t feel tension between the official interpretation and its status as Top Secret? . . . if this really is merely the harmless effect of a nearby black hole . . . why the cover-up? . . . why the strict secrecy?

  Sally continued, “I also need to inform you that the paper you based your research on is an apparent forgery. The supposed author, Dr. Steven Youngblood, could not possibly have written this paper. He died three years ago, well before this Taurian controversy erupted. I know that for a fact. He was a colleague of mine. I attended his funeral.”

  Ariele digested this information for a few moments. Why did she say controversy? . . . she knows more than she is admitting . . . not Dr. Youngblood? . . . hmm . . . whoever wrote the paper has a technical knowledge of the subject . . . is an exceptional communicator . . . and is an insider . . . somebody inside is trying to warn the world. She decided to press her point. “If the shock-horizon theory is true, then why do we only see stars at one point of the shock horizon being occulted? Why not many points in a larger area?”

  “The experts suspect that we only see diffraction at one point because the tip of the shock horizon is actually bullet shaped. We are observing the phenomenon from the perfect angle—looking directly at the tip—the odds of which are probably one in a hundred trillion. If we could observe the tip from a side angle, we would see refracted stars in a larger bullet-shaped area, and their refractions would be different, likely moved instead of occulted. As objects can be viewed through a sheet of glass without diffraction, yet when viewed through the cut edge they appear moved through diffraction, so stars can be observed through the body of the jet without diffraction, yet when they are observed through the shock horizon, the stars are displaced through diffraction. In our case, they are so far diffracted that they appear occulted.”

  Ariele wasn’t buying the explanation. She objected and tried to argue her point further. But Sally cut her off, “Ariele, such anomalies are for the experts to debate, not workhorses like you and me. We do our job. They do theirs.”

  Ariele stared forcefully into Sally’s eyes. Sally returned the intensity. But Ariele was not going to budge. When she believed she was right, she could be as stubborn as a mule. And Sally’s last statement had thrown down the gauntlet in challenge to her moral code. There’s that word “anomaly” again . . . a tacit admission that something doesn’t fit your theory . . . do you really believe that men should unplug their brains and listen to the experts just because things are debated? . . . not thinking is a problem in my book . . . how do you not see that as a problem?

  When Sally observed that Ariele was determined to stand her ground, she changed tactics. If reason was ineffective at convincing her to back down and let it go, maybe a threat would work better. “Ariele, you need to realize that you are in possession of highly confidential information that is far above your security clearance. The mere possession of this information is regarded as a serious security threat by the government. If you won’t back down, if you won’t let this matter go, I will have to report you. This is much deeper than you think. Please don’t force me to turn you in.” Sally winced. That was an unfortunate choice of words.

  The phrase “turn you in” piqued Ariele’s interest. She’s privy to the whole shebang . . . she knows what’s going on . . . but she’s trying to protect me . . . why? “Turn me in? To who? NASA? The FBI?”

  Sally edgily replied, “We don’t want to go there.” Then she held Ariele’s eyes. Sally was not going to back down. She had to turn this straying sheep before she hurt herself.

  Ariele hesitated. She hated to surrender when she knew, or was at least reasonably certain, that she was right. On the other hand, she had to do something to defuse the situation. Maybe she should just play along. Playing along wasn’t surrendering, even if it looked like surrendering. It was just waiting for a more opportune time. She nodded as if she was conceding, “Okay, Sally, I’ll let it go.”

  “You have to promise me that you won’t publish this, or distribute it, or open your mouth to anyone about it for any reason. One infraction and the boom will fall.”

  “Okay, I promise.” But I don’t promise that I won’t let someone else publish it, or distribute it, or open their mouth . . . I might be a hippie chick . . . but I have read Sun Tzu’s “The Art of War” . . . and I have no qualms about responding to deception with deception.

  Sally informed her that she was going to keep the report, warned her to delete or destroy any copies in her possession, and dismissed her. God, don’t let that headstrong young lady hurt herself.

  About thirty seconds after Ariele’s departure, Sterling Fitzgerald, Sally’s associate department head and the only other person at Caltech that was privy to Minoa, walked into her office, leaned against her file cabinets, crossed his arms, and said, as their eyes met, “You have to report her.” He stared her down for
a moment, then he continued. “Those are the rules. You have zero discretion in the matter—nada. All unauthorized research in Taurus must be immediately reported. All knowledge or apparent knowledge of RN13 must be reported immediately when it is discovered. We do the tattling. They do the deciding.”

  Sally glared at him. She hoped she was making him feel small, but she doubted it. His ego was big enough to sink an aircraft carrier. “I know my duties and I will fulfill them.”

  “Fine. So do your job. If you don’t make the phone call right here and now, I will. And if I make the call, you will go from a woman with a resume to a woman with a dossier.”

  Sally was fuming on the inside. What an egotistical, rooster-strutting, piece of road-kill trash. Reluctantly she picked up the phone and dialed the FBI hotline. When they answered, she said, “Minoa Hotline,” then waited while they transferred her to Minoa Enforcement. With a heavy heart, she informed the agent of the situation, leaving out no salient details. She had no choice. The arrogant dirtbag was watching her like a hawk.

  When she hung up, her heart felt like death warmed over. She was mad at herself. She was mad at Sterling. She was mad at the government. But there was nothing she could do.

  Sterling stood smiling triumphantly, like he had saved the day and deserved a medal.

  She wanted to shred him with some cutting remark, but you can’t cut a heart of stone. Besides, it would be interpreted by him as a sign of weakness.

  A couple hours later two FBI agents showed up, took a deposition from Sally, which they had her sign, and took custody of the binder. As they were departing they received a phone call. They stood in the hallway for a few minutes while one of them discussed the situation with a superior. The muffled chatter stopped and the two agents walked back into Sally’s office.

  The older one addressed Sally, “The SAC . . . sorry . . . our boss, the Special Agent in Charge, has concluded, given the circumstances, that interviewing Ariele is not a pressing matter and that it could be handled at a later date, likely tomorrow afternoon. Her file indicates that she has already been approved by the FBI for Minoa clearance and that she is in the final stage of approval by the Minoa Project leadership at NASA for addition to your Minoa team here at Caltech. In a few weeks she will likely be cleared to handle the material that was confiscated today. On this basis he has determined that Ariele’s research doesn’t constitute a threat to American security but merely an indiscretion—howbeit an indiscretion that merits a warning on straying from assigned duty.” When the agent had finished conveying the message, he said, “Good day,” nodded slightly, turned briskly, and headed back out her door with his partner at his heels.

  Sally thought the agents seemed to be in a hurry as if some situation far more pressing demanded their attention. Probably the Antelope Valley terrorist organization . . . been in the news the past forty-eight hours . . . possessing subversive literature that threatens the security of the United States.

  After they had filed out of her office, she closed the door behind them, leaned against the wall, and covered her face with her hands. She was overwhelmed with an avalanche of emotions. After staggering to her desk, she slumped in her chair and wept at her desk with stifled sobs—relieved, yet confused and scared. She wanted to believe that she and Ariele were out of danger. But the dark cloud wouldn’t go away. She knew why—Sterling. She didn’t trust that self-seeking sycophant. Things could still go south in a hurry.

  After she had regained her composure, she summoned Ariele to her office once again. With eyes still moist and lips still quivering she quietly said, “Meet me here in my office after work, say 3:45 p.m. We need to talk some more.” There was a little uneasiness in the air. Neither wanted to look in the other’s eyes. Neither was sure they could trust the other.

  Ariele bit her lip nervously, “Okay.”

  Sally forced a smile, “See you at 3:45 p.m., then.”

  40

  Caltech

  Monday, June 3, 2019

  Ariele walked into Sally’s office a few minutes early. Sally wasn’t there, but she had left a note on her whiteboard. “Moxie. Meeting until 4:30 p.m. Wait. Help self to walnut-date bars and Kenya AA coffee from Trader Joe’s. :)”

  A sly thought stole into her mind. This was a golden opportunity to hack into Sally’s computer. She drew a deep breath, then checked herself. Should I do this? . . . if I do . . . the bridge is burned . . . there is no turning back . . . on the other hand . . . my career is already damaged . . . maybe derailed . . . I can probably play the game for a little while longer . . . but I can’t play forever. She hesitated. I have to find out more about this cover-up . . . what do they know about the Rogue and its threat that they are trying to hide? . . . besides, Sally knew she had this meeting and still asked me to come early . . . why? . . . is she testing me or giving me a chance to snoop?

  Before she could stop herself, she logged in with Sally’s username and password, which she had stealthily skimmed over the past three years, one keystroke at a time. When she had started skimming them, the operation had merely been a challenging game. She had no idea that she would ever need or use them. But after she received the package from Irina, and had begun to suspect that Sally’s trips to Washington D.C. involved the Rogue and the cover-up, she had pursued her skimming game in dead earnest.

  After she was in, she went straight for Sally’s email, looking for folders that had something to do with the Rogue. No folder bore that name. She searched for Rogue. That pulled up eight emails from a folder entitled Minoa. She opened the first. It concerned the efforts to keep the comet’s existence under wraps. Minoa? . . . interesting . . . why associate the approaching comet with Minoa? . . . Minoa was destroyed by the eruption of Mt. Santorini . . . maybe the use of Minoa is a hint that the government fears that the Rogue will cause vast devastation on Earth. She opened the Minoa folder. Bingo. There were hundreds of emails on the Rogue, though they referred to it as RN13. She inserted her thumb drive, downloaded the last fifty, the first fifty, and another forty or so with interesting headers. It took her eleven minutes. She was starting to feel extremely nervous. Sally’s meetings often ended early. She retrieved her thumb drive, deposited it in her purse, and logged out of the network.

  She calmed her rattled nerves for a moment, then fetched herself a cup of coffee from Sally’s vacuum carafe and two walnut-date bars. Gotta admit . . . Sally has good taste . . . in food and clothes . . . not sure about men though . . . don’t know why she isn’t taking a good look at Woody.

  When Sally walked in, she found Ariele sitting in her chair, eating a walnut-date bar, and flipping through the May edition of Astronomy. She motioned for her to take one of the other chairs and sank heavily into her own. Silence hung heavy in the air. Neither felt like talking. Fidgeting with her hands, Sally forced herself to smile and glumly filled Ariele in on the situation. “Ariele . . . I . . . I turned you in. I didn’t want to do it. It killed me to do it. But I had no choice in the matter. It would have cost me my job if I hadn’t called the proper authorities when you stepped out of bounds.”

  Ariele’s mind started racing with questions. Turn me in? . . . proper authorities? . . . that doesn’t sound promising. But she didn’t defend herself. She knew that she had been out of line. She nodded, resigned to her fate. “I understand. No worries. I should have used more discretion.”

  “Two agents came by this morning and picked up your report. They are going to question you, probably tomorrow afternoon.”

  Ariele looked uneasy. “Agents? What kind of agents?” She was playing dumb. She knew they were probably federal investigators.

  Sally hesitated and averted her gaze. She didn’t want to answer. But Ariele repeated her question. When Sally turned her gaze back to Ariele, Ariele bored her deep with her eyes. Sally relented, “It’s the FBI.”

  “The FBI?” Ariele was startled, though she had expected the answer.

  “Don’t worry. You aren’t in serious trouble.” Ariele now loo
ked perplexed. “I sent an email to the Special Agent in Charge immediately after I called the Minoa hotline and went to bat for you. I argued that you were doing reasonable research in a reasonable direction and unwisely wandered outside the confines of your assignment. I painted your effort as misdirected zeal for the mission rather than a threat to it. I also pointed out that you have been vetted by the FBI for Minoa clearance and that you are in the final stage of approval by the Minoa Project leadership at NASA for permanent assignment to my Minoa team here at Caltech.”

  Ariele was pleasantly surprised to hear the semi-positive news, but it didn’t avert her sinking feeling that things were going to get worse, no matter how hard Sally massaged the situation. “Thanks, Sally. I appreciate your honesty and your help.” She started to get up, assuming that the conversation was over. It was. Sally waved her out of the room with a friendly wave and a glimmer of a smile. It was good to see Sally smile again. As she walked to her car, she realized that her feelings of trust for Sally had somehow emerged intact from the ugly situation. On the other hand, could she trust her feelings?

  41

  Caltech

  Tuesday morning, June 4, 2019

  Ariele left for work early and sat in the parking lot waiting for Woody. She was very uneasy with the situation despite Sally’s assurances and wanted his advice. When he pulled into his parking place, she jumped out of her car, and exposed her burdened heart before he had finished climbing out of his Jeep, “I need to talk to you at lunch.”

  Woody looked at her slightly perplexed. We talk almost every day at lunch. “Sure. We can do that. What do you need to talk about?” He turned and started walking towards the Cahill Center, the agitated female at his side.