Apparently the ridicule that Neal had encountered for what he did was not limited to undergrad guys at bars competing with him for the attention of their impressionable female counterparts.
The colonel breezed past the patronizing, if innocently intentioned joke by the general, “Yes, sir, I have called your office’s attention to the report dated September 20
th
of this year from this facility.”
“Yes, Colonel, we have the report in our packets.” the general said, his aide handing him the copy.
“General, if I may,” said the colonel, “we have made some additional calculations based on revised estimates that are not in the version of the report you have in front of you.”
“New estimates? Based on new information?” the general questioned, looking through the screen at the colonel.
“Not new information, per se, sir, but different interpretations of the existing data by our experts.”
Neal spoke up: “We didn’t factor in a lack of gas cloud or debris, err, sir, so the original estimates were, well, wrong.”
The general looked at the scientist as if unaware whether to acknowledge him and Neal looked a little disconcerted. Why had he suddenly felt the need to speak, exactly? He glanced back at the colonel only to be greeted by a foreboding expression not dissimilar to the one he had seen just outside the conference room not an hour beforehand.
“What my colleague from the Array’s
civilian
team is trying to say, sir,” interposed the colonel, returning his focus to the general, “is that we have a potential alternate set of estimates based on a theoretical new interpretation of the information.”
“Do you and your team concur with this analysis, Colonel?” asked the general.
Neal, the general, and all of the briefing team at the Pentagon looked expectantly at the colonel, all except Dr. West, whose calm gaze remained passively on Neal.
“I have reviewed the data and the theory and believe it has foundation, sir.” said the colonel diplomatically. “General Pickler, sir, I believe my aide forwarded a revised version to you before this meeting, if you would like to call it up on the screen.”
“Well why wasn’t it included in the original report put before this board?” inquired the general, and the colonel paused, making a mental note to black list one Neal Danielson, stopping him from ever being allowed in this meeting, or this facility for that matter, ever again.
“May I offer up a point, Michael?” Dr. West interjected to the general, the use of the senior officer’s first name momentarily stunning everyone.
But Laurie smiled serenely, took the silence as tacit approval to carry on and said, “I have reviewed the numbers and the revised analysis that Mr. Danielson proposes. At this point I am in agreement with the colonel’s insightful opinion that they require consideration. Unfortunately, my late arrival this morning from Washington meant we were unable to get these revised estimates into the copy of the report you are holding.”
Neal and the colonel stared at her, as did the general, while everyone else joined the serene doctor in looking at the general for his reaction.
After a moment, the general duly said, “Well, then, we should certainly review the new data, Colonel.” The room breathed an imperceptible sigh of relief, and the colonel made a note to upgrade his respect for the good doctor from high to downright inestimable, “Tell me, does this new analysis imply a danger of planetary impact?”
“Not on land, no sir, that appears unlikely, but if it holds true then it does imply that a potentially significant amount of debris could enter equatorial orbit in the same plane as our satellites, as well as entering the atmosphere.”
The general looked grave, “OK, Colonel we have the report on-screen now,” he said, his eyes looking to the left of the camera to something the colonel could not see. “Let’s see, Incident ID: ‘ColonelMiltonBl’…yes, well then,” the colonel flinched, but the general moved discreetly past the title, “yes, I see the atmospheric entry location estimates. Colonel, why don’t you tell us how you reached these conclusions?”
The colonel went to speak and then thought better of trying to explain it, saying instead with a cautioning glance, “Mr. Danielson, maybe you would like to go over the details of the new trajectories.”
Neal took a breath, noted to himself that he really was every bit as pigheaded as his ex-girlfriends used to say, and then, after arranging his thoughts more cohesively, he began: “General Pickler, sir, what Dr. West, Colonel Milton and I decided after reviewing the data available was that there was a potential that this meteoroid cloud wouldn’t follow the same mass estimating theories established in the past. You see, sir, there is a notable lack of both a central mass and a gas cloud. This is important here because we can see…”
Neal continued with his cogent explanation and found himself finally beginning to see how much easier it would be if he behaved a little more like the intelligent person he purported himself to be.
300,000 miles out from Earth along our equatorial plane, the cluster’s speed, though diminished, is still faster than any craft we have ever manufactured as it rushes to meet us, our gravity bending its path gently inward. It flies past the orbital radius of the moon without preamble and over the next few hours it enters its final approach to Earth. The vast majority of the chunks of matter are lifeless astral rock, the leftover building blocks of a trillion planets and suns. They are, as predicted by Neal Danielson, less riddled by the scars of gaseous escape and freeze-cracking than would typically be expected, but bar that, they are mostly unexceptional.
As the cluster’s leading edge starts to brush the outer limits of the troposphere, the paths of eight specific pieces distinguish their trajectories in ways not dissimilar from the predictions of some of the more astute scientists at the various radar arrays and observatories monitoring the cluster’s approach. Though far from smooth or regular, close inspection of these particular eight masses would show that in some of the cracks and dents that do dot their surfaces there appear to be patches of a smooth, matt material, as though inside these eight blocks something dark is hidden.
All eight rocks form part of the leading edge of the cluster as it dips farther into the atmosphere, and they begin to trace long, slow arcs across the night sky of Earth, rapidly approaching the dawning sun that is seemingly coming to meet them over the horizon.
As they begin to enter the atmosphere proper, the eight objects start to glow and smolder under the first signs of air resistance. Slowly, inextricably, their outer shells start to burn away, disintegrating under the barrage of a quadrillion air molecules after surviving a quadrillion miles of vacuum to reach this point. As their entourage vanishes into a glowing haze, the eight resolve into cylinders ten feet long, perfectly black; matt black as midnight in the densest forest, utterly and profoundly unreflective in a way no natural substance could be.
They continue to arc apart ever so slightly, but at their oblique angle of entry these slight differences in trajectory will give them vastly different impact sites.
As the ever-thickening atmosphere cloaks them in fiery balls, they begin their final approach, and as one by one their short-lived orbits disintegrate, they each drop to their watery graves.
High above, hidden amongst the remaining body of the cluster, out of the atmosphere’s reach, four sinister pyramidal black objects begin to distance themselves. They are each forty feet across, and fifty feet in length and as they quietly and slowly separate themselves from the remains of the asteroid, they orient themselves toward Earth, with their peaks pointing down toward the spinning blue and green globe below them. As they slowly spread out around the equator their orientation presents no flat surface directly toward the planet, rendering them virtually invisible to any earthly radar. Each is the same pitch-black as their smaller counterparts fast approaching the ground, as black as the void that forms their backdrop, and slowly but surely over the next two weeks they will maneuver into geosynchronous retrograde orbits around the earth, equidistant from each other, encircling the waist of our world.
On the surfaces of each of the inverted pyramids several apertures smoothly irise open, and with phenomenally acute sight they begin to survey their prey for the first time. Despite the huge distances travelled by this cluster of rock and interstellar material, the globe below them appears massive and terribly beautiful as its surface flies by.
They look on, as across this canvas their eight smaller cousins blaze their meteoric fall to Earth.
The Waterloo Club in downtown Brussels is as well adorned as its frequent and honorable guests. Dressed in a tailor-made dark grey suit, crisp white shirt, and one of his trademark colorful bowties, François-Xavier Marchelier walked from his car to the back door, passing the familiar doorman of the club with a genial nod and smile. Two discreet armed guards stood to either side of the door, a series of cameras above it leading to a room where people identify which of the club’s guests the guards should, or should most certainly
not
search.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur Marchelier.” the footman said as he gently laid the club member’s white cashmere scarf and calfskin gloves over his left forearm.
“Bonsoir, Arthur, tout va bien avec le dîner?” inquired François-Xavier.
“Naturellement, Monsieur, tout es prêt.” says Arthur without a smile, his eyes momentarily closing as he nodded slowly to his esteemed guest.
“Excellent, Arthur, excellent.” The minister smiled back, turning to make his way into the lounge.
Deep green, studded, leather chairs, older even than most of their inhabitants, dotted the highly polished, well-worn parquet floor in groups two or four, sometimes paired with matching burnished burgundy leather sofas. François-Xavier strolled amongst the auspicious men toward an unoccupied table with an old and faded ‘reservé’ sign.
“Ah, mon ami honorable, qu'est-ce qui se passe?” a man hailed as the minister walked passed. François-Xavier bowed gently to the man but did not stop, walking onward with an ingratiating smile. Arriving at the empty table, François-Xavier turned the reserved sign onto its face and sat, plucking a copy of
Inventaire
magazine from under his arm. As he started to read the magazine, a waiter appeared with a glass of chilled Versinthe, set it on the table in front the minister and then retired without a word, taking the reserved sign with him.
In a back room of the club, a group of drivers and assistants sat sipping free coffee from a set of glass pots on heating pads in a corner. Among them, First Lieutenant Jeanette Archalle of the French Army Intelligence Service, Special Assistant to the Minister of Defense, sat with her tablet terminal, running various encryption programs on e-mails coming in to the minister.
Attached to her wrist by a titanium handcuff and weapons grade two-foot stainless steel chain was a briefcase. The case literally never left the assistant’s side for the eight hours she was on duty, at the end of which she would transfer it to one of her two colleagues using an additional chain, seeing to it that it was never separate from one or the other at any time.
Jeanette had commented to her cohorts at a briefing that it was surprising how quickly you forgot the briefcase was even there, as it literally and figuratively became part of your body for eight hours a day. They had agreed, but had mocked her for saying she thought she might miss it when she went on vacation the following day.
They had every right to mock her. Getting one of the jobs on the minister’s team of three special assistants was extremely hard and very prestigious. The security process you had to pass was beyond rigorous, and because of that there were no substitutes. While Jeanette was away, the other two would have to make up for her absence by working twelve-hour shifts, and they had made sure Jeanette felt every inch of their gratitude.
But Jeanette hadn’t been joking when she had said she didn’t notice the briefcase anymore, and unless they were updating its closely guarded contents, or running a drill with the mock codes and protocols it also contained, she almost forgot it was there. Thus the briefcase was not the subject of the lieutenant’s thoughts as she read the decrypted e-mail from the European Space Agency to the minister and decided that Mr. Marchelier would probably want an immediate update on its contents.
Standing up, she nodded at the two dangerous-looking members of the French Secret Service who made up her security detail while she carried the case, and walked through the main door, heading toward the club’s concierge desk. They were behind her in an instant, maintaining a respectful distance and an ever-watchful eye on her as she asked to use the club’s printer, transferring the now decrypted report she has just received to an SD card and plugging it into the printer’s side.
* * *
The minister was engrossed in a lengthy article about Pascal Mercier’s Night Train to Lisbon when Jeanette walked up and stood just out of earshot, awaiting permission to approach. Though he did not look up, he noticed her waiting. As was his way, he finished the paragraph he was reading, smiled a moment at a particularly erudite simile, and then looked up at his expectant assistant. At a wave of François-Xavier’s hand, she stepped forward and whispered in his ear, handing him a report as she did so. He nodded, took a minute to flip through the multi-page report as she stood patiently at his shoulder, and then asked: “Has the navy confirmed this?”
“Yes, sir, their comments are at the bottom. It appears to be benign enough, but I thought I’d let you know there will be a bit of a show tonight when they enter the atmosphere.”
“Oui, Jeanette, merci beaucoup pour votre diligence.” he said, and she nodded to him with a polite smile and turned to walk away. The Frenchman read the report again. Apparently they were going to have quite the fireworks display tonight. He checked the probabilities of landfall and their relevance to France and her protectorates and nodded. Nothing to be afraid about, but still, something of interest.