by David Capps
“Are you concerned about the possible bad publicity this might generate?” I asked.
“There is no bad publicity,” he replied, “or so my dad always said. You just have to make sure they spell your name correctly.”
We all chuckled and continued with small talk. When John’s Learjet 45 was ready, Frank walked back over to the jet and flew back to San Diego.
The next morning we were back at the airport. We spent half an hour watching everything that happened in the airport. So far, nothing looked even a bit suspicious. John’s Learjet 45 landed and again taxied into the hangar.
All of a sudden men wearing FBI jackets and U.S. Marshal jackets moved from the outside rear of the hangar on both sides and entered the front bay door.
“Those guys are good,” I said. “I didn’t see any of them until just now.”
“Pros,” Ed said.
We watched as they hauled Frank off in handcuffs and stuffed him in the back of a black SUV with red and blue lights flashing from the grillwork. The FBI walked our day driver to another car in handcuffs, just for show.
“One mole,” Ed said as he raised his coffee cup, “in the bag.”
We touched paper coffee cups and drank. “What about John’s limo?” I asked.
“Oh, his night driver just got a promotion to days. He’s about two blocks away. We can go now if you don’t mind my driving for two blocks,” Ed replied.
CHAPTER 17
Several weeks passed as more references to the meteor storm leaked into the mainstream media. Each report was prefaced with the reporter mentioning the lunatic fringe and rolling their eyes. Following each interview, the camera returned to show the newscaster grinning and shaking their head, like this was some gigantic joke.
Promotional flashes began to appear on the Network News Channel, gradually increasing in length, advertising a special interview on Sunday Evening titled “NASA Speaks.” Dr. Sheldon Woolser would appear and answer questions about the meteor storm.
We had an early supper Sunday afternoon and gathered in the communications room to watch the show. At 6:00 PM Mountain Time, 8:00 PM Eastern, the program began.
Woolser was introduced to enthusiastic applause. “Dr. Woolser,” the host began, “is there any truth to all of the rumors of a meteor storm?”
“Of course there is,” Woolser replied. “This is exactly how extremists work. They will take a small amount of truth and blow it all out of proportion to fit with their agenda. For example, we have the Perseid meteor shower which appears to be centered in the constellation of Perseus and the Leonid meteor shower in the constellation of Leo, the Lion. We have these meteor showers every year. Once in a great while we also have a meteor storm where over a thousand meteors enter the Earth’s atmosphere each hour. That puts on quite the show with one meteor every four to five seconds.”
“That’s a lot of meteors,” the host said.
“It sure is,” Woolser replied.
“And these meteor storms have happened before?” the host asked.
“Hundreds of times.”
“And the world’s civilizations were not destroyed?”
“Of course not,” Woolser replied.
“Prevailing scientific theory is that the Earth is pretty much the same way it has always been. When you look around at the landscape, this is generally what it looked like when the Dinosaurs roamed the Earth. Some of the trees and plants have changed, but everything else is mostly the way it has always been. The Earth is a very stable place for life to have evolved as it has.”
“And this idea of a meteor storm lasting for two months, how realistic is that?” the host asked.
“Two days is more realistic,” Woolser said. “Meteor showers and meteor storms have a lot in common. They start slowly, build up to a peak, and then drift off into nothing. Most meteors are no bigger that a grain of sand. It is rare for a meteor to actually hit the ground.”
“Well, doesn’t a large meteor hit the Earth once in a while?” the host asked.
“Of course,” Woolser said, “We have a meteor crater in Arizona as proof of that. But that is an extremely rare event. With our space-based radar, we are tracking large meteors and asteroids all of the time. None of these poses any threat to the Earth, and if it did, we would know about it well in advance.”
“So the group promoting the coming meteor storm is wrong?” the host asked.
“What you are referring to is an extremist organization that is trying to scare people into spending huge amounts of money with their own designated businesses. Their motivation is strictly financial. They have taken this simple idea of a harmless meteor storm and built it up into an apocalyptic nightmare. They are using fear and people’s general lack of real knowledge to create their own financial gain. That’s why I decided to come on this show and explain exactly what the true situation is and what these extremists are trying to do. No one is in danger. If they were, I would tell you.” The program devolved into a discussion of meteors with diagrams and photographs of bright streaks in the night sky.
John stood and walked over to me and Tia.
“I think we have to put the NASA space-based radar images on the website,” he said.
“They’ll know we hacked their system.” I replied. “They will come after us. You really think it’s worth the risk?”
“I don’t think we have much choice. Millions of lives hang in the balance,” he said.
I looked over at Tia. The look on her face told me she agreed.
“Okay,” I said. “We’ll get started right now.”
* * *
The following day we traveled with John in his limo to Denver to visit the media center. Everything was running smoothly with a minimum of cyber-attacks. Traffic to the website had slowed considerably after the NASA Speaks program, but with the news of the NASA space-based radar images being spread on Twitter and Facebook, visitors were returning in even larger numbers.
John’s cell phone rang. He talked briefly and motioned me over. “It’s for you, actually,” he said, handing me his phone.
“Hello?”
“Yo, Carl, it’s Leroy, Leroy Simms.”
“Hey, how are you doing?”
“Me and Moniesha are in the Network. I called that number you left with me. These are really nice folks. We’re already moved into this underground bunker.”
“I’m glad you decided to join us.”
“Yeah. After you picked up the robot’s head, I got to thinkin’ there’d be Hell to pay if they found that empty box in the Moon Room, you know? So, on my last round outside the building that night I picked up a large rock. I washed it off, rubbed some moon dust on it and put it in the box in place of the head. Good thing too, ‘cause guess what? Next morning the place was crawling with federal agents. They spent four days going through everything, and didn’t find nothin’.”
“What about the list of my personal property I left with Mike when I brought my computer into the facility?”
“Naw, man, it’s cool. Me and Mike talked when he came on shift. Once he knew your stuff was gone, he shredded your list.”
“Thanks, man, I really appreciate it,” I said.
“Hey, I ‘preciate you havin’ my back, too, man, thanks. Anyway, just wanted to say thanks and to let you know we’re safe, because of you.”
“Thank you, Leroy, give my best to Moniesha.”
I handed the phone back to John. “You’re right,” I said, “we’re making a difference. Thank you for believing in me.”
John smiled and pocketed his phone. “We can make a difference because of people like you and Tia, and everyone who is here. Thank you.”
CHAPTER 18
The next morning I was again awakened by gentle knocking on the door to my room.
“Got a special project,” John said. “See you down stairs.”
I dressed and met John, Ed and Tia in the kitchen for breakfast. After we ate, John announced that we were moving the robot’s head. We packed
the head, computer and power supply back in the wooden box and headed out into the woods. We followed a small path for more than a mile when John stopped.
“Remember this tree,” he said. “It’s the only one like it in the area.” The tree was a large beech with smooth gray bark, easily recognizable in any season.
John turned off the path and into a thicket of brush. We struggled to get the box through the thicket. It was difficult going and seemed to take our remaining energy as we climbed through the thicket and up a steep hill. We emerged onto a small ledge facing a rock wall that rose at least a hundred feet above our heads. John sat down and rested as we gradually caught up with him. As we sat and regained our breath, John explained.
“As you may have suspected, we have a safe, secure location in which to ride out the meteor storm. This is where it is.”
We looked around. The only things there were the thicket and the rock wall. John took three keys out of his pocket, handing one to each of us. “I trust the three of you with everything I have. This key will allow you into the cave.”
John stood and pointed out an unusual mark in the rock wall. At the bottom point of the mark was a small key slot. John slid his key into the slot and turned the key clockwise. I heard the subdued sound of motors and gears working. The rock wall moved out slightly and began pivoting to the side. The door was constructed of fiber and concrete on a steel frame with natural rocks embedded on the outside to match the shape and texture of the rock wall. Even standing right in front of the door you would never guess it was the entrance to a massive cave. John stepped inside and several LED light clusters came on.
“So how do you get electricity out here in the forest?” I asked.
“Fuel Cells,” John replied. “Powered by propane. We have enough fuel to power the cave at maximum consumption for six months. A year if we conserve energy.”
“And how big is this cave?” I asked.
“Fifty-two thousand square feet of living area plus storage for supplies and other things.”
“Other things?” I asked.
John just smiled. “Come on,” John said, “let me show you around.”
As we headed back into the cave, lights came on in front of us and went out in back of us. Once we cleared the main door, it slid shut automatically.
“Infrared sensors turn the lights on and off?” I asked.
“We incorporated both infrared and motion sensors into the lighting system,” John replied. “Better energy management.”
John stopped at a small alcove and handed each of us a jacket to wear. “The cave is a constant fifty degrees inside, both winter and summer. Rather than heat the cave, we need to wear protective clothing to keep us warm.”
The cold air felt strange, considering how warm it was outside.
“Personal living spaces inside the cave are well insulated so your own body heat will eventually warm your room up to a comfortable level.”
“The air smells fresh,” I commented.
“Electrostatic air cleaners,” John replied.
Ed stopped and took in a deep breath of air. “What about oxygen content. With a lot of people in here the carbon dioxide levels could get dangerously high.”
“We also have scrubbers,” John replied. “Same kind used in nuclear submarines. They convert carbon dioxide back into pure oxygen.”
“Impressive,” Ed said quietly as he looked around.
“Over here is the mess hall and kitchen where food is prepared, and across the main aisle is the medical room for health care and emergency medical procedures.”
“So where’s the gym and theater?” I asked.
“You’re thinking of the opposing team, the one in the Ozarks,” John replied. “We’re a bit more primitive out here in the west.”
I laughed out loud. “Yeah,” I said, “I realize their budget is substantially larger than ours.”
John grimaced. “We do what we can. I just hope it’s enough.”
We walked for several hundred yards back into the cave before we came to our personal rooms.
“I also have a small communications room here connected to antennas hidden in the trees above,” John said. “I’m thinking this is the place for the robot’s head.”
“Well,” I said, “let’s see.” I connected the power supply to the cave power system and powered up the robot’s head and the computer.
NETCOMM is weak, but available. Appeared on the computer screen.
“Andy’s good with it,” I said. “This’ll work.”
“Good,” John said. “You can come out here and work with the robot’s head anytime you want. Just be careful that you aren’t being followed.”
“The forest is thick enough in this area that satellite surveillance shouldn’t detect us either visually or on infrared,” I said. “It’s a good location.”
“I’m glad you approve,” John said.
I looked over at him. He had that understanding smile on his face again. He had already considered satellite surveillance before the site was selected. I chuckled. John was two steps ahead, as usual.
* * *
Two days later, I awoke to the sound of the front door to John’s cabin being smashed in, followed by shouting. Within seconds, federal agents broke into my room carrying automatic weapons, dressed in padded black uniforms with black knit masks and goggles.
“FBI. Do not move.”
I slowly raised my hands. I was roughly thrown to the floor with one officer’s knee pressing hard into my back. My hands were secured tightly in plastic security ties. I was hauled out in my pajamas along with John and Tia.
“Remember the rule,” John said. Before he could continue he was struck in the back of the neck with a rifle butt. John fell to the ground and was dragged to a waiting black SUV.
The rule was “Do not say anything to anybody. Remain completely silent.”
I looked over at Tia. She looked back at me with a strong confident look on her face. I only wish I felt as confident as she looked. We were each placed in the back of a black SUV where we stayed for the next five hours, while federal agents searched every inch of John’s cabin. A large panel truck arrived and agents began loading all of John’s computer equipment into the truck.
None of us were accorded any bathroom breaks. After the two hour ride back into Denver I got a glimpse of Tia as we were brought into the FBI office. Her pajama bottoms were wet, just as mine were. I did not see John at all.
I was again placed in an interrogation room and handcuffed to the table. This time the entire angle of questioning was different. The only thing they wanted was for me to speak a sentence that was printed on a piece of paper. I looked at the sentence. It was constructed of words that I normally use. Then it dawned on me: the phone conversation with Leroy Simms. They must have a wiretap on John’s cell phone. They figured out Leroy was talking to me, but with my new identity in place, the only way they could confirm my old identity was with a voice print analysis. I refused to speak.
At 4:30 that afternoon I was removed from the interrogation room and offered a change of clothes—an orange jump suit, which I was happy to get into. I was taken by car over to the Federal Court House on 19th Street, and ushered into the back door. From there, I was brought by elevator to the fifth floor and into a court room. I was seated in a row with five other people, all of whom I recognized as computer techs from John’s media center. Evidently, the Feds had raided that, too.
The same old judge was already on the bench. I recognized Kravitz as the prosecutor and Charles was there for the defense. I saw John sitting in a wheel chair with a plastic brace around his neck.
“So, gentlemen,” the judge said flatly, “here we are once again. Mr. Kravitz?”
“Your honor the United States is seeking a court ordered voice print analysis for the six defendants present in this court room. We believe a known terrorist, one Carl Palminteri is among the defendants and we require a voice print to confirm his identity.”
; Charles stood immediately and objected. “Your honor, the United States has all kinds of tests to confirm a person’s identity, including DNA, which is conclusive. Forcing my clients to speak, even for the limited purpose of voice print analysis is a strict violation of their rights so clearly defined in Miranda v. Arizona, 384 U.S. 436.”
“Yes, Mr. Harrington, the court is familiar with the citation,” the judge replied. “The objection is sustained. Mr. Kravitz?”
“Your honor, the six defendants present in this court room all fit the height and weight description for the terrorist Carl Palminteri. The voice print is the only way we have of confirming his identity.”
Charles stood. “Your honor, the government has already run a DNA analysis on all six of the defendants and none of them are identified as this alleged terrorist. As this court is aware, DNA evidence is conclusive. This is nothing more than an elaborate fishing expedition designed to violate my clients’ rights.”
The judge looked back at Kravitz. “Is that true? Has a DNA analysis been done?”
“Yes, your honor, DNA tests have been run on all six of the defendants present.”
“And?” the judge said.
“From the preliminary results, none of them fit the DNA profile of the terrorist in question.”
“Then why are we here?” the judge asked.
“Your honor,” Kravitz continued, “we have evidence, supplied by a Confidential Informant, on a recording in which we can positively identify the terrorist Carl Palminteri by voice print analysis. Based on Cell tower triangulation, we can place the terrorist in the media center of the Survivalist Network and as a close associate of the CEO, John.”
Charles stood and objected once again. “Your honor, this sounds more like a wiretap than a C.I. Does the government have a court sanctioned wiretap in place on my client, John?”