Rookery Bay: Asteroids, Murder and Mayhem

By CR Cooper

An ill-timed NASA probe to Mars misses its mark and crashes into the Asteroid Belt with disastrous result. Two asteroids are dislodged and are soon plummeting toward Earth. The first projectile crashes at Rookery Bay near Naples, Florida and is thought to contain deadly microbes.
Several murders ensue in the quest to steal this prized rock. And frantic efforts are taken to divert the second, much larger asteroid, whose impact would approximate a twenty-five megaton blast. A mole buried deep inside NASA is intent on corrupting the software necessary to divert.
To further complicate matters, the issue of national interest clashes with journalistic freedom and the publics right to know. The head of the local EPA threatens to make public that the Florida projectile has let lose a deadly strain of bacteria. Any report would cause a nation-wide panic.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491768334

CR Cooper

CR Cooper holds a bachelor’s degree in mathematics from Rutgers University. His business career spanned both computers and telecommunication, but it was his interest in astronomy that led him to writing. He is currently a writing coach in New York City with the Visible Ink Program at Memorial Sloan Kettering Hospital.

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Chapter 1

RED ROVER, RED ROVER

Naples, Florida, was about to be clobbered by a wayward asteroid, a collision that could have been prevented. The responsible NASA manager behind this debacle was John Rudnick—defensive, insecure, arrogant, and, unfortunately, the project leader of an ill-timed mission to Mars.

The near miss of the first Mars probe weighed heavily on the minds of the three principals, and now, once again, they were gathered to review the data beamed back from that earlier mission. They all wanted this second launch to retrieve soil samples from the south polar region. Marty Roberts and Bill Sykes, astrophysicists from MIT, were preaching caution. John Rudnick wasn’t listening.

Rudnick had called the meeting and, as before, insisted it be at NASA—his home turf. Though distrustful of Rudnick, Roberts and Sykes agreed and hoped to finally talk some sense into his thick skull. But as soon as the three sat down at the conference table, Rudnick began to press for an early launch.

It’s too soon for a second Mars shot, John. We’re still reviewing data from launch one, said Roberts.

Never too soon, Marty; we don’t want the Russians catching up.

The Russians aren’t going there, John, so what’s the hurry?

"Why are you guys so cautious? We’ve got everything to gain and nothing to lose. The more data we have, the better. Once we’ve shown Congress that we’ve completed Mars II, we’ll get more funding. Then we can go out beyond Mars."

That’s precisely my point, said Roberts. Beyond Mars could spell disaster.

What in hell are you talking about?

What I’m talking about is a possible overshoot. We almost missed on the first one, or have you forgotten? Rudnick didn’t answer or change his facial expression except to stare at Roberts.

You guys just don’t get it, do you? It didn’t miss.

We were lucky, said Sykes, because Marty made a last-minute correction.

We’re not going to miss this time, said Rudnick, now staring at the data sheets spread across the table.

Roberts walked over to the wall that displayed a large map of the solar system and pointed to the asteroid belt. "Look, John, if we overshoot and hit the belt, we could have an enormous rock shower. In all likelihood, Earth will get clobbered. That is the disaster I’m talking about. And that scares the hell out of me."

So what do you want? Rudnick asked, again staring at Roberts.

Give us time to run a few more models to improve accuracy.

You got the software?

A friend does.

What friend?

Matt Baisley.

Oh, right. He’s the guy that tracked that asteroid for you guys a couple of years ago, which missed us, incidentally, by some 150,000 miles.

Right, said Sykes. Actually 175,000 miles. We were lucky. Baisley’s the best in the business.

I’ll give you guys a month—no more. If you haven’t convinced me by then, we go. I’ve got the okay from NASA brass, and they think I’m on target.

Sykes and Roberts looked at each other. We need two months, said Sykes.

You got one month, guys. I’ve got senators breathing down my neck to go now, and most of them are coming up for reelection in two years.

If we overshoot, Roberts said, "there may not be any people around to have an election."

One month, guys.

Frustrated, Sykes walked to the wall with the map and pointed to the asteroid belt, just as Roberts had done. "For Christ’s sake, Rudnick, haven’t you been listening? If we fly by and hit the soft underbelly, even a small rock could be a problem,"

I still don’t know what the hell you guys are talking about.

The hell you don’t, he said. That Canadian rock a few years ago indicated possible microbe contamination. You saw the report.

Conjecture and more bullshit. It’s my call, and I say you’ve got one month.

Chapter 2

SLINGSHOT

Sykes and Roberts met with Matt Baisley the afternoon following the Rudnick meeting to begin recalculating launch angles. Despite their misgivings, all agreed that Rudnick had them over a barrel, and, like it or not, one month was all they had.

*     *     *

They ran and reran models, then corrected versions, until they produced the best possible scenario—a 93 percent probability of an accurate landing. Three and a half weeks had gone by of twelve-hour days and sleepless nights. The team would spend another day or two checking the data and then head off for a final meeting with Rudnick.

Matt, you’re sure this is as good as it gets? asked Roberts.

Yes. We’ve tried every angle imaginable, and this slingshot around Venus is the only one that gets us over 90 percent. Wish I could give you better news, but that’s it.

But you say if we wait eight months, our chances go up considerably.

"That’s right. Ninety-eight percent plus—a virtual guarantee of success.

It seems nobody wants to wait but us, said Sykes. We’ll just have to try and convince Rudnick.

While Sykes and Roberts were working to get the most accurate projections, Rudnick was working to line up support for an early launch. And he was determined to launch no matter what the models showed. He spent his three weeks cajoling and promising everyone who might have a say in the project, putting forth his own scenario, which was based entirely on the first probe’s success. His ass would be covered no matter what. He avoided the part about the eleventh-hour correction by Marty Roberts that saved the day and possibly the planet.

*     *     *

Rudnick kept the three men waiting for thirty minutes—and in a smaller conference room than their last meeting. When he finally walked in, he pretended not to notice Baisley.

So, what have you guys got for me? Good news, I hope.

Before we get started, John, meet Matt Baisley, said Roberts. There were brisk hellos and a mild handshake between Baisley and Rudnick.

We’ve got good and not-so-good news, John. If we launch in the three-month window you’ve laid out, the chances of success are no better than 93 percent. However, if you wait a bit, the chances get much better.

How much is ‘a bit’?

A percentage point a month with the optimum at eight months from now. That would be the best scenario, all factors considered, and would give a 98 percent plus chance of success, as near perfect as you can get. More importantly, the need for any in-flight corrections diminishes considerably at the eight-month point. It’s only an extra five months and virtually guarantees a safe landing.

Rudnick avoided any eye contact and pretended to be studying the papers in his folder. You guys didn’t hear me the last time, did you? he said. I wanted scenarios for the three-month window, and you’re telling me to wait eight months. No deal. Baisley glared at him, but Rudnick pretended not to notice.

Now Sykes stepped in and said, "There’s more, John. If you miss, and note that I say you, not we, the probe will hit the softest area of the asteroid belt, which is much less stable than the rest of it. The gravity pull there is greater from Mars than from Jupiter. That increases the likelihood of some of the rocks breaking out of orbit."

What size rocks?

Mostly smaller, two to six meters across, but there are a few that go up to as much as five kilometers wide.

So what can five kilos do?

"I’ll tell you what a five-kilo rock did do a long time ago, said Baisley. It took out the dinosaurs and wiped out half the earth’s population. And it can happen again. We need to be careful. I don’t care how much pressure you’re getting; you’ve got to wait."

I’ve got to do no such thing. You guys have given me your assessment, and I simply don’t agree.

You’re being reckless, said Sykes.

I’ve got full NASA approval to go ahead, and I’m going.

NASA reports to the White House, said Roberts, and if you insist on going forward, we’re going to take this to the President, and believe me—we can get to him. He’s already been briefed. This could represent a national emergency, and we think you’re flirting with danger.

You can do what you like. I’m going ahead. This meeting is over. Rudnick stuffed several papers in his briefcase and snapped it shut.

Sykes and Roberts, frustrated, stood and quickly left the room, but Baisley lingered. When Rudnick finally stood up, Baisley grabbed his left arm in a paralyzing grasp. Rudnick winced and dropped his briefcase, which popped open as it hit the floor. Baisley continued to squeeze Rudnick’s arm. Listen to me, you idiot. Marty and Bill are nice guys. I’m not. You screw this up, and I’ll bury your sorry ass.

Baisley released his grip and walked out as Rudnick bent to retrieve his papers.

Chapter 3

FLASH POINT

As Baisley, Sykes, and Roberts had predicted, the Mars probe missed by more than one thousand miles and crashed into the asteroid belt. Rudnick was now franticly trying to save his reputation while Baisley and company were trying to save the planet from a deadly asteroid shower.

Marty, did you ever get to the President? asked Baisley.

Not quite. I got to his chief of staff, Randy Barr. We talked several times, and he assured me he took the information to the President. Problem is—Rudnick, that scheming bastard, had most everyone in his pocket by the time I made my pitch. He had NASA brass convinced that this Mars probe would be a cakewalk. The small asteroid is going to hit tonight. Our data shows a crash site away from any significant population. Let’s hope that holds.

"You also mentioned a much larger rock. Do Barr and the President know about that?"

They do, and when this small rock hits, any credibility Rudnick might have had goes out the window.

And we’ve got eighteen days to launch an intercept for number two?

Roberts glanced at his watch.

Just about; eighteen days, eleven hours, and twelve minutes from right now.

*     *     *

The Naples, Florida, airport is north of where the four men were sitting, in Mike Bradley’s side yard, and yet the approaching light was south, moving rapidly westward. If it was a plane, it was dangerously off course.

It took a lot to draw the boys’ attention from their Tuesday-evening poker game, but all four kept staring at the light, mesmerized by its speed and intensity.

I don’t see any airplane, said Bradley. Is there something going on down at the marina, Tommy? Fireworks, maybe? Tommy Reiser was the handyman at Ray’s Marina and Bradley’s longtime compadre.

Not that I know of.

Well, maybe it’s just some heat lightning.

Just then the sky exploded in a blinding flash and turned night to day for two or three long minutes. It was followed by an explosion and a wind that literally whistled as it moved north through the mangroves to where the four men were gathered.

Holy shit, if that was heat lightning, it’s the biggest bang of lightning I ever saw, said Bradley. That had to be a plane crash; ain’t no other explanation. See what you can find out, Tommy, and give me a call tomorrow.

Chapter 4

MORNING BECOMES ELECTRIC

It was uncommonly cold for southwest Florida as Mike Bradley stumbled out of his house, a double-wide prefab, hung over from the previous night’s card game. The mist that usually settled farther down at the Meadows trailer park was right outside his door; the mist was as strange as the uncommon cold.

Tommy Reiser would call about noon, so Mike wasn’t unduly concerned as he cranked up his Whaler and set out to check his lobster traps.

He had six traps and checked them all, every day except Sunday. Mornings were reserved for his traps, reading the local paper, and puttering around his vegetable garden. Afternoons he did carpentry or masonry work for his fancy neighbors over in Port Royal. This is what his life had become since he retired from the military shortly after Desert Storm with two pieces of shrapnel still lodged in his left thigh.

Only two of the traps had lobsters, two to add to the seven he already had in his freezer. Maybe I’ll have some of the Meadows guys up for a lobster fest over the weekend. It was midmorning when he finally got back to his dock, yet the mist was as thick as when he’d first set out. But now it had some substance to it, like a fine ash, and it smelled like bird shit.

No phone call yet from Reiser, so he made breakfast and then settled in with the Naples Daily News. One car bomb in Kabul, two in Baghdad, and a bus blown up in the Gaza Strip. Same old shit—just reaffirmed why he left it all to settle in south Florida.

By twelve thirty Tommy Reiser still hadn’t called, so after packing a small lunch, Mike went off to a carpentry job he’d promised to one of the nicer guys over at the port.

The job took a little longer than expected, but he was back at his place by three in the afternoon. Still no call from Tommy. What the hell is he doing?

It was now four o’clock, and Mike began to worry, so he headed over to the marina to see for himself why he hadn’t heard from his old buddy.

Down at the marina, it looked like business as usual: boats going in and out, guys getting gas, repairs going on, but no Tommy. Hey, any of you guys seen Tommy Reiser?

A couple of guys said they’d seen him early that morning, about nine, when he went off in his runabout, but he hadn’t come back, at least not to the marina. They figured he might have run up to Mike’s place. No, not today. Mike looked in every shed on the property, up in the sail loft, walked around every inch of the grounds, and even looked inside some of the bigger boats, where Tommy might have been scraping or painting. Finally he called Jack and Teddy, the other Meadows guys. They hadn’t seen him either.

As Mike was about to get in his car, one of the guys he’d first spoken with tapped him on the shoulder and said, I saw Tommy come back about eleven with another guy. Quick visit, in and out, less than ten minutes.

Why didn’t you say so earlier?

Because the boss is a prick, and I didn’t want to get Tommy into any trouble.

What did the other guy look like?

Strange-looking dude, kind of bald with a ponytail, not very big, same size as Tommy.

That’s it? Nothing else?

Not really; he wore this pink visor, which I thought was strange for a guy like him.

Watta you mean, a guy like him?

I don’t know; he was tough lookin’, and he walked with a limp. Sorry, that’s all I can tell you.

You’ve told me plenty. Thanks.

Chapter 5

AFTERGLOW

Naples Daily News:

An unexpected lightning strike brightened our skies last night. This strange flash lasted for almost a minute and came from an otherwise clear evening sky, frightening some residents down near Rookery Bay. Some insist that it was a flying saucer and that aliens were seen scrambling through the bushes near Misty Meadows Park. Not to worry, folks. Lightning comes in many forms—some quick, some slow—and I’ll stake my reputation there were no aliens.

Tim Thomas, science editor

Marty Roberts and Bill Sykes were having breakfast at their hotel, the Marriott Renaissance, across Key Bridge from Georgetown, only twenty minutes from both the Pentagon and NASA’s DC offices. Roberts had achieved a powerful assurance from Randy Barr: if any asteroids were dislodged by an overshoot, he and Sykes would assume responsibility for any and all countermeasures. Roberts’s secret meetings with Barr had convinced Barr that the most likely scenario would be a minor impact from a small rock, followed by a much larger asteroid, destination undetermined. Sykes knew this, of course, but Rudnick did not. They had been working feverishly with Baisley’s people, plotting the probable path of the large rock, intercept angles, size of payload, blast positioning, and, most crucial of all, timing of the launch.

The predicted disaster had happened, and now Roberts and Sykes were having their last supper—in this case breakfast—before diving into the task of saving the planet.

Bill, this hotel is great except for the breakfast buffet.

I love buffets.

Go for it. I’ll pass.

You’re just spoiled, said Sykes. Any calls?

Not yet. I wonder who’ll be first.

Toss-up, either Matt or Rudnick.

My money’s on Matt. Just then Roberts’s cell phone rang. It was Matt.

Marty, our friends in southwest Florida had a little bump last night.

"So I hear. When can you get here?’

I’ve got a few things to do. How about eleven thirty?

Perfect. Oh, be sure to bring about two weeks’ worth of clothes. We’ll be going to Houston from here.

Already packed. By the way, I’ll need my nephew on this.

I figured. What’s his name?

Just ‘nephew’ is fine. See you in a while.

Safe trip.

By the time Marty had hung up, Sykes was returning from the buffet line with a second helping. That was Matt? Sykes asked.

Yeah, he’ll be here in a couple of hours with his nephew.

The smart, forgetful kid?

Yup, the same one that got Matt in trouble a few years ago.

The desk clerk came over to their table and said, Mr. Roberts, you just received a call from a Mr. Rudnick. Seemed very anxious to speak with you.

Thank you. I’m sure he’ll call me on my cell.

He said he’d forgotten that cell number and asked that you please call him right away.

Thanks again. I’ll do that. The clerk nodded and returned to the front desk.

Think our friend is panicking, Marty?

"Oh yeah. If I know him, it’s now his chestnuts and our fire. Let’s see."

Roberts leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

Tired?

Not really; just trying to compose myself before I call that idiot.

The restaurant had pretty much emptied out, so the two men had time and room to talk. They were sitting in a far corner near the window, as private as it could get. Roberts called Rudnick, who picked up on the first ring. Marty, good to hear from you. How’s it going?

It’s going, John … you called me.

Yes, indeed, I’d like you and Bill over here right away to go over last night and our plan for this new rock.

There’s been a change, John. You’d better come over here.

What change?

I’ll fill you in when you get here.

If you say so. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.

Rudnick could have been there in fifteen minutes, but he took his time. He sensed that things were not going his way, but he didn’t plan to cave in. He wanted to believe that he was still in charge even though Randy Barr wasn’t taking his calls. This colossal blunder was entirely his fault, and he knew it. Now there were pieces to pick up, and he needed help. There was also a possible Senate committee hearing, which would have him on the hot seat with the very senators who had encouraged him to go forward with the launch, now asking him why he couldn’t plan better. He walked into the hotel precisely thirty minutes after the call. The desk clerk was busy with someone complaining about the bill. He paced for a few minutes and then busted in on the conversation. Sorry to interrupt, but I’m meeting Mr. Roberts and Mr. Sykes.

Conference room two, third floor.

The elevator was slow, only adding to his aggravation. Sykes and Roberts were already seated, going over some computer printouts. Hey, guys. Sorry I’m late.

Have a seat, John, said Sykes. Roberts didn’t look up for a minute, engrossed in the data in front of him. Marty then said, Thanks for coming over. We’ve got a couple of problems, but you already know that. He looked for a reaction from Rudnick, but there wasn’t any.

Then Rudnick said, Right, Marty, we’re on the same page here. I’d like you guys to get on down to Florida and sort out that small strike we had last night. Get as much data as you can, and keep me updated so I can keep the NASA folks up to speed. If he was intimidated by Baisley at the last meeting, he tried not to show it. This was more bravado, but he had to try.

"John, I’ll get right to the point. The reason Randy’s not taking your calls is that you’re no longer in charge. I don’t want to rehash old issues or beat the proverbial dead horse, but this was a major screwup. And this was against the advice and warnings of both Bill and me, and Baisley. Randy has put us in complete charge, responsible only to him, and therefore the President. Yes, we’re going to find out exactly what kind of rock landed in Florida, and we will launch a countermeasure against the second, much larger, rock. We’ll keep you advised as a courtesy, but Bill and I will be making all the decisions from here on with Baisley as monitor. That’s it in a nutshell."

"And just what role am I supposed to play?"

I’m afraid none. I would suggest you spend your time preparing for a congressional hearing, which I’m sure will be convened shortly.

Rudnick didn’t say a word. He simply got up from his chair and left the conference room.

Wow, Marty, you sure were tough on him.

It’s not my style, Bill, but we cannot, under any circumstance, have him involved. The guy’s a loose cannon. Furthermore, I still don’t trust him. He’ll do and say anything to anybody who will listen, to protect himself. You can be sure we haven’t heard the last of him.

Chapter 6

BYE-BYE, BIRDIE

The tour boats leave every evening an hour before sunset from Tin City, one of the oldest areas in what has come to be called Old Naples. And Tin City is just what the name implies, a collection of old tin structures at the Route 41 bridge, restored to meet current structural codes while still retaining the charm of what Naples was in the days when Thomas Edison had a winter home there, and before it became the quiet alternative to Florida’s hurried and overpopulated east coast.

The evening cruise follows a route down the bay past the mansions of Port Royal, finally anchoring near the outlet to the Gulf of Mexico, to watch the beautiful sunset. Some say on a perfectly clear night you can see a green flash just as the sun drops below the horizon. The added attraction is to watch the birds flying in just after sunset to two special islands where egrets, pelicans, pipers, and even a few hawks spend the night in perfect harmony.

Tonight’s cruise left the dock right on time, slowly backing out of its slip and making a U-turn to head down the James River into Rookery Bay. Like every other night, it was packed with families and older couples, most on the upper deck, where the views are better. And as usual, the crowds were friendly, exchanging greetings.

Nice night.

Sure is. Where you from?

Michigan. How about you?

Illinois.

How nice; my sister lives in Springfield.

Isn’t that nice? We’re from Decatur.

And so it went until they exhausted the pleasantries and finally returned to their own families and friends.

Like most other nights, it was clear, and the boat anchored—idled really—just at the mouth of the inlet from the Gulf, where they were joined by six or seven other private boats, all waiting for another beautiful sunset and maybe, just maybe, the elusive green flash.

The Springfield lady spoke up. I never asked you where you were from in Michigan. Excuse my bad manners.

Oh, not at all; we’re from Ann Arbor. Go, Michigan.

Right. Big Ten champions last year.

Yes, indeed, but Illinois didn’t do too badly, as I recall.

We’re getting better; got a new coach, you know.

More about football, more about each other’s families, and that was that. Midwesterners take a long time to warm up or to go beyond those two subjects; occasionally bowling or bridge is thrown in.

There were a few wispy clouds on the horizon, but it was still clear enough for a spectacular sunset that elicited the usual oohs and aahs. The captain spoke over the loudspeaker. "Okay, folks, I’ll turn us around and back up a little so we can watch the nightly nesting of all the beautiful Florida birds. The two islands you see off to our left will soon be loaded with hundreds of birds. Most will be flying in from the east and the north, so keep your eyes peeled. We’ll let you know as