2084 The End of Days Read online

  2084

  The End of Days

  Derek Beaugarde

  Published in 2016 by Corkerhill Press

  Copyright ©Derek Beaugarde 2016

  Derek Beaugarde has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  ISBN Paperback: 978-0-9935551-0-7

  ebook: 978-0-9935551-1-4

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue copy of this book can be found in the British Library

  and the National Library of Scotland.

  Published with the help of Indie Authors World

  Acknowledgements

  The author wishes to acknowledge the assistance of Indie Authors World in the publishing of this book. The author also wishes to thank his editor Gillian McGee for her ardent endeavours, friends John Steele and Robin Dale for the inclusion of their names within the book, fellow alumni Sir Dirk Bogarde for the pseudonym and Allan Glen’s School for the superb education. The author wishes to ascertain that this is a work of fiction and that any relation to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ‘Then they gathered the kings together to the place

  that in Hebrew is called Armageddon’

  Revelation 16:16 (New International Version © 2010)

  BOOK 1 - GENESIS

  Chapter 1

  Earthdate 13:35 Wednesday January 1, 2081 Central Standard Time - CST

  In the beginning it was just about the sex. But now, out here in the dark silence of space, there are times when a man gets to thinking really clear. As Jack sat alone before his flickering monitors he felt the wave of love for Peggy Sue as sharp as a winter’s day in the Blue Ridge Mountains after a fresh fall of snow. The crackle abruptly broke his pleasant musings.

  “Mars Galactica 3, this is Houston calling, do you copy?”

  The operator at NASA HQ waited through the obligatory moments of radio silence as his voice winged its way across the solar system to the small United Nations Joint Space Station orbiting 26 miles above the surface of Mars. He heard the distinctive return crackle then the reply came back with remarkable clarity through the Earth 2 Mars Satellite Network, known as the E2MSN.

  “Houston this is MGal3 calling. Ah’m reading you loud and clear. Izzat you Lex, ya washed-up radio ham? Happy New Year, ya old fart. It’s Jack Crossan here, copy?”

  As he waited for the reply from Lex Kosloff back down on Earth, Commander John “Jack” Crossan rubbed the dirty stubble on his chin and glanced out of the porthole to his right just as the first glint of the far distant sun rose on the Martian horizon. It always looked so much smaller than the big yellow-red sun which rose on a lovely bright Earth morning. Jack’s tour of duty on MGal3 was coming to an end. In four months he would be back on his beautiful and peaceful farm just outside Lexington, Virginia with his loving second wife Peggy Sue and their two young sons Milner and Jack Junior. He was subconsciously smacking his lips at the thought of making love with Peggy Sue and breathing in the fresh farm air, when Lex broke in over the radio waves.

  “A Happy New Year to you, too, Jack. I ain’t touched a drop of the good stuff yet, but I’m going to have a blowout when I get home tonight. What’s your daily status report MGal3, copy?”

  Again, after the long pause Jack replied.

  “Same old same old, Lex, nothing much changes up here above Mars. Had a minor glitch with the mainframe computer about ten hours ago but the tech boys down in the bowels managed to sort it PDQ. Seemed to think some hacking bastards back on 3R were trying to patch in through the E2MSN. Techs seem to think it was a pretty amateurish effort. Not much else to report. The next ‘ice shift’ ain’t due back up for another 27 hours yet, so things are pretty darn quiet. I’m hitting the sack in about an hour when Xi Xhu Pan comes up on the bridge to relieve me. Do you copy, Lex?”

  As Jack waited through the radio silence his thoughts drifted back over his report relayed down to Lex Kosloff. 3R was the common space jargon for planet Earth, because it was the third rock from the Sun. The ‘ice shift’ was a regular freight space shuttle from the Martian North Pole Base where ice and dry ice was continually ‘mined’ to provide the precious water and carbon dioxide needed to maintain the various small Martian bases and the three functioning Martian space stations. They were named MGal2, 3 and 4. Mars Galactica 1, nicknamed Magellan, had been decommissioned in late 2077, although it was still maintaining its orbit above Mars. Magellan was so old it had originally been manufactured from large functional sections of the International Space Station which orbited Earth in the early 21st century. Its last crew just called it the “Rust Bucket”.

  A few moments later, Lex crackled back over the radio waves, snapping Jack back from his musings.

  “Copy you, Jack. I’ll let you get off the line and get the head down. Have a good sleep and don’t have nightmares - over and out.”

  Jack was oblivious to the fact that Lex’s thoughts had drifted off to a 16-year-old bottle of Lagavulin Scotch whisky. Lex fully intended to celebrate the New Year with the aqua vitae when he got back home to his place out in the south-west suburbs of Houston.

  “Okay, Lex. MGal3 here is signing off - over and out.”

  Jack tapped the button on his touch screen pad and the radio static went dead silent.

  *

  Earthdate 20:26 Wednesday January 1, 2081 Greenwich Mean Time - GMT

  “Fuck me – we’re in!”

  “You’re kidding?”

  Gary Mackintosh stared at the computer screen in front of him with a mixture of awe and total incredulity. He had half believed that he could hack into NASA’s mainframe system but the other half of his ego told him that he was just playing at it. After last night’s Hogmanay celebrations in the centre of Edinburgh, where Gary and his best mate Ewan Sinclair had really tied it on, he had no idea how he could possibly have managed it in the first place. They had only had about two hours sleep when they had started to hack in about nine o’clock this morning. The idea for the hack had started during their drinking celebrations and had ended up as their New Year Resolution. It had been snowing all day so there was a good incentive to stay in, knock back some fizzy Irn Bru as a hangover cure, and keep on at the hack.

  “Ah’m not kidding – we are defin-totally fuckin’ in there, man!”

  Gary growled just a bit too loudly, reminding himself of that whisky-soaked hangover still there in the recesses of his throbbing skull. He gulped down a soothing throat full of Irn Bru and awaited Ewan’s response.

  “You don’t mean NASA’s effing main frame?”

  Ewan, unlike his Glaswegian mate, could not bear swearing when speaking. The son of a Wee Free Minister, he had been strictly raised by his parents on the idyllic island of Islay, off Western Scotland. Ewan had gone on to study mathematics, physics and cosmic sciences at Oxford University, ending up with a First and an accent reminiscent of a Highland aristocrat. Gary sounded much more down-to-earth and still retained his guttural Glaswegian accent. He had studied computing science at Glasgow University in his home city and he had also gained a distinguished First.

  “Not only NASA, my good friend Ewan – we are also patched right through
to the E2MSN!”

  “E2MSN – what the hell’s that, Gary!?”

  “Ah mean the E2MSN no fuckin’ less! The Earth to Mars Satellite Network! Fact, the bastards up there on Mars cottoned onto us a right good few hours ago. You were dozing at the time. We were nearly in the back door. But they put a lock on us and patched us back out the system. But they left a side door key lying there right in front of us and at this moment they have no idea that we are connected into the whole fuckin’ shebang. NASA HQ – E2MSN – the whole friggin’ lot! I’m telling ye Ewan, you want to know anything that is going on in the whole fuckin’ solar system it is right there in front of us!”

  “Fuck me, Gary!”

  Gary’s head swivelled round sharply from the computer screen.

  “Ewan Sinclair - that’s the first time ah’ve ever heard you swear since ah met ye!”

  *

  Earthdate 22:41 Tuesday January 21, 2081 Israel Standard Time - IST

  A dog-tired Ari Schenkler drained his third cold plastic coffee. He was fighting off sleep as he prepared to make some fine-tuning adjustments to the Nimrod Star Hunter 2 telescope. Ari was sitting at his touch screen keypad in his laboratory office at INSACC, the Israeli National Space Administration and Cosmology Center, in Tel Aviv. The Nimrod SH2 was orbiting in deep solar space almost half way between Earth and Mars and the data from the largest and most powerful telescope ever constructed by man was relayed back to Tel Aviv via the NASA E2MSN system.

  Ari was always thankful for that ‘special relationship’ which had existed with America since the modern State of Israel was founded in 1947. In his view the co-operation between the two countries helped Israel found the ISA, Israeli Space Agency, in 1988. It was mainly limited to small satellite launches and later the development of TAUVEX, Tel Aviv University Ultra-Violet Experiment, in Ari’s home city of Tel Aviv. From the experiences gained out of the TAUVEX ultra-violet telescope project and also with Israel’s development into manned space missions the ISA expanded in 2039 into INSACC with three main divisions. These were manned-space shuttles serving both Moon and Mars bases, satellite and space station production and their cosmology division, of which, the Nimrod Star Hunter 2 telescope commanded the largest slice of the cosmology budget.

  In an effort to keep his mind alert, Ari stole a brief distraction with a glance at his brand new iTab80. It gave him paid access to more than 30 online tabloids from around the globe on a 24/7 basis. His favourite ‘Bloid’ was the New York Times and his iTab80 was presently set on the continuously updating NYT front page. The bold headline screamed at him – “WEST AWAITS RESPONSE FROM LEAGUE OF ISLAM” – and a fearful thought flashed through his mind.

  “There’s gonna be big trouble ahead for Israel.”

  Ari read on through the article.

  Israel has taken a step closer towards war in the Middle East following continuing rising tensions between Western powers and the LOIN. The League of Islamic Nations (the LOIN) was formed in 2033 when the pro-Islamic nations stormed out of the United Nations in response to a failure to agree on a series of UN Resolutions and legislative dictates. This had followed the many years of unresolved conflict and nuclear proliferation in the Middle East since ‘9/11’ almost eighty years before in 2001. The LOIN HQ in Tehran was built and administered on a similar model to the UN Security Council in New York. It consisted mainly of Iran, Iraq, Pakistan, Afghanistan and Indonesia, and many other Islamic states. Ironically, since the LOIN’s inception there had remained an uneasy peace in the Middle East for almost 50 years, mainly due to US/UN diplomacy and the fact that Israel’s tactical nuclear arsenal and Weapons of Mass Destruction had far outpaced that of the poorer Iran - Iraq Alliance’s nuclear and WOMD capacity. However, following recent massed Islamic military training maneouvres in north-eastern Iraq and Israeli protests to the UN Security Council, tensions were mounting between the West and the LOIN states. Israel had just recently raised its alert level to ‘IMMINENT’ and effectively put itself on a war footing.

  In fact, Ari, still only 28, had been served mobilisation papers which meant he could be called back into the Israeli Military Reserve practically at a moment’s notice. Although, for the time being, the Israeli Knesset still valued his proficiency as the country’s most highly respected astronomer and astrophysicist. For the past few distracted moments, given the enormous salary he was paid, which was part-funded by the Yanks, Ari had been transfixed by the disturbing headlines on his iTab80. He closed his eyes and shook his head vigorously, psychologically readjusting himself back to the paid task in hand. Ari chastised himself.

  “Concentrate Ari! Right, what are the new vectors for tonight’s eye in the sky?”

  Ari punched on the touch-screen and pulled up the new coordinates. His project on the Nimrod SH2 was to scan an area of deep space focusing on super-galaxies over 45 million Light Years from Earth, searching for terrestrial-type planets, mainly ones with high carbon-oxygen structures which could possibly be life-bearing. Although planet hunting in other star systems had begun early in the 21st century, relatively little progress had been made in this field of astrophysics. Ari started to type in the new figures from the list on the screen in front of him. He was on the last set of numbers when his mind again wandered back momentarily to the Bloid news report.

  “Those bloody Arab bastards. They’ll destroy us all!”

  As Ari entered the vectors into the computer a CGI of the Nimrod telescope flashed up on the screen and he watched it swivel into position. Up in solar space the actual telescope received its computed instructions and its solar panels generated the small micro-thrusters needed to reposition Nimrod. Once fixed in position the telescope began transmitting the deep space pictures back to the closest satellite on the E2MSN and back through the network to INSACC’s main frame and, of course, also sharing the data with NASA HQ’s main frame. Ari called up a rerun of the CGI. It always gave him pleasure to know that watching the little computer generated imaging video demonstrated the power that he had to shift a huge man-made object deep in space. He felt like some little godlike creature situated on Earth with the power to shift the heavens. Yeah, right, he thought to himself. The CGI was running and rerunning itself on the screen in front of him. Ari thought that something did not look quite right. He could tell from experience that the pitch and angle of the telescope’s transmission looked all wrong. He recalled the numbers he had punched in.

  “Scheissen!”

  He realised that the last set of vectors he had entered had been transposed. He quickly corrected the figures. Up in space Nimrod repositioned itself and was soon sending the exploratory pictures from its required deep space transmission. Ari noted down the start and end times that Nimrod had been transmitting incorrectly and, with a keen eye for detail, was able to compute in his mind where Nimrod had been incorrectly focused. About 2 minutes and 11 seconds of shots taken from Nimrod was basically wasted footage and of no real interest to the project or the wider planet-hunting community within the US/Israeli astrophysics network. He guessed that he had just cost the Yanks a few tens of thousands of dollars and the Space Center’s director, Yosep Goldenheim, would probably chew his ear off about it. Goldenheim would probably threaten to send him back to the army sooner rather than later. But Ari knew he was worth too much to the project at the moment for that to happen.

  “Better send an APB to let the guys know they should ignore that piece of crap. Jesus, be lucky if it sends anything back further than the Belt!”

  Ari drew a picture in his mind’s eye. The Kuiper Belt was that dark remote region furthest out in the solar system. It was a conglomeration of billions of small objects of ice, rock and comets with irregular orbits around the Sun and included Pluto, which had long been declassified as a planet.

  *

  Earthdate: 09:15 Wednesday January 22, 2081 GMT

  Jill Geeson rushed into her office at the London Times precarious
ly weighed down with her laptop satchel, an oversized handbag, miscellaneous folders and the obligatory Grande double-shot Starbucks coffee. The tube train from her flat in Kew was extremely late due to a broken rail at Ealing Broadway. The London Underground was nearly 250 years old and, by God, this morning it felt like it to Jill. In fact, the way her shitty life was at present Jill felt more like 250 than the 27 that was the Scots-born journalist’s actual age. I think I’ll suggest an investigative piece to the Ed about the decrepit state of the Tube, Jill thought as she arrived at her workstation. She was just about to offload all her bags and other accoutrements on to her desk when a shrill sharp voice sounded behind her and Jill almost jumped out of her skin.

  “Jill!”

  The Starbucks jumped out of Jill’s hand, hit the desk at an oblique angle, which popped the plastic top off and the Grande coffee sloshed out all over the desktop and spilled over on to the grey carpeted floor. The continuation of this morning’s disasters welled up inside Jill and the feral cry from her was almost one of complete despair.

  “Oh, shit! That’s all ah need!”

  Jill swivelled around sharply to face the dropped jaw and widened eyes of her trainee reporter Ruthie Venters bulging out from her huge spectacles. Ruthie was quite old fashioned. Very few people in the 2080s wore spectacles due to the huge advances in laser eye treatments. Her dress sense was also that of early 21st century frumpiness. Christ, thought Jill, who wears jeans nowadays? Ruthie was apologetic and cowed when she spoke.

  “Oops. Er, sorry Jill. It’s just – um – Ed’s meeting started over 15 minutes ago. He’s been asking where you – er – are.”

  “Ah know, ah know, Ruthie. Tube’s a bucking mess again this morning!”

  It crossed her mind that she would have to stop using that awful word ‘bucking’. Jill grabbed her eTab100 for her notes at the meeting, waving back at Ruthie as she hurried out the workstation.