The Radiant

By Ron Felber

WHAT REALLY HAPPENED TO JASON GARVEY WHEN HE WAS CAUGHT OUTSIDE HIS SPACE CRAFT?

He lost contact for seventeen minutes during a communication “dark out” and was bombarded by the extra-nuclear particles of a gamma ray burst. Three years later, he's at the center of stories about miraculous occurrences and faith healing. What happened to Jason Garvey in those 17-minutes?

"Felber's fast-paced storytelling and cutting-edge social commentary will engage and mystify readers...intense, edgy, gripping." --Book World

"Witty, reveting, and diabolically clever...a heart-pounding pace, exotic locales, unforgettable characters...Felber is a master storyteller!" --The Book Connection

"Gritty, fast-paced, and dynamic, the blend of dialogue, atmosphere and action will grip readers from page one...A tautly plotted thriller written by an outstanding newcomer to the genre!" Patrick Robinson, New York Times bestselling author of Lone Survivor

"Felber is back! His writing is gritty, truthful, in your face, and makes you feel like you've experienced something not many do." --Melody Deshales, Goodreads

• Language: English
• Publisher: XinXii
• Release date: Mar 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9783961427475

Book preview

RADIANT

PROLOGUE

Sky View Mission

Designation: Highly Classified

Payload Top Secret

The fiery mass crackled like a live electrical wire. Astronaut Jason Garvey moved toward the titanium ladder marked Level II. He put his lead-lined boot on its first rung then froze mid-step. Perhaps a hundred-fifty meters due north of the Sky View craft a luminescent cloud gathered.

GARVEY: I’m seeing a mass of unusual lights at two o’clock. Can’t say whether it’s a solid or etherial phe-nomenon. Houston, please advise.

There was a drawn silence. Mission Control checked the IBM data bank for verification of a communication satellite out of orbit or experimental Russian craft in the area. There were none.

MISSION CONTROL: Nothing—ours or theirs—in the vicinity. Radiation level: 300 micro Sieverts and rising…

ROYCE: TELMU readings indicate geo-magnetic debris

approaching. Abort inspection. Re-enter TC

immediately.

MISSION CONTROL: CapCom, we don’t like the

bio-sensor readings we’re getting: blood pressure 165 over 100; respiratory rate 28 per minute.

The warning buzzer of his dosimeter whined. Its red light flashed the urgency of his situation, but all he could do was watch. Like a star struck child, Garvey stood, seized by a strange and pervasive euphoria. Green eyes narrowed, his mind flashed to childhood memories of his mom, arms open wide as he rushed to her after his first day of school; his dad, eyes twinkling watching him blow out the candles on a birthday cake, age nine; backstreet stickball with his Chi-town bros; girlfriend, football, crowds cheering. What began as a routine inspection of Sky View’s heat shields had turned into a nightmare. The cluster was getting closer.

ROYCE: Garvey, this is CapCom, do you read me? Repeat, abort inspection. This is no exercise.

MISSION CONTROL: Blood pressure 185 over 100; trachea 35 per minute…

His mind was flashing. He knew it, understood, because he’d been there before in dreams, or the umber twilight before they arrived. Grainy, like the frames of a black and white film flickering in his mind’s eye: astro-physics MIT, Air Force Academy, NASA space program.

GARVEY: I’m seeing objects of some sort. Cannot determine whether they’re physical matter, gases, or both.

ROYCE: Abandon Level II. Exterior Hatch, openTransition Chamber, pressurized for re-entry. Goddammit, get in here.

MISSION CONTROL: Radiation levels: 100,000 micro Sieverts and rising. Pupils dilated. Breathing erratic. Skin warm and moist. Blood pressure 200 over 120. Mike, this man is on the verge of cardiac arrest.

GARVEY: More like a cloud now that I see it up close. It’s

shining. Glowing like a corona.

Images surging like a tsunami over the boundaries of his subconscious. Operating table. Lights glaring. White-masked surgeons peering down at him. No! he cries out, coming to consciousness. Yes, the voice answers, dulcet and re-assuring. All of what we’re doing. For the good of humanity.

MISSION CONTROL: CapCom, we’ve lost secondary

AOS. Are you getting this?

ROYCE: Primary communication maintained…but not

with Garvey. Jason, this is Royce, do you read me?

Eruptions in his mind. Violent. Volcanic. Police sirens sounding. Ambulances, red and blue lights flashing. 6:17 p.m. His wife, Julia, so lovely. Lying on the bedroom floor. Mutilated, beyond recognition.

GARVEY: It’s almost on top of me. I feel the energy.

It’s drawing me to it…it’s…

His voice trailed off. He was speechless, incapable of organizing the physical responses necessary for speech. He looked to his boots. Then, to his ankles. Then, to his legs and upper torso. He extended his right hand and was mesmerized by what he saw.

His entire body was electric, shimmering like some obscure plankton amid the deepest, darkest regions of space.

***

The conference room at NASA headquarters was furious with speculation as the ad hoc committee of nine scientists met in an emergency meeting. Dr. Darius Stone, one of the team of doctors evaluating Garvey, was the first to speak. Pale, black-haired, eyes dark and deep-set, the forty-three-year-old neuroscientist thrust his stare at those gathered around the table with the ravaged look of a starving student: sullen, ponderous, as if suffering from some malaise of the soul.

Perhaps more terrifying than the physical effects of radiation is the annihilation of an ego, but that’s what’s happened to the subject I’ve examined. The trauma of the accident, perhaps even the elements to which he was exposed, have left Garvey convinced he is someone other than the man who left earth’s atmosphere three weeks ago.

You talk about loss of identity, said Gordon Matheson, a senior NASA official, in what sense, specifically?

The patient’s convinced he’s no longer Jason Garvey, the American astronaut. When questioned as to why he maintains this, he talks about some vague physical and spiritual evolution. His thoughts are idealized. He suffers from bizarre hallucinations, often of a religious nature.

For example?

Stone swallowed hard. He claims to be a kind of visionary with the power to heal. The doctor raised his palms, waving off the onslaught of objections like beggars on a Bombay street. Now, I’m aware of the effects of shock and trauma, he said. "I am also aware of the hysterical reactions that sometimes accompany them, so I administered two anti-psychotic drugs, Haldol and Mellaril. Neither had an appreciable effect. The patient’s perceptions remained unaltered; his convictions deliberate and abiding."

Lisa Ellison, one of the two materials engineers present, edged forward in her chair. Dr. Stone, Garvey’s exposure occurred during a seventeen minute ‘dark out’ with no telemetric or communication data. Are you suggesting his illness is the result of a physical, and not a psychological, reaction to the exposure?

"It’s possible. Hell, it was just a short time ago that science confirmed the existence of Higgs bosons, extra-nuclear particles that saturate space and derive from God knows where—taus, kaons, leptons—all relative unknowns. So here we have Garvey, an astronaut exposed to the gamma ray burst of a supernova. Chances are he was bombarded by a thousand forces we don’t even know exist. What happened during those seventeen minutes? How did it affect him? We simply don’t know."

Ridiculous, said Matheson.

Stone’s compact frame lurched forward. His chalk-white face reddened.

Well, one thing is certain. Something happened up there. We sent a sound man into space. A classic ‘fit’ to the astronaut profile. The man you brought back is not any of those things. His dark, intense eyes reached out and seized each member of the panel. Why?

BEFORE THE BEGINNING

Brussels, Belgium

Excelsior Hotel

The meeting room rumbled with discussion like a tremor shaking the hotel’s foundation. An ascetic-looking Asian man with bald-shaven head and piercing dark eyes known to Committee members simply as Designee, rose to his feet. His eyes flicked to a portrait of their founder, Byron Terkos, hung on the wall above an unfurled flag depicting a cobra standing upright, hood flared, ready to strike. An aide whispered last minute advisements. He nodded, tapped the microphone pinned to the lapel of his white, dragon silk jacket and began.

Gentlemen, he said, scouring the faces bobbing up from cigars and snifters of brandy, pausing to study each: Charles Schein aka the Baron from Romania, crafty, but a boor if ever there was one; Adrian Whyle, a shifty-eyed intellectual from their London operation; Ernst Molter, Berlin, a whore monger, laughter erupting from his barrel chest as he whispered a lewd remark to Ivana Razheva, their Moscow-based FSS operative; Roland Jaubert, gay as the city of Paris, itself, engaged in heated debate with Khalid Al-Salhi, Saudi Arabia, Seyed Ali Romhani, Iran, and Alon Maschel, Israel. Gentlemen, he repeated, "to the business at hand."

The faces of all twenty-seven looked up to him, standing at the head of the elongated conference table. He flashed a glacial grin that evaporated as quickly as it emerged. He had their undivided attention.

Governments are crumbling along with the societies they rule, the man in white began. "Corruption—money, power, greed —have eaten away their core leaving them stripped of moral authority: perpetual war, terrorism unabated, profligate spending that’s bankrupted the world’s economies, a handful of individuals sitting on mountains of wealth while the masses starve. These truths we recognize. Government, religion, banks, corporations, all obsolete institutions that must be eradicated, their leaders held accountable for crimes against humanity.

I, and our leaders, have devoted many years and a large part of the Committee’s fortune to the operation we’re about to undertake. The hope and the destiny of our organization lie in the balance, so ‘important’ is far too weak a word to describe it…

’Holy,’ perhaps, the Baron suggested.

’Holy,’ Designee said, looking down at him. "Yes, that’s close. It’s a holy operation you’re taking part in."

The Baron sat back, puffing a Cohiba. Whyle squirmed in his seat watching Designee’s eyes crawl over Schein before turning his attention to a movie screen lowered from the ceiling behind him. The screen lit with the projection of men working an archeological dig. Below it, a caption read, ‘Askellon Site, Level 5, Northwest Sector, 1967’

Let me take you back to the beginning—before Sky View, before the devices were procured—to the genesis of Byron Terkos’ ‘vision.’ What you are seeing is actual footage of the discovery of the Askellon Scrolls. He paused to observe the site’s senior archeologist, Pierre Mainguy, roused from his tent by workers. The Scrolls are considered one of the seminal finds in all of archeological history. He savored the black and white footage of the Frenchman taking hold of the stone, carefully brushing away millennia of encrusted elements. Of course, Mainguy would not fully comprehend the magnitude of the find until years later when the written word—more ancient than the sacred writings of Cunieform—was finally deciphered. Still, even then, he surmised it to be history-making.

He turned facing the group, head on. "So, what did they find? he asked, screen going dead behind him. Precisely what we wanted them to uncover. ‘It’s a prophesy’ the old Frenchman said, ‘a sacred scroll predicting the coming of a prophet, who will save humankind from invaders not of this world!’ He smiled, ruefully. Needless to say, Mainguy, an idealistic fool, had his share of critics and few outside academic circles cared much about it. Soothsayers. Prophets. People had heard it all before. Even the media ignored him. But what if decades after the discovery a genuine prophet did emerge carrying a message about a catastrophic event so historically significant it would change humanity’s conceptions about man’s place in the universe forever? More, what if that individual was a prophet of our own making, putting forward a message about a threat to our world that would bind nations together against a common enemy while catapulting Committee members into positions of unquestioned power? This was Byron Terkos’ dream, to take-over the institutions the rich and powerful have manipulated populations with for centuries—government, churches, military—to create a new world order. This was the genesis of the Initiative."

But the prophet would have to die, the Baron said, flaccid face beaming as he puffed his cigar.

Was that a question, Schein? Designee asked, arching an eyebrow. If so, I’m surprised because you, all of you, were chosen for the operation on the basis of your unquestioning obedience, as well as your other talents.

The Baron fell back into his chair, his thick lips closed, nostrils flared, flat, round face flushed.

No, Schein, I’m sure it was a statement, Designee said, smiling icily, and in that case, I have to correct it slightly. The Scrolls were planted by us, of course, and call it author’s prerogative, but the prophet will not simply ‘die,’ he’ll be martyred and as foretold in the Scrolls ‘the temples of false gods shall be destroyed and rebuilt again.’ Destroyed by us, rebuilt by us, with our people ready to seize control of the world’s most powerful governments.

"The terminus date, the aide seated beside him rushed to add, is Friday, March 10, 1800 hours, IST."

Precisely, the man in white said, hawk eyes diverting to his Louis Monet watch. "Terminus will go ‘live’ exactly three years, seventeen days, and four hours from today. Now, you all have your jobs to do: Jaubert, Deputy Economic Minister, France; Molter, Federal Minister Foreign Affairs, Germany; Schien, Confidential Informant CIA; Alon Maschel, Director, Mossad, Israel; Ivana Razheva, Agent Covert Operations, FSS, to whom we owe a debt of gratitude, he said with a bow, for procuring the RA-115 nukes for us. As for the others, you know your roles and what is expected of you. Does that cover everything?"

Razhena, gazed up at him brushing back a stray lock of blonde hair, What about something unforeseen, a deviation from plan? Will the usual channels apply?

Didn’t I mention that? A communication blackout will be maintained until the devices are delivered, the ‘invasion’ repelled, and the ‘battle’ won. The authorities in no country must suspect the Initiative is underway. He scanned the faces before him. Anything else? No? He reached for the flute of champagne held out by his aide as glasses were filled around the table. "Then, I propose a toast to the New World Order: ‘One Truth. One Voice. One World,’ our credo, our belief, our life’s work," he said, thrusting the flute out toward his co-conspirators.

INITIATIVE, they began, standing. "INITIATIVE,

INITIATIVE…INITIATIVE," glasses hoisted, chanting the word like a mantra, until Designee drank, they along with him.

Still, our organization is not without its traitors, he said with a weighty sigh. Consider our flag, he said, stabbing a finger in its direction. It’s no accident Terkos chose the King Cobra to represent us. The cobra is a killing machine. It hunts, it kills, it devours. But it is never more deadly than when it defends that which is dearest to it, just as we must defend the sanctity of the Committee. Hell, even Christ had his Judas and we are not without ours. A parasite that must be disgorged from the body proper, he said, eyes narrowing as he watched a tall, long-muscled man emerge panther-like from the shadows.

The man crept up behind Adrian Whyle, soundlessly slipping a garrote around his neck. The young Brit, trained in Jiu jitsu, managed to slide three fingers inside the wire loop but it was of no consequence. The assassin twisted it tight and tighter still, Whyle’s fingers popping out of the steel coil like snipped twigs. His face contorted. He writhed in his seat reaching up to his neck trying to stop the progress of the wire, heart’s blood pumping between fingers until his expression turned placid, eyes rolling to the back of his head, hands dropping to his sides, dead.

The killer’s name was Lazlo Rigeur. Born in Belgium, now living in the United States, he was in fact a citizen of no country.

PART I: TECHNICALLY

UNVERIFIABLE

PHENOMENA

Three Years after Sky View Disaster

FRIDAY

JANUARY 14

TERMINUS: 55 DAYS

Manhattan, New York

Whisper Victoria Thomas was a nervous wreck. She glanced at her Citizen watch: 12:15. She was already late for lunch. Wasn’t it just like her boss, Jack Limpert, to call one of his ‘ah-ha’ moment meetings and run it past noon, she fretted, racing through the maze of cubicles that infused the sixteenth floor of the Time-Life offices.

Back at two, she called out to Mona, the green-haired department admin, as she rushed into the corridor.

She boarded the elevator filled with a half-dozen of the magazine’s five hundred employees. They ranged from execs dressed in Brooks Brothers’ suits to staff writers who wore jeans and T-shirts, looking more like college kids from Columbia than world-class journalists. Many were brown-bagging it, trying to stay warm in the plaza below.

She exited the elevator in the lobby along with the others. To her right was the plate glass window that overlooked the east façade. Her eyes scanned the sunken plaza beyond as she passed through the revolving door. It was a picture-perfect day. Employees sat on the low wall that separated them from pedestrians eating fajitas and drinking Diet Coke. Young couples snuggled at the base of Crovello’s Curved Cube while others caught fleeting rays of winter’s sun on cement banks laden with ornamental brassica. All was as it should be except her former NYU classmate, Joyce Malmin, was nowhere to be found.

She glanced to her watch: 12:35. No wonder she couldn’t find her. Odds were, she’d already left for the Plaza Garden and Bar. Whisper pivoted back toward the restaurant, then stopped short, startled, at the unwelcomed sight of a homeless man who blocked her. Long-haired and unshaven, skinny as a scarecrow, his left foot was wrapped in a dirty bandage that partially concealed his ankle, covered with scabs.

Got a dollah bus fare? he said, casting a sly-eyed grin, sans teeth. Gotta get back to the missus in Chelsea.

He extended his hand. She backed off.

No, she answered, turning from him.

She felt a tug on her sleeve.

Hey, sweetie…

She stared at him, frightened. He smiled a hideous grin.

Messiah’s comin.’ You don’t give me a fuckin’ dollah, you’ll go to Hell, sure.

Whisper’s eyes darted around her. No one noticed. No one cared. She fumbled through her pocketbook, plucked a bill out, and handed it over. Just go away now, Mr. Scarecrow, and leave me alone. He pocketed the money, hopping up and down with a satyr’s glee.

He’s comin.’ He’s comin.’ Quiet like a cloud. Hot as the sun. Bright as the light of Heaven. He’s gonna shine his grace on all a you bastards.

Whisper swung around a final time, scrambled back through the revolving door. Even as she entered, she could hear the shrieks of the old derelict. It was grating, scary. How could Corporate allow people to panhandle in the plaza like that? Especially now, with security supposedly air tight since the last bombing?

She crossed Sixth Avenue navigating the crowds that swarmed Rockefeller Center. Children frolicked on unsteady blades while couples holding hands glided across the ice-skating rink, observed by the eighteen-foot-high bronze statue of Prometheus that stood above it. The Greek god, said to have gifted humankind with fire, gazed down at them as she took the short flight of stairs. Her eyes searched the restaurant terrace. Where was Joyce?

She approached the maître d,’ Excuse me, I’m looking for a friend. We have a reservation— she began when, just then, she saw her old college chum sitting at a table, waving to get her attention. Thanks, but I see her.

Even from a distance Whisper could see that Joyce had prospered since they’d last met. Raven-haired, fashionably coiffed, tanned face just lean enough to accentuate her high cheekbones, she was wearing a Versace jacket, white linen dress, and agate earrings.

That’s when it hit her. The tugging riptide of inadequacy that threatened to pull her under these days. Thrown together in the hassled confusion of early morning, at best, she appeared an athletic, upwardly mobile, gen X professional. At worst, the hopelessly Baptist, rural-California transplant she knew herself to be, dressed in Levi’s from the GAP, and a white turtleneck on sale at Kohl’s. Her hair, cut short and boyish, sometimes made her look stylish, but at times like this, she feared, more like Halle Berry on a bad hair day.

Damn, she thought, second-guessing herself, until she heard Joyce calling her name, arms outstretched. It was then that her anxieties lifted. This was her dearest friend, after all.

Joyce, she said, embracing her, it’s so good to see you. She stepped back. "You’re really looking well."

So are you. You haven’t changed a bit since college. Come, sit. We’ve got some catching up to do.

Whisper took a seat, Three years.

Does it seem that long?

Yes. I’ve really missed you, moving to D.C. like you did.

I know. I’ve missed you, too, Joyce said, so I ordered a bottle of champagne to celebrate. She signaled the waiter who stood by, bottle in the ready. Dom Perignon, 2016!

Whisper’s bright eyes twinkled, Where were we in 2016, Joyce?

Roommates in a Soho loft.

The waiter poured two glasses.

They sat in silence as each took a long sip as much to ease the tension of their shriveled correspondence as to revel in their renewed friendship.

Joyce looked across the table, So how have you been? No e-mails, no text messages. Are you all right?

I’m fine.

And John?

John and I split, nearly a year, now.

Oh, I’m so—

Don’t be. It was coming. Best for both of us.

Kids?

None. Their eyes met. Well one, almost. I decided against it once things began falling apart. How about you and David?

David’s law practice has really taken-off since the move. As for me, I’m still at NSA trying to keep U.S. Intel one step ahead of the bad guys.

How long have you been there now?

Since the dawn of man. She laughed, raising her glass in a half-toast. At least it seems that way.

Not spying on American citizens, I hope.

"I’m working ‘Threat Ops.’ I track cyberattacks courtesy of Russia, China, Iran, the bad actors you read about in the Times, she said, with a self-conscious smile. Next to David, the love of my life is BEN, one of our Cray supercomputers. RIVAL, a U.S.-based surveillance network, collects information from around the world, we extract what’s needed then punch the vetted files into