The Autopsy of Planet Earth Part One

By R.J. Emery (R.J. Eastwood)

When a single extraterrestrial arrives on Planet Earth claiming his race created mankind only to have abandoned them early in their evolution, U.S. politician Gabriel Ferro and Dr. Catherine Blake are the first to the scene. Soon, they are ensnared in not only a CIA/NSA conspiracy but a world beyond their wildest imagination, a world beyond Earth, beyond the Milky Way.In an effort to learn why the aliens have come at all, Gabriel and Dr. Blake venture to where no humans have gone before. Will the alien's arrival save Earth from the destruction caused by the very society that relies on it for survival? Can humankind's missteps, blindly repeated for millennia, be reversed? With uncanny insight, The Autopsy of Planet Earth delves into human consciousness at breakneck speed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Indies United Publishing House, LLC
• Release date: Oct 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9781644563700

R.J. Emery (R.J. Eastwood)

About Robert J. Emery (Pen Name R. J. Eastwood)Member Directors Guild of America, American Association of Writers & Authors. The National Association of authors & Editors.During his film and television career he has written, produced, and directed feature motion pictures and television documentaries and well as national television commercials and industrial films. He created and produced the award-winning ninety-one-episode television series The Directors, the most extensive examination of film directors and the behind-the-scenes making of feature films. His award-winning four-part mini-series, The Genocide Factor, played to rave reviews on PBS stations across the country, and his 2007 MSNBC documentary For God & Country: A Marine Sniper's Story was honored with both the National Headliner Award and the Cine Special Jury Award.Mr. Emery, who writes novels under the pen name R. J. Eastwood, has won over seventy-five industry awards including seven years in a row at The New York Festivals, two Golden Eagles from The Chicago International Film & Television Festival, top honors at HoustonFest, and the Best Dramatic Feature Film at the Los Angeles Angel City Film Festival for his Lifetime Movie Channel feature film Swimming Upstream.Mr. Emery's 2017 novel, The Autopsy of Planet Earth, was awarded the 2017 Author's Circle Novel of Excellence for Fiction, the 2018 Readers' Favorite Award for Best Fiction, and the 2018 Book Talk Radio Book of the Year, and the 2019. His current novel, Midnight Black - The Purge was published in February of 2019 has won the Author's Circle Novel of Excellence Pulp Den Award and.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The year is wherever your Imagination takes you

November 2nd, Foja Mountain Range,

Papua New Guinea

As they boarded the single-engine Cessna Skymaster at Papua New Guinea’s Jackson

Airport, ominous dark clouds were rolling in from the West. On board was Dr. B.D. Sanjaya, a prominent archaeologist with the Indonesian National Centre for Archaeological Research, and his assistants, Timoty Budiman and Reza Darmali. The flight took them 6,000 feet above sea level to a remote dirt airstrip in the Mamberamo basin just below the mist-shrouded Foja Mountain Range in Papua’s eastern province. There they switched to a twenty-year-old Bell 206 Jet Ranger helicopter piloted by an elderly Indonesian man whose craggy face and stoic expression resembled a rough-cut stone sculpture. They took off in a light but steady rain.

An hour into the flight, Timoty shouted over the din of the engine. You’re sure you know the spot?

Dr. Sanjaya held up a hand-drawn map and shrugged. This is all we have to go by.

Soon they were skimming the treetops over the remote Birds Head Peninsula. The jungle below looked ominous and all but impenetrable, raising the question, would they find the designated clearing.

Reza was the first to spot a small smudge of open ground about a quarter-mile ahead. There! I see a clearing just beyond those trees!

The old pilot glanced at his copy of the map. Smiling, his eyes went to Sanjaya, who gave the pilot a thumb’s up. Once over the open area, the pilot cautiously circled the spot three times before attempting a descent in light fog. Down the narrow chute they went until the skids gently settled on the soggy ground. The light but steady rain continued.

As they removed the last of their gear from the aircraft, something caught Timoty’s attention. A short, elderly, dark-skinned man, sporting a full white beard, appeared from the edge of the surrounding forest. Under his rain slicker, a multicolored print shirt hung loosely over khaki shorts. In his right hand, he held a menacing two-foot machete.

Dr. Sanjaya, we have company.

Sanjaya followed Timoty’s gaze. Ah, that must be Bayu.

Reza spied the machete. "You think it’s our guy?"

Never met him. He sent me this map with these coordinates and said to meet him here on this day at approximately this hour. Sanjaya glanced at the handwritten map and grinned. Pretty good directions.

Turning to the helicopter pilot, Sanjaya raised a hand above his head, made a wide circular motion, and pointed to the jungle. The old pilot acknowledged with a disinterested nod and lifted the helicopter skyward. Within seconds he was over the tree line and out of sight.

Something caught Timoty’s eye.

The man Sanjaya had identified as Bayu trotted toward them while calling out in his native language. "Salamat Sian, saya teman. Dalton! Apa Kabar, Dr. Sanjaya?"

Sanjaya waved. "Saya baik-baik saja, terima kasih."

Bayou approached and enthusiastically shook Sanjaya’s hand. "Saya ialah Sanjaya."

Reza scratched at the back of his head. I don’t recognize the dialect.

Not many do. It’s specific to the local Kweba tribe. Bayu is their chief. He welcomed us and I introduced myself. Sanjaya motioned to his assistants. Reza, Timoty.

Bayu smiled and half-bowed. Reza, Timoty. He tapped his chest. Bayu.

"Dimana adalah kebun hutan?" Sanjaya said. I asked him where the secret place is.

Pointing to the jungle tree line, Bayu grinned. "Pintu musuk lewat sana."

Okay, gentlemen. We follow Chief Bayu.

It was slow going through the dense primeval forest. Bayu slashed at small bamboo trees, thick thorn-covered underbrush, and menacing low-hanging vines. An hour later, after slogging through muddy streams, dodging the occasional snake, and swatting at swarming insects, they broke through to a small clearing thick with fog.

Bayu tapped Sanjaya’s arm and pointed to the dense jungle. Di luar kabut adalah keajaiban tempat.

"He says the Magic Place is through there."

Doesn’t look too inviting, B.D.

No, it doesn’t, Timoty. Stay alert.

They followed Bayu into the fog. Bugs and flies swarmed around them. The more they swatted at them, the more aggressively they attacked. But oddly, the further they advanced the fog the rain began to dissipate, the insects vanished, and the humidity and temperature dropped to a comfortable level.

Bayu abruptly stopped and listened. From this position, they could hear the faint sound of rushing water. Bayu motioned for them to wait, then took a dozen steps forward before stopping again. Raising both arms to eye level with his palms face up, he said, "Ini adalah tempat qaip!" Then in halting English, "The… magic… place." He turned and waved to the others to join him. When they reached his side the fog and mist beyond was completely gone.

What they saw left them speechless.

There in the middle of this primeval forest was either a grand mirage or something very real that should not have been in a remote Indonesian jungle.

Dr. Sanjaya sucked in a quick breath, Oh my god!

Timoty and Reza stood dumbfounded.

There were no words to describe what lay before them.

Chapter 2

Three months later, February 3rd,

Berrien County, Michigan

If retired land surveyor Philip Madden had any clue of what he would stumble on that day during his daily jog he would have chosen to stay home. It was twenty minutes past four in the afternoon with the temperature hovering around a crisp 44 degrees. His route was always along Old McIntosh Road which ran north and south along a remote farm meadow. As he jogged along, a sudden sharp flash of light struck the right side of his face.

Raising a protective hand, he yelped. What in the hell was that?

At first, he thought it was the late afternoon sun streaking past the leafless branches of the giant elms that lined both sides of the road. But it couldn’t have been the sun, he reasoned, it was over his shoulder on his left, the light had struck him on his right.

Curious, he retraced his steps, and WHAM, the narrow, bright beam struck him again. Damn it all to hell?

He cast an anxious eye up and down the road but saw nothing unusual. Then, turning to the vast meadow on his right, something in the distance caught his attention. A large object was poised at a point where the meadow sloped sharply downward. As much of it he could see was round and shiny and didn’t look like any farm machinery he had ever seen.

He stepped back again to where the light had struck him, and WHAM, it hit him again. What the?

Looking again to the object in the meadow, he assumed the sun was reflecting off whatever that shiny object was out there. His curiosity got the best of him. Stepping off the road down into the drainage ditch then up to the barbed wire fence, he slipped between the two strands and began trekking across the fallow field. He noticed that about a couple of hundred feet or so of hard winter ground leading to the object had been chewed up. Before he could get close enough to what lay on the ridge, his right foot sunk into a gopher hole twisting his ankle hard to the right.

He cried out in pain and fell flat on his face. Jesus H. Christ!

His glasses had flown off into the brown, withered grass. He pulled his foot out of the hole. His ankle hurt but nothing felt broken. Rising slowly, he brushed himself off and began searching for his glasses.

On his second step, he heard a sickening crunch and a snap. Son of a bitch!

Scooping up the spectacles from beneath his left foot, he found the right lens shattered and the metal frame twisted. Wonderful, just wonderful!

Straightening the damaged frame as best he could he slipped them on. With only one good lens his right eye was out of focus, but he forged ahead. As he neared the spot where the object lay on the slope, he got his first good look at what was there. His eyes bloomed and his mouth opened wide like he was going to scream—instead, it came out as a hard whisper.

Holy shit!

Back peddling fast, he stumbled and landed flat on his butt. Shoving a shaking hand into his jacket pocket, he pulled out his cell phone and tapped in 911.

Chapter 3

Thursday, February 23rd, Georgetown, Washington, D.C.

Twenty days after the Michigan jogger’s discovery

At 5:30 AM thirty-eight-year-old Gabriel Javier Ferro, the lone offspring of Cuban immigrants Isabella and Javier Ferro, stepped out of the shower. His piercing deep-set brown eyes and thick brown hair topped a physically fit six-foot-one frame. Since his unfortunate and painful divorce, he had become one of Washington’s most eligible bachelors, a title he neither dwelled on nor took advantage of. More often than not he found it embarrassing.

On this cold February morning, fate would intervene in Gabriel’s life in a way he would soon wish it had not.

Standing naked in the well-appointed kitchen of his fourth-floor Georgetown condominium, he proceeded with his morning ritual—a cup of black coffee and a cream cheese smeared poppy seed bagel. A casual observer would take note of this orderly kitchen and correctly deduce that no serious culinary creations took place there.

Coffee and bagel in hand, he entered his cream-colored living room with its shiny, dark Brazilian hardwood floors, brown leather sofa, matching chair, and glass-topped coffee and end tables. A painting of an ancient three-mast sailing vessel navigating rough seas hung over the sofa, a 52-inch flat-screen TV was mounted on the wall to the left of the glass patio doors. The room looked more like a carefully decorated builder’s model than a bachelor pad.

Seemingly oblivious to his nakedness, he paused by the patio doors. Light snow yawed lazily to the already snow-packed Wisconsin Avenue seven floors below. At the far end of the living room, he passed through French doors to a small windowless study. This room looked lived in. The left wall held a dozen framed photos of him posing with political bigwigs and famous entertainers and athletes. Directly over the desk, a picture of his parents hung next to an autographed photo of United States President William Jordan Conrad. The inscription read, ‘To my trusted third hand … your loyal friend, William.’ Books filled a four-shelf bookcase against the right wall. Many of them were the scribblings of the famous and infamous that at one time or another dominated the Washington political scene. On the floor was a regulation basketball, a pair of well-worn sneakers, a crumpled dark blue T-shirt, and a baseball cap. The latter sported the Washington Nationals logo.

Setting the bagel and coffee down, he eased into the black leather chair and winced. An old college basketball injury—a posterolateral disc bulge in combination with facet arthropathy of his lumber at L4 L5—continued to dog him.

Leaning back and folding his arms across his chest, he allowed his thoughts to wander back to the final days of the presidential election. Despite his age, early polls predicted seventy-three-year-old two-term Senator William Conrad was the odds-on favorite to win. And win he did with 302 electoral votes. Conrad’s first official act as president-elect was to appoint Gabriel his Chief of Staff, one of the youngest to ever serve in that key position.

At the beginning of the presidential campaign, Gabriel had begun keeping a journal in a brown pocket-size notebook. It was to be a cache of his private thoughts and observations, which he hoped to turn into a book one day. On election eve, while in their suite at the Chase Park Plaza Hotel in St. Louis, Missouri, President-Elect Conrad’s hometown, he took Gabriel aside and they spoke privately. As soon as Conrad left to deliver his victory speech in the ballroom, Gabriel entered those comments in his journal as best as he remembered them.

Gabriel, I see it as my duty to cut open and lay bare a flawed and dreadfully dysfunctional government, not only the visible one but those anonymous, greedy scoundrels that influence government policies with the complicity of corrupt politicians. President James Madison said it best. ‘The truth is that all men having power ought to be mistrusted.’ I'm just the son-of-a-bitch to tackle the problem, son. I have nothing to lose, I have zero political ambitions beyond the next four years. So, put your hardhat on son, it’s going to be one hell of a bumpy ride.

Twenty-seven long months of rough sailing through mine-laden political waters had elapsed since President Conrad had made those remarks. With Conrad’s comments still fresh in his mind, Gabriel placed his fingers on the computer keyboard and began documenting his latest observations.

Working with the White House and working in the White House is akin to being shipped off to a foreign planet. We suddenly found ourselves making decisions that would affect an entire nation, not to mention the rest of the world. When we took over, the political atmosphere inside the Beltway was dark and mean-spirited to the point of cruelty. Unfortunately, not much has changed. It’s worse than it looks and worse than it was. The opposition party is stonewalling President Conrad at every turn, and there is a total disregard for the welfare of citizens beyond what is required to secure votes, while the masses continue to cling to dreams no longer within their reach. As for me, I’m at the peak of my game standing toe-to-toe with the man in charge. So, what’s with these thoughts of doom and gloom that shadow me? Have I allowed myself to be hypnotized by political possibilities, but blind to political truth? Sometimes when I’m alone, I flush all the day-to-day political garbage from my brain. Those fleeting moments are liberating almost to the point of euphoria. But it is a dangerous mindset I embrace, for it could cause me to reject the convoluted rules of politics and fail the task at hand—to stay in the game and fight on at the President’s side.

He stopped typing, cupped his hands behind his head, and pondered what he had written. Nice going Ferro, negative introspection never got the job done. He thought for a moment of a quote that would best describe his feelings. It was a habit he had picked up from President Conrad who often used quotes to make a point. Ah, got it. Positioning his fingers over the keyboard, he continued.

Russian novelist Fyodor Dostoevsky said it best: Neither man nor nation can survive without a sublime idea.

Well, Fyodor, I fear humanity has no new ideas. I pray President Conrad does. I’m not sure why, but daily I question if I am the best person for this job.

Silently, he reread what he had written, then began again.

What are we if not…?

Deleting the line, he replaced it.

Where is humanity going? When will we know we have arrived? The journey has been long and arduous. When and how will it end?

Gabriel had attended the University of Missouri Law School on a partial academic scholarship. There he received a combined law degree and a master’s in political science. In his final year, he was awarded a prized internship in the office of then Missouri Governor, William Jordan Conrad. Conrad’s reputation was that of a rough-and-tumble, straightforward, speak-your-mind persona. He was legendary for his skill in twisting political arms without deflating overblown egos. His shock of mostly unkempt snow-white hair reminded Gabriel of an old mangy lion.

Fueled by the demands, drama, and perils of politics, Gabriel excelled at his work. His offbeat and sometimes brash sense of humor appealed to Governor Conrad, and the two men quickly bonded.

You have a questionable future as a bad comedian, kid… the governor once said to Gabriel, … but a promising one in politics. So, allow me to pass on this single piece of advice. Someone once said—I don’t remember who—that governing requires one to arrive ready to get their hands dirty, not bring dirty hands to the job. Remember that and you just may survive this cockfight arena called politics.

Upon graduation, Gabriel was offered the position of junior legal aid to Governor Conrad. He readily accepted. When Conrad ran for the U.S. Senate and won, he appointed Gabriel his chief of staff. Gabriel, you and I are going to Washington to fight in the biggest cockfight arena of them all.

The morning following the presidential Inauguration, President Conrad had requested Gabriel join him in the Oval Office at 6:00 AM. Arriving five minutes early, Gabriel knocked, but there was no response. Entering quietly, he found the President peering out over the snow-covered Rose Garden. The new day’s sun, rising in a clear azure sky, illuminated the treetops, casting long shadows to the west and dappling the iconic room with splashes of deeply saturated colors.

Gabriel greeted the President with, Good morning Governor, good morning senator… good morning Mr. President.

Conrad smiled broadly. God, can you believe this? You, the son of Cuban immigrants, and me, the son of a dirt-poor Missouri farmer, standing here like we own the bloody damn place. He chuckled low. Hell, let’s make lots of important decisions before someone makes us out to be frauds.

Mr. President, I want to begin this journey by thanking you for the confidence you’ve shown in me.

You earned it, Gabriel, you earned it.

Thank you, sir.

Strolling to the highly polished presidential desk, Conrad ran the tips of his fingers lightly over its surface as if somehow that would link him to its storied history. Lowering himself to his chair, he washed a hand over his face and sat quietly for a long moment. Finally, as if speaking only to himself, he said, We are mere mortals, flawed in so many ways, and yet somehow the human spirit drives us on. Damn, I wish I could remember who said that gem. He went silent again for a few beats as if far too many priorities were flooding his brain all at once. Rising slowly, he sauntered toward Gabriel, shoulders bent, his steps measured. There’s a political crisis on the horizon that could very well lead to a breakdown of constitutional government and our democratic structure. So, it falls to us now to reverse the zigzag course mankind has chosen to travel and restore human equality, dignity, and freedom, and it has to start right here in the USA. I’m going to take a good run at doing just that. Always remember, Gabriel, a goal without a plan is just a wish, and I have a plan. Okay, enough of my pontificating. Give me another ten minutes alone before the cockfight begins.

Yes, Mr. President… and welcome to the White House, sir.

Chapter 4

Now, all these months later, Gabriel sat at his West Wing desk sipping his third cup of coffee. He was nursing a lack of sleep hangover caused by his inability to turn his brain off, which functioned like a high-speed computer chip always seeking rapid solutions, even when he was sleeping.

His name echoed off the walls, and it jolted him back to reality.

Gabriel? His secretary called over the intercom.

Yes, Betty?

Are you daydreaming in there again?

"I remind you that I am the chief of staff to the President of these United States. If I wish to daydream, I will daydream."

Lord knows I need reminding, Betty derided.

Betty Spanning was an attractive widow in her mid-sixties who had been Gabriel’s administrative aide ever since President Conrad was a Senator. Childless, she hovered over Gabriel like the son she never had.

You have a meeting with the Honorable Senators Haskell and Lawrence in ten minutes. Look sharp, my boy.

Gabriel frowned and bobbed his head forward. The joy boys!

Show some respect for two aging, if not esteemed, members of Congress, young man.

Thirty minutes after the Senators had departed, a CIA courier showed up with a parcel addressed to Gabriel. His signature was required before the courier would surrender the contents of the pouch—a standard 9 by 11-inch tan manila envelope marked Gabriel Ferro, Chief of Staff, White House. It was stamped Confidential/Eyes Only. Assuming it was routine statistics he was to brief the President on, he placed the envelope aside and continued blue-lining a draft of a take-them-to-the-woodshed tongue lashing the President was to deliver to Wall Street executives at Georgetown University the following day. Fifteen minutes elapsed before he turned his attention back to the CIA package. Slicing open the manila envelope, out came a standard white business envelope with his name handwritten on it.

He emptied the contents onto his desk—out tumbled two identification cards and a wallet-sized photo. What the hell is this?

The first card he examined was a driver’s license bearing his photo, but it was issued to Andrew Constanza of Atlanta, Georgia. Someone over at CIA playing games with me?

He was more perplexed when he examined the second card, which was a Centers for Disease Control and Prevention ID issued to Dr. Andrew Constanza, Director of Biological Control bearing his photo. Now completely confused, he picked up the dog-eared faded photograph and turned it over.

His expression widened in disbelief.

The photo was of him and Owen Jennings, his college roommate, lifelong best friend, and a senior CIA psychological interrogator. They were standing in front of the six iconic columns that once supported the portico of Academic Hall, the first building to be erected on the campus of the University of Missouri. Flipping the photo over, he recognized the handwritten, faded notation—Gabriel and Owen, University of Missouri.

Searching the envelope again, he found a folded sheet of paper. Unfolding it, his eyes first shot to the signature at the bottom. It was signed Charlie Stud, the college nickname Gabriel had bestowed on Owen Jennings for his uncanny ability to attract the opposite sex. His eyes zipped back to the top and he began reading.

Gabriel, I have come face-to-face with the future—it is terrifying beyond words, beyond all human comprehension.

It was such an audacious first line, he read it again before continuing.

Gabriel, I have come face-to-face with the future—it is terrifying beyond words, beyond all human apprehension. You must come immediately. You’re the only one I can trust with what is the most terrifying threat to world security we have ever encountered. At 8:00 AM tomorrow, you’re booked on AA flight 2286 out of Dulles to Flagstaff. Pick up a pre-paid ticket at the AA counter using the enclosed ID. Someone will meet you at ground transportation in Flagstaff.

The last line was underlined.

Imperative you tell no one of your destination, not even the president. Please, Gabriel, if you trust me, now is the time to prove it.

Mystified, Gabriel read the brief note again for any clue he may have overlooked. He could find none. He said low, Damn it, Owen, what am I supposed to make of this? What could be so threatening, so secret to cause me to sneak off like a thief in the night?

For a few brief seconds, Gabriel’s thoughts flashed back to college and how quickly he and Jennings had bonded like inseparable twins. Post-graduation, Gabriel stayed with politics, while Jennings pursued a career as a psychologist until the CIA claimed him as one of their own. It was Jennings, the perennial bachelor, who stood as Gabriel’s best man at his wedding and later as Gabriel’s rock during his painful divorce.

Reaching for a slip of paper, he jotted down the name Owen Jennings. Betty, he called over the intercom.

Betty stuck her head in the doorway. You bellowed?

Call David Flagler at CIA. I need to know where this agent is. If I call, he’ll make a big deal out of it.

So, you want me to call?

Right.

And tell him what?

Well, tell him… wait, I need to think this through.

Give it to me, I’ll figure something out. I’m nothing if not discreet.

Gabriel handed her the slip of paper. Glancing at the name, Betty’s face lit up with recognition. It's your friend, Owen Jennings?

Yes, yes, it’s Owen.

When’s the last time you saw him?

Gabriel shot her a keen look. I need the info while I’m still young.

Okay, okay, I’m on it.

And be discreet.

Leaning back, he read Jennings’s note twice more, but the abbreviated message was simply too vague to glean any more than what had been written. Damn you, Owen, damn you, he murmured.

He waited seven long minutes before his