The Coming

By Dan Coffman

Shane Reid is a retired history professor who normally divides his time between Chicago Cubs baseball games and debunking reports of unidentified flying objects or close encounters of the third kind. This routine and his perspective on extraterrestrial life change dramatically when a respected ufologist asks him to assist in an investigation of five alleged alien artifacts. The ufologist's tragic death leaves Shane as the only person able to prevent the destruction of Earth by a mysterious miniature moon coming from nowhere. Fortuitously, Phoebe Brahman is drawn into Shane's quest because of her unique ability to solve puzzles and break secret codes. Using an ancient observatory, antediluvian technology, and hundred-year-old encryption techniques, this bookworm turned adventuress contacts an alien race for help only to discover their unexpectedly sinister intentions. The duo's efforts are imperiled by Drake Calder, the head of a clandestine government agency committed to keeping knowledge of aliens from the general public, and a malevolent religious cult that believes aliens are demons preparing the way for Satan to harvest the souls of mankind. Shane and Phoebe need a miracle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781646709885

Book preview

Chicago, Illinois

Something otherworldly was coming! Ever since she was a child, Phoebe Brahman had experienced powerful but often vague premonitions. Without exception, they had always preceded a momentous event including the 9/11 terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center, the deadly magnitude 7.0 Haitian earthquake, and the unsolved disappearance of an AirAsia passenger plane. At this moment, sitting at her kitchen table, she had the strange sensation of observing the night sky in another world. Her mind’s eye struggled to give definition to an approaching object masked by a luminous faintly colored corona. She could just about…

Cubs win! Cubs win! The radio announcer’s screaming jarred Phoebe back from her clairvoyant journey. The Cubs were trailing three to one with two outs and two on in the bottom of the ninth when the pinch hitter slammed a walk-off home run onto Waveland Avenue.

Phoebe’s brief euphoria over her team’s victory was quickly replaced by a troubling undercurrent of disappointment that she had just been denied some critical glimpse into the future.

*****

Jumping up from his prized box seat behind the Cubs’ dugout at Wrigley Field, Shane Reid joined the other forty thousand fans celebrating the walk-off home run with a raucous rendition of their victory song. Outside the stadium, a wave of pedestrians swept him back to his nearby Clark Avenue condo amid chants of World Series.

Shane turned on the evening news. His sparsely furnished living room was dominated by a wall of electronic gizmos, anchored by a seventy-inch flat-screen TV. Other amenities included a black leather sofa, unmatched end tables, and a framed Ernie Banks jersey hanging above the gas fireplace. His well-worn red leather reading chair was in a corner opposite the display case containing the third-place trophy from his second, and final, Dakar Rally.

Checking his cellphone, which he always turned off at ball games for fear of being distracted from the action, Shane noticed there was a text message. It read, I need a F2F. PCM. ASAP. Brad.

Why does Brad want to meet? I’ll bet he’s investigating those fuzzy photos of an alleged UFO discovered somewhere at the bottom of the Mediterranean Ocean by Greek treasure hunters.

Depression and retirement had forced Shane to find something to occupy those cold winter months between baseball seasons. He was fascinated by the public’s obsession with unidentified flying objects (UFOs) and the willingness of so many apparently normal people to believe stories about alien sightings, crashes, and abductions. Shane was a skeptic. He looked at believers with a distain born of academic elitism.

Not surprisingly, most ufologists generally detested Shane, but Dr. Brad Shelton had been willing to enter a dialogue with him about various unexplained sightings that ignited fires of interest in both. Over several years, he and the bald African-American with a fastidiously groomed white beard had developed a close, if somewhat acerbic, relationship.

The two men normally saw little of each other during the summer months as Shane attended ball games and Brad indulged his passion for fishing. Shane scrolled to Brad’s number and called his Wisconsin cabin, a euphemism for a four-thousand-square-foot lakeside log retreat.

Shane, how goes Cubs’ baseball? Brad said with enthusiasm.

Big win today. What’s up?

I want your help. Tomorrow. Here at the cabin.

Get serious. You want me to drive four hours, deep behind the Cheddar Curtain, just to keep you company?

I need a witness when I open a special package.

How special?

It’s from Carol Rosen. Her cover letter says it contains an alien reliquary—you know, an imaginary chest full of ancient extraterrestrial artifacts.

Shane choked in disbelief. Carol ‘Spin’ Rosen? The conspiracy theorist? His voice rose to a crescendo. Are you talking about the same Carol Rosen who’s been dead for at least eight years?

That’s the one.

She was a nut case. She swore the moon landing was faked. She accused President Eisenhower of secretly signing a treaty with aliens so they could build underground bases in New Mexico. She claimed some secret government cabal rigs all the presidential elections. Damn it man, someone is playing a cruel joke on you.

Doubtful. Who would want to resurrect that controversial dame after all this time?

Someone promulgating a hoax to convince the world Carol has returned from the dead.

No way.

Shane was on a roll. Remember Rosen’s last hurrah? She claimed the government was building secret bunkers in the Rockies to protect the nation’s political class from an apocalypse that was going to occur at the end of 2012. She died the same year as that nonevent. I’ll bet you her alien reliquary is crap, just like the Mayan end-of-days legend.

Unaware he was drumming his fingers on the table, an anxious Brad demanded, Are you coming?

Are you kidding? I want to see the last game of the Red Sox series tomorrow. Listening to Brad’s pathetic sigh, Shane relented. What if I attend the ball game, do some background research on Rosen, and come up the following day? What’s one more day after all these years?

Hearing no immediate response, Shane tried again. Deal?

Wednesday at noon then. You won’t be sorry.

Chapter 2

Patras, Greece

Loathsome as it felt, Capt. Nikos Papaloukas had agreed to dance with the devil tonight in pursuit of his dream. An anonymous investor with probable ties to organized crime was the key to commencing a salvage operation more difficult and daring than any in his illustrious treasure-hunting career. He could already taste the fame.

The view from the acropolis on which he stood was astonishing. The sparkling lights of Patras formed a radiant crescent adjacent to the sea, and the blue pylon beacons of the ultramodern Rion–Antirion Bridge arched gracefully between the city and the Greek mainland. Turning to enter the castle ruins at the top of this promontory, apprehension seized this crusty adventurer. Never had he needed to rely on someone else. Steady. Concentrate on the negotiation. Be certain the deal is good for me and the men. Walk away if necessary.

From the darkest recess of a massive stone abutment, a decidedly unpleasant voice called out. Captain Papaloukas. Over here.

Papaloukas moved cautiously in the direction of the caller, tripping several times over remnants of old interior foundations. Damn, he grumbled as he scraped an ankle against another unseen rock. Come out where at least we have the benefit of some moonlight?

I like the dark and my anonymity.

Makes it tough to negotiate. No names or faces.

Call me Ares.

That moniker was disconcerting. Papaloukas paused for a moment before replying. The Greek god of murder and bloodshed.

You know mythology. Your reputation suggested as much. But let’s talk business. I’ll be blunt. I don’t like all the publicity.

Papaloukas, a fireplug of a man, gave a deep guffaw. I work hard for that publicity. It provides vicarious incentives for my investors.

You desire an enormous amount of cash for an extremely risky venture. My clients and I would be pissed if someone else beat us to the prize because of all this notoriety.

Impossible. Only I know the exact location. Remember, Ares, what we seek is far more valuable than gold. The technology we hope to recover could alter the course of history and make us wealthy beyond comprehension. We’ll be international celebrities in any event. Are you able to fund the entire operation if we can agree on equitable shares?

His query was met with silence. Something wasn’t right.

Ares? Nikos called out, unnerved by the lack of response.

Secure in the veil of shadows, Ares leveled a silenced .44 Magnum Smith and Wesson at the captain and squeezed the trigger. Papaloukas heard a pop; suddenly his chest exploded. There was a moment of searing pain as the impact of the large-caliber bullet drove him to the ground as though a catapult had hurled one of the huge stone blocks from the castle wall at him. His left lung was gone, and he coughed up bloody spittle. Lying on his back, unable to catch a breath, he tried to calm himself. After all, he had survived life-and-death situations before.

In short order, it dawned on Papaloukas that he was suffocating in his own blood. Desperate for a breath of air, he attempted to roll over, but his limbs were numb. He tried to make a fist, again with no success. The flattened hollow-point slug had shattered his spinal cord. Total paralysis was far more terrifying to Papaloukas than the loss of his life. The panic attack he experienced twisted his face into an anguished death mask.

Looming over the bloody body, Ares said, There will be no salvage operation, Captain. Your discovery was a grave misfortune. Neither you nor anyone else will be allowed to recover the devil’s spawn. Satan must be denied at all costs. Ares made the sign of the cross as though he was performing a religious rite, and then he gave a common but somber invocation. May God have mercy on your soul and those of your crewmen.

Papaloukas was gasping for air as his body began to shut down from the lack of oxygen. Why? This was to have been an evening of triumph, the start of a great voyage. He and his men, what did Ares say about them? A horrible realization struck him. Oh my god, I must warn the crew. It was the captain’s last thought.

Ares knelt next to Papaloukas and took a chain and charm made of lead from his pocket. Lifting the captain’s head with one hand, he put the necklace around his neck with the other. Ares carefully wiped the revolver clean and dropped it next to his victim. He removed two latex gloves and put them in his jacket. Descending from the castle, he stopped to look at his watch. Tapping the crystal twice with his finger, Ares turned his attention to the harbor.

The first fireball rose high above the waterfront buildings as Papaloukas’s boat exploded. A second blast occurred when the fuel tanks detonated, scattering debris over a four-block area. In a final fit of anger, the sinking ship released a black plume of smoke high into the sky.

Mayhem had erupted as fire and emergency equipment screamed through the night. Tourist video of the explosion made for sensational international news. Commentators began to speculate about the cause of this catastrophe. Their conjecture was the ranting of the ignorant.

Ares prowled the waterfront for several hours for the ghoulish purpose of making certain that none of Papaloukas’s crew were left alive. None survived. He smiled as he leaned against a streetlamp. His boss would be pleased with this night’s work, and the Vatican would surely take notice.

Chapter 3

Lewisburg, West Virginia

Carol Rosen has returned from the dead to deliver her box of alien secrets, the caller hollered. Drake Calder’s encrypted satellite phone identified the overwrought individual as Donald Lakewood, his boss.

Son of a gun! To whom? Where?

UPS dropped off the package this morning at Brad Shelton’s lake house. He’s waiting for Shane Reid to arrive before he opens it the day after tomorrow. I forwarded their phone conversation to you.

This is for real, not a joke or a mistake?

Damn straight. Remember Rosen’s threat? She swore the stuff in her box would be worse than the evils released on the world by Pandora, the assistant director of the National Security Agency (NSA) said.

All she’s ever had are the photos of Misty.

How do you explain her last blog post? It contained an almost explicit exposé of your organization, which is supposedly our government’s deepest, darkest secret.

A lucky stab in the dark. Besides, when she tied our operation to some 2012 apocalypse, nobody believed her conjecture anyway. Rosen was a troubled woman with a reputation for playing fast and loose with the truth. Hell, she needed tranquilizers and alcohol to make it through the day. Her box of alien evidence is probably a joke.

Maybe, but the photos of Misty, and anything else she had, can’t see the light of day. Handle it. The line went dead.

Sniveling bureaucrat. The eavesdroppers at Fort Meade need to get out into the real world. They think every problem is meant to be resolved with some cloak-and-dagger operation, Calder muttered aloud as he scrolled to the desired phone number and tapped the screen.

Yeah, a groggy-sounding man said while squinting at his alarm clock. It was almost midnight.

Dr. Brad Shelton is in possession of Rosen’s alien reliquary.

No kidding, an instantly alert Thorn Taylor replied.

Retrieve it tomorrow. No confrontation. If for any reason the cat burglar approach doesn’t pan out, install sight and sound in the house so we can keep a 24-7 tab on him.

If he’s home, we’ll have to roust him somehow.

Do whatever it takes. His dossier is at the office. Use the Learjet. Be there by dawn.

Most people believe the NSA is an amalgamation of cryptographers, supercomputers, and satellites, all dedicated to monitoring international communications. That is the tip of a clandestine iceberg. Drake Calder had initially been a field operative in the NSA’s Global Issues Group, which undertook covert operations as exigent as anything the CIA did. He presently headed the Alien Technology Project (ATP), a small group of elite operatives masquerading as a West Virginia crisis management firm called Remedy Consultants.

Calder gazed at the brilliant full moon through the skylight in his den as he listened to the recording of Shelton’s conversation with Reid. His team had been monitoring Dr. Brad Shelton for decades. The sixty-two-year-old professor emeritus was an expert on aircraft propulsion systems. When the military wanted his patents, he became quite wealthy, allowing him to pursue his study of UFOs in lieu of his teaching career. Shelton believed aliens were routinely visiting Earth. His idea of the Holy Grail was finding an alien encounter with enough solid evidence to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that UFOs were extraterrestrial vehicles rather than some experimental aircraft or weather phenomena. Shelton would be juiced over Rosen’s reliquary. Asking his rival and UFO skeptic to assist him meant he had reason to believe the contents could be game-changing, a troubling thought.

Contrasted to Shelton, Shane Reid was a relative newcomer to ufology. His wife of fifteen years had died after receiving the wrong medication during a minor operation. Their only child succumbed to a rare blood disorder two months later. The resulting depression forced him to retire from academia. Since that crisis, Reid was doing such a good job at his part-time hobby of debunking alleged alien sightings that he could have been a Remedy Consultants team member.

Calder grabbed his treasured mahogany Calabash pipe, lit up, and leaned back in his recliner. Recent events had him on edge. Not long ago, he failed to prevent the US Navy from admitting publicly that there had been numerous sightings of unidentified aerial phenomena (UAPs) entering US military airspace over the past several years. Some navy pilots, all accomplished scientists and engineers, were suggesting these craft were not from this world. Pressure was building to have Congress require the navy to produce a public assessment of the UAP issue.

One month ago, a very reputable treasure hunter reported discovering an alien spaceship in Mediterranean waters. He made international headlines with his extremely murky underwater photos of the craft. Tonight, it was reported his boat exploded in Greece. On the chance Captain Papaloukas had discovered a real spacecraft, the CIA and NSA were analyzing satellite data to reconstruct recent voyages of this boat. The Russians and Chinese were probably doing the same thing. The continued absence of satisfactory intelligence about Papaloukas’s discovery itched like a festering sore.

The Papaloukas saga marked the beginning of a bad month. Two weeks ago, NSA eavesdroppers discovered that Joe Burnett, a retired electrician from Area 51, was attempting to sell secret information about the ATP and the alien UFO nicknamed Misty. Burnett was now being closely monitored by the FBI.

Today, Carol Rosen had returned from the grave to bedevil him with her purported secrets about alien life. Why had it taken this long for her box of stuff to surface? She’d threatened it would be made public the moment anything happened to her. Calder’s gut told him something he should know was hidden in that hiatus.

Chapter 4

Lake Petenwell, Wisconsin

Skepticism clashed with his hopeful expectations as Shane Reid thought about the mysterious legacy of Carol Rosen. The idea of an alien reliquary was a crock. But the thrill of discovery, once an integral part of his academic life, had been missing for some time.

Nestled in his Jaguar, Shane blew through the fogbank that hovered over the eastern shore of Lake Petenwell. Visibility was nil, lending an eerie quality to the landscape as he turned into Brad Shelton’s driveway. With an orange Illini blanket on his lap and a mug of hot coffee in his hand, Brad was on the front porch in his favorite hewn cedar rocking chair looking every bit like a retired university professor. His beige wool sweater with leather elbow patches embellished the image.

Silencing the roadster’s guttural rumble, Shane jumped out and patted the hood affectionately. This customized beauty sported a four-hundred-watt sound system, rebuilt 5.3-liter V-12 engine, and heavy-duty six-speed competition transmission. A retirement present Shane had purchased for himself; it was basically a street legal race car.

I have fresh fish in the oven. Hurry up and bring your gear inside before the rain starts.

Brad’s many guest bedrooms were decorated in geographical themes. Shane took his duffel bag to the Caribbean suite, where he generally stayed when he visited. Its festive tropical décor was in stark contrast to the gloomy spring weather lurking outside.

A crackling fire was burning in the kitchen fireplace. The rustic oak table had been set with pine green placemats, matching cloth napkins, wine glasses etched with pheasants, and a blue spatterware pitcher filled with wildflowers. Brad placed sizzling hot trout fillets on their plates and scooped a mound of garlic mashed potatoes on the side before drizzling lemon butter sauce over both. After they had begun the meal, he inquired, What did you learn about Rosen?

Between mouthfuls, Shane summarized his research. Born in 1943. Good looker. She met and wed Donald Rosen while attending Mount Mary College in Milwaukee. He bought the farm two years later in Nam. Carol was never the same.

Brad nodded knowingly while wondering how Carol’s trauma compared to the grief Shane dealt with daily from the loss of his family.

"Carol was a journalist. The Washington Examiner hired her in ’72. Because the cost of housing in the district was through the roof, she sublet from an Ensign Kate Bruyere, and they wound up being roommates for the next thirty years.

That’s a long time. Were they more than roommates?

Doubtful. Carol had a child around 1980. There was some tawdry speculation that the father was a married senator. She put the kid up for adoption.

How’d she become a conspiracy theorist?

She had a knack for capturing the frustration of witnesses to UFO events who felt they would be ostracized for speaking up. Her earlier stories were compassionate, insightful, and convincing.

UFO sightings are not grounds for paranoia, and that lady was paranoid.

Cover-ups cause paranoia. Carol began to focus solely on the government’s total denial of alien encounters. This led to her conspiracy allegations. Apparently, she began making up ‘facts’ to prove her case. Her fake news became so blatant even her media brethren treated her like a pariah.

Brad finished the last morsel of trout and asked, Did peer pressure cause her to move to a cabin in the Rocky Mountains? She was a hermit near the end. Most of her communications were via Internet blogs.

I’ve no idea.

What about her death?

Carol refused to testify at a federal hearing in Denver about her 2012 government conspiracy allegations. A deputy sheriff went to deliver a subpoena and found her beaten to death. Her cabin had been ransacked. No suspect was ever identified.

That’s tragic. But it doesn’t support her claims of being targeted by some rogue government agency.

Unless you believe the US government employs hit men.

Brad ignored Shane’s ludicrous insinuation. The two men finished lunch and put their dishes in the sink.

Okay, are you ready to tackle Carol’s legacy? Brad asked.

Her proof of alien life? Shane attached a large flash unit to his digital Nikon camera and snapped pictures of the box and shipping label. Did you check the address?

I contacted UPS. Name, address, everything is bogus.

You do the honors. Shane took several photos of Brad lifting the inner box out of its shipping container and spilling Styrofoam peanuts all over the room. The second carton was embossed with the words Dole Pineapple and could have come from any grocery store in the nation. It contained two boxes and three manila envelopes.

Let’s see what’s here. Brad opened a small box and removed a piece of paper and a spool of wire.

"What the heck have you got there?

Unfolding the paper, Brad explained, It’s a note from Carol. She says the spool of wire is from an antique recording device and contains a coded message from Mars.

You jest.

No. A gal named Deidre Smith gave this to Carol in 1990. Her deceased brother had been a naval radioman and claimed he made the recording in Shanghai, China, in 1924.

What did the Martians have to say?

Who knows? This guy, David Lyon, told his sister he had decoded the message, but Carol couldn’t do the same. When she became frightened about being a government target, she put the spool of wire in her alien reliquary. She thought threatening to go public with this stuff should anything happen to her would stop the harassment.

Shane made no attempt to conceal his sarcasm. Let me get this cockamamie story straight. A woman, who might as well be named Jane Doe, brings Carol a spool of deep-sea fishing line that her dead brother said contains an alien message from Mars, but nobody can read it.

Are you through? What if this is the first recorded communication from outer space? Think about that. The SETI people have been trying to record a signal from other planets for decades. They have nothing. We just need to find a talented cryptographer to tell us what’s on this wire.

There’s a reason the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence is a failure. None exists. As for this supposed recording, evidence with no provenance is worthless. For all we know Carol made the recording. Even if we can extract a message from this wire, there’s no way to confirm where or when it was created. It proves nothing.

Point taken. Clapping his hands together, Brad asked, Drink?

Make mine a strong martini. I fear Deidre Smith pulled a fast one on Carol. Furthermore, I still worry this whole thing is a sham. Carol may have never set eyes on anything in this package. Some modern P. T. Barnum may be using you as a pawn in an elaborate hoax. By the way, what’s your take on those fuzzy UFO pictures from the Mediterranean that made such a splash in the news last month? Shane asked as Brad mixed drinks.

Now, there’s your hoax. If those aren’t fake photos, I’ll give up fishing. The real P. T. Barnum would be proud of the way that treasure hunter was attempting to pick his investor’s pockets for funds to recover his imaginary UFO.

Was attempting?

Didn’t you read the paper yesterday?

No. I was at the Cubs’ ball game and the library researching Rosen.

The treasure hunter’s boat exploded in the Patras harbor, killing the entire crew.

Maybe his discovery and the explosion are not a coincidence. For the past few years, our fighter pilots have reported numerous encounters with UAP near military bases and the capital. You folks believe they are alien craft. I fear Russia or China have perfected an advanced and dangerous new technology. Perhaps one of those countries is trying to prevent exploration of a crashed vehicle.

The euphemism UAP is just another way for the government to obfuscate the ever-increasing visits by UFOs. We have military video of these craft. They have no wings, lights, or exhaust and have demonstrated the ability to withstand forces of acceleration greater than the maximum design limits of anything man-made. Brad pointed to the table. Let’s get back to Carol’s package. It’s your turn. Open something.

Shane pulled a note, six 35mm photographic negatives, and a six by eight-inch photo from a manila envelope.

Following his examination of the photograph, Brad said, In stark contrast to the Greek pictures, this looks mighty real. It’s the most detailed close-up of a flying saucer I’ve ever seen. Brad retrieved a magnifying glass from his office, and each man inspected the photo and negatives more closely.

Scale model? Prototype craft? Movie prop? Photoshop creation? Shane listed the possibilities he considered plausible.

Frankly, it looks like a huge aircraft hangar with a very large spacecraft in the middle.

While Brad was studying the negatives a second time, Shane summarized Carol’s note. Carol paid some Seabee eight thousand bucks for this stuff. He claimed to have been part of a secret naval mission sent to recover an experimental Nazi plane.

Where and when?

An island off southern Argentina in 1946.

Who was the guy?

"He wouldn’t give a name. Carol says he sailed