The Rogue (Planets Shaken Book 1)

by Lee Brainard

  A block and a half before Rosa’s she turned north up the Alley for a couple blocks, then rode east for a block and a half, then turned south. Just north of Rosa’s, she turned into a parking lot shared by two businesses. On the back side of the building on her left, she parked her bike, out of sight of the street. Shaking from her exertion, she removed her pack from her weary shoulders and dropped it next to her bike. Hope this is safe . . . too tired to take it with me. She struggled over the fence onto the next property, then hugged the building as she walked south, feeling a bit self-conscious for sneaking around like a spy in a movie.

  When she reached the corner of the building, she spied Rosa’s, angled across the lot, and hopped over the hedge into Rosa’s lot. She didn’t make it. Though it was only eighteen inches high and two feet across—her weary legs weren’t up to the task. Her feet caught on the edge and she sprawled out over the top, skinning her palms on the blacktop on the other side. Hope nobody saw that. She picked herself up, hobbled to the back entrance, leaned her head on the door, and stood there, her body trembling and dripping with sweat. The draining ride, some fifteen miles in length, had taken her an hour and a quarter. Mission accomplished.

  46

  Rosa’s Diner, Pasadena, California

  Tuesday evening, June 4, 2019

  When Woody drove away from the Cahill Center at 4:30 in the afternoon, he noticed a black Tahoe follow him out of the parking lot. Looks like the same vehicle that was here earlier today . . . sheesh! . . . don’t they understand that black SUVs and men in suits and ties are a dead giveaway? . . . how ridiculous is that? . . . nice to see our tax dollars subsidizing ineptitude . . . but what can you expect . . . common sense and government never did mix very well.

  The Tahoe tailed him all the way to his house and parked a half block down the street. It was still sitting in the same spot when he checked fifteen minutes later from the second story hallway window. And when he left for Rosa’s at 5:30 p.m., it turned around and followed him. Maybe a little more subtlety might be in order?

  At 5:53 p.m. Woody pulled into Rosa’s parking lot, parked in the third space on the left side, and futzed with his briefcase for a few minutes, intentionally delaying his exit from his Jeep. He wanted to see where the SUV parked. As he suspected, it pulled into the gas station kitty-corner from Rosa’s and parked under the sign, giving the agents a clear view of Rosa’s parking-lot entrance and the front door. From that vantage point they could—or so they assumed—observe everyone coming and going. Bet they’re tailing me to see if Ariele meets up with me . . . hope they like the taste of humble pie . . . ’cause they’re not gonna see their target coming or going.

  When he entered the building, he headed straight for the table he wanted—the only one on East California Boulevard that didn’t have a full window. This table gave him two advantages. The sliver of window on his side of the table, the west side, allowed him to keep his eyes on the agents across the street. And the wall on the east side, which covered two-thirds of the table, would keep Ariele out of their line of sight. They wouldn’t be able to see her.

  A few minutes after he sat down, Ariele entered Rosa’s through the back door, hastened through the kitchen to the dismay of the cooks, barged through the service door to the dining area as if she worked there, and spotted Woody sitting at a corner table. He saw her as she made her entrance, rose from his seat, pretended he was stretching, and discretely motioned for her to hug the side of the wall. She drifted to her left and sidled into the booth across from him.

  Woody briefly glanced at her—reassuring eye contact—then set his briefcase on the table broadside to the window, opened it up, shoved it forward a bit, took out his leather portfolio, and opened it on the table in front of him, exposing his legal pad and the latest copy of Fly Fisherman. Ariele was a little puzzled, must have something he wants to show me . . . hope it’s not a fly fishing story. Then he bent low over his pad and whispered, “Keep tight to the wall. Feds are parked across the street. I think they’re looking for you.” Ariele bit her lip—she didn’t like the news. But at least his unusual antic made sense now. He didn’t want to be seen talking, for that would imply the presence of another person, so he had used his old-fashioned leather briefcase for a wall. It obscured his lower arms and hands, and it concealed his head if he bent down as if working on something. Got to hand it to Woody, he’s pretty clever. Can’t do that with the new-fangled man purses the guys are carrying now.

  Ariele replied in a hushed tone, “I think federal agents are watching my apartment too. I slipped out the back and climbed down from my balcony. Glad I don’t live on the third floor.” She shook her head, “This is insane. Why is the FBI involved? Why should an astronomer be in legal trouble with the government merely for questioning NASA’s official interpretation of an astronomical phenomenon?”

  Woody gestured downward with his hand indicating that she should lower her voice.

  She continued in a subdued voice, “I can understand the gatekeepers requiring belief in the favored theories, for that has long been the case in the academic world. What I don’t understand is the government’s strong-armed tactics in the matter. For crying out loud, why should they care whether the phenomenon is a comet or a manifestation of a black hole jet? Why should they care that I believe that the occultations are caused by a huge comet? Why would the FBI be after me?” But she was just venting her frustration. She knew perfectly well why.

  Woody whispered, “The fact that the government regards you as a threat merely for knowledge of the comet implies that they regard it as a serious—potentially catastrophic—threat to Earth. They don’t want the public to learn of its existence. Knowledge of this threat would result in chaos, which would hinder their efforts to prepare for it. So they have implemented Orwellian policies designed to keep all information on the comet out of the hands of the public. And they have invented the official narrative with its black-hole-jet nonsense as a cover for those like yourself who stumble upon occultations which suggest its existence. But you aren’t playing by their rules. You challenged their explanation of the phenomenon, so they regard you as a threat. And they fear that you might leak news of the comet to the public.”

  “Well, they ought to fear. I intend to disseminate this information to the public. They have a right to know and to prepare.”

  Woody stared at her, impressed at her conviction but worried for her safety.

  She continued, “I don’t think that I’m the only one who knows about this. I heard on the radio last week that the feds arrested a dozen webcasters who broke the news about a possible Planet X candidate out beyond Neptune. I think they were referring to the comet that Irina alerted me to.”

  Woody confirmed her thought. “You’re definitely not the only one. My cousin at NASA knows about it too. Years ago we agreed on a secret message system to warn each other of an imminent extinction-level threat in the heavens. Whoever became aware first would warn the other with the message. He sent me the message yesterday.”

  Ariele stared at him, eyebrows raised.

  “Jack’s a sober man—fact-driven and not susceptible to the myths and yarns that attract the gullible and make waves on the internet. The fact that he would risk his career—and time in a FEMA camp—to send me the message is a strong substantiation that you and Irina are correct about a massive comet out beyond Neptune that poses a threat to Earth.”

  The waitress showed up, stood next to Ariele, and asked her if she wanted coffee. She answered, “Yes.” But Woody interrupted and said, “No, she won’t be staying long.” Then he leaned over and whispered, “Listen, Marlene. If anyone asks, she wasn’t here. Okay?”

  Marlene laughed and said “Sure, Woody. Whatever you say.” Then she walked away, smiling and shaking her head.

  Woody saw Ariele eying his cup of coffee, so he shoved it across the table. She picked it up with trembling hands and sipped it gingerly. Her emotions were frazzled. “So, what am I supposed to do?”


  Woody was blunt. “Listen, Ariele. I don’t think your life is in danger. But you do have to flee. If you stick around, you will face interrogation. After that, you will have a lot of free time on your hands for reading—though I suspect that the libraries in the FEMA camps leave a little to be desired.”

  She balked at the idea. “Maybe I can just go back to my apartment and carry on like nothing significant happened. Maybe they talk to me a few times, I play the compliant game, and the problem eventually goes away.”

  Woody shook his head. “Not gonna happen. Sterling talked to the FBI today and gave both you and Sally a very negative report. I overheard him while I was in the break room. Sally won’t be able to cover for you any longer—she is in hot water herself now. I suspect that the FBI intends to aggressively question you—hook you up to Casper. They will ferret out every detail that you are trying to hide. After that, they will prosecute you as a security threat under the Security Act. Then they will hustle you away to a secretive FEMA camp where you will disappear. Nobody will have the slightest clue where you are—not family, not friends.”

  Ariele sat in silence, her eyes moist and her lip quivering.

  Woody sensed her fear. I think she has gone from hoping this wasn’t as bad as it looked to realizing it’s worse than she thought. “You have to flee. You can’t go back to your apartment. The situation is too hot. Think about it. You left in an unorthodox manner and won’t be able to tell them where you went and why. Their curiosity will be piqued and they will introduce you to Casper. And when they find out that you came here and talked to me, it will get pretty hot for me too.” He paused and continued. “I know it’s not in your DNA to flee and hide. You’re a fighter. But this is not the time to stand and fight. It’s the time to flee and fight. Think guerilla warfare.” He paused again. “Ariele, this information needs to be in the hands of trustworthy folks who can and will disseminate it to the American public. The best way to do that is flee—flee to people who have the means and ability to help. It’s not in the best interest of the American public that you are sitting in a detainment camp somewhere whiling away your days away watching reality TV.”

  “I know . . . down inside I know . . . you’re right. But where can I go? Where should I go? I don’t have a clue.”

  “I have a plan.”

  She brightened a little, “I thought you might.”

  “Get yourself to Montana somehow and look up a friend of mine, Bob Reddington. Tell him that you are a friend of mine and that you have critical information on a potential apocalyptic scenario that the government is covering up. He will see to it that you have a place to stay and that you are taken care of. He will also introduce you to several others that you need to meet, like pastor Jordy Backstrom, who is an expert on Bible prophecy and the apocalypse, and an amateur astronomer by the name of Blake Steele.”

  Woody stopped talking and started writing on a napkin. When he finished, he shoved it across the table to her. It was Bob’s phone number and a crude map to the Compound. She stuffed it into her pants pocket. Gotta remember to put the napkin in my purse or I will lose it.

  Woody grinned, “Don’t be surprised if I show up in Montana too. I suspect that my time in California is quickly coming to an end.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Woody saw the Tahoe pull out onto the street and pull up to the stoplight. He suspected it would turn left onto California, then turn right into Rosa’s parking lot. He told Ariele to bend down low as if she were tying her shoe. She did—quickly retying her left shoe. The Tahoe did exactly as he had anticipated. No creativity . . . no originality . . . no element of surprise . . . how do they expect to nail anybody? . . . they go about their work like they’re ten-year-olds doing a paint-by-number picture. When the SUV passed out of view of the last window that offered a view of their booth, Woody gave Ariele his final instructions, “Get out of here fast . . . use the front door . . . go east on California one block, then work your way back to wherever you parked your bike.” He touched her arm, “Be careful Mox . . . I’ll see you in Montana.”

  47

  Pasadena . . . Glendale, California

  Tuesday evening, June 4, 2019

  Ariele scurried out the front door, bolted across the street through the traffic, briskly walked one block east, turned north, started jogging, turned west at the corner, jogged one block, crossed the street, then turned south and began to run. Her heart pounding, she dashed into the driveway of the lot where she had parked her bike, rushed to the backside of the building on her left—thank God my bike and pack are still here—slung her knapsack over her shoulders, hopped on her bike, and pedaled back out to the street, where she headed north, riding as if she was being chased by the devil himself.

  Her mind in a tizzy—where am I going to go?—she decided to turn west on East Del Mar and head for Central Park. When she arrived, she took the first path she saw. After meandering across the park on its paths, she exited out the west side onto Valley Street and turned up an alley. Halfway up the alley, she felt an impulse to make her way to Scholl Canyon Park. I’ll figure out my next step after I get there . . . better take a back route though . . . less chance of being spotted . . . need to make my way to the Annandale Country Club . . . from there catch Glen Oaks Boulevard . . . follow it all the way up the hill . . . left on the dirt road that leads to the landfill . . . ride along the edge of the landfill till I get to the park . . . definitely not looking forward to this . . . my legs aren’t recovered from the first ride.

  Her plan made, she turned left on Dayton, made her way to the Green Street Bridge, where she crossed the interstate, turned north on Orange Grove Boulevard and crossed 134, then hung a left on West Holly Street. She relaxed her pace. She had been pushing herself hard—her legs were cramping and she was exhausted. Besides, she didn’t think she had been seen or followed.

  The next stretch of her ride would have been enjoyable if she wasn’t on the run. Winding streets sprawled their way through the hilly terrain, revealing many gorgeous homes worthy of Better Homes and Gardens. She recalled several rides she had taken in the neighborhood with her friends—but she hurt too much to enjoy the memories. Breathing hard, her throat as dry as Death Valley, she willed her legs to keep peddling. Can’t stop . . . gotta keep moving . . . I’ll rest when I get to the park.

  On and on she pressed, turning left on Linda Vista, then right on Fern Drive, then weaving her way northward on the residential streets on the east side of the country club until she caught Glen Oaks Boulevard. When it ended, high up the hill and past the last house, she turned west on a dirt track, into the lowering sun, and followed it to the south gate for the landfill. It was closed and locked. Her heart sank. Nuts! The fence was also higher than she remembered. She cocked her ear and listened, but didn’t hear any equipment running. A glance at her watch revealed that it was 7:32 p.m. They must be done for the day.

  She hopped off her bicycle and walked it into the brush on the right side of the gate where the fence was lower, about eight feet high, determined to get over the obstacle. With a grunt, she threw her backpack over the fence. Hope nothing broke. With another grunt, she hoisted her bike over her head as far as she could, and . . . realized that she was short of being able to flip it over the top . . . quite a bit short. As she lowered the bike to shoulder level, she was consumed with frustrated determination. Balancing the bike awkwardly on her arms, she began to climb with the fury of an enraged bull. Inching her way up, stabilizing the unwieldy object against the fence with her upper body and head, wincing in pain from the battering her fingers and arms were taking, she gained the needed height. With her left hand clinging desperately to the fence, which allowed her to lean back for a better angle, she pushed the bike up with her right hand, felt it hang up on the top of the fence, and gave it a desperate shove upward and forward, which flipped it over the top. It landed on the other side with a clatter. No one’s gonna believe I did this.

  Gingerly she placed her hands on the top of
the fence—I hate chain-link fences with pokey tops—pulled herself up, worked her upper body over the top, and tried to flip her legs over. She lost her balance, tumbled over, and landed next to her bike, banging her elbow, bruising her ribs, and scratching her face on the brush. Grimacing, she stood back up, dusted herself off, and checked out her injuries. She noticed that her blouse displayed several grease marks and a six-inch tear on the right side. She groaned, What was I thinking? . . . why did I have to wear my favorite peasant top? . . . why didn’t I just wear a t-shirt and sweat pants? There was no necessity to look her hippie-chick best, not under these circumstances. Stewing over the matter, she rummaged in her knapsack, dug out a fresh blouse, and made herself presentable.

  After she had closed her pack and put it on, she picked up her bike and walked back to the road. With her stiff legs complaining, she mounted up and peddled, following the road until it merged with a track on the edge of the landfill. When the track turned toward the interior of the facility, she continued forward across a grassy field into the equipment yard, weaved her way through it, and caught another dusty track, which took her to the turn-around at the southwest corner of the landfill—on the border of Scholl Canyon Park. Almost there . . . unfortunately . . . there’s a stretch of off-roading between here and there. She nosed her bike over the edge, uttered Geronimo in mock enthusiasm, pushed off, and careened her way down the ravine toward the park facilities, negotiating a gauntlet of rocks, brush, and trees.

  After a bone-jarring ride and a nasty spill, she arrived at the parking lot—scratched, bruised, and whipped. She took a moment to orient herself, then pedaled to the playground equipment, leaned her bike against a tree, and flopped onto the grass. Her legs felt like she had just done a thousand squats with a gorilla on her shoulders—they were throbbing with pain and cramping up. That is the hardest five miles I have ever ridden. With a moan, she forced herself to sit up and open her pack. She needed sugar and electrolytes. After she drained a sports drink in one shot and wolfed down a Clif Bar, she lay back down and stared into the dappled canvas of green tree tops and brilliant blue sky, trying to figure out what she should do next.