Colin rolled the sleeve back down, signaling an end to this topic. An uncomfortable silence lasted a few seconds but was soon broken by the beeping of John's watch.

"Oh yeah, I almost forgot," he said. "Come here and check this out."

John led Colin to the other side of his large room, where a small round worktable sat in the corner. On the table was a model of a motorcycle. John approached the small model and carefully picked it up, turning it over in his hands and gently pulling on certain parts of it.

"Looks like the glue is finally dried," he said. "Pretty cool, isn't it? It's the first motorcycle in my collection."

On a shelf above the worktable were two dozen model cars, ranging from slick-looking sports cars to old classic cars that Colin never even knew existed. John was very proud of his model collection, proud of the hard work and care he'd put into building each one. The idea of putting together toy models seemed juvenile to Colin but John never made fun of Colin's obsession with baseball so he never made fun of him.

Looking at the motorcycle sent a chill down Colin's spine. He was not sure why, but Colin knew he did not like the model bike.

"I hate motorcycles," Colin said honestly, receiving a disappointed look from John. "Don't get me wrong, your model looks perfect. But I've never liked motorcycles, for as long as I can remember."

"Why not?" John asked.

"I don't know. They just give me a bad feeling. Weird, huh?"

"I guess," John agreed, still turning the model over in his hands, inspecting every small detail of his work. "I love them. I can't wait until I'm old enough to drive so I can get one. Don't you know how fast they go?"

Colin quickly bored of watching John's careful inspection so he made his way back to the television.

"How fast?" he asked.

"I'm not sure. Like a hundred miles an hour or something," John said.

Colin turned off the video game system and flipped through a few channels before coming across a baseball game.

"Holy crap, I can't believe my luck," Colin said when he saw who was batting. "I flipped to the game just as Jeremy Walker was coming up to bat."

"Jeremy Walker? Is he any good?" John asked from across the room, continuing his inspection.

"Are you kidding me? You've never heard of Jeremy Walker?" Colin asked incredulously.

"Not really," John answered.

Jeremy Walker was Colin's hero, had been ever since he broke into the major leagues. To hear someone saying they never heard of him was like someone saying they'd never heard of President George Marshall. It was just ridiculous.

"Jeremy Walker is only the best player in baseball right now," Colin explained. "He's awesome. He's hit over 50 homers in every season he's been in the majors. On the pace he's going he'll break every single hitting record there is. And on top of that, he's one of the best center fielders to ever play the game."

Colin knew that John had no interest in baseball, would not understand the importance of Jeremy Walker even if he talked about statistics all day. During Colin's baseball explanation, Jeremy Walker had worked the pitcher to a full count.

"Put the toys away and come watch this," Colin said, even though he didn't expect John would. "Maybe you can learn how to be a real man. The pitcher is going to try to sneak a fastball by him. It's not going to work, though, I guarantee it."

On screen, the pitcher did exactly as Colin predicted. And exactly as he predicted, it did not work. Jeremy Walker crushed a long homerun over the center field wall, eerily similar to the way their video game ended just minutes before. Before Colin could let out a whoop of satisfaction, the channel suddenly changed. Colin turned to see John holding the remote control, staring at the TV with a huge smile across his face. A beautiful young girl in a tight bathing suit ran across the beach.

"There, that's learning how to be a real man," he said. "Heather Sanders, star of 'Beach Duty.' She's hot, isn't she? I'm totally in love with this girl."

"Yeah, I'm sure you two will get married one day," Colin said sarcastically. "Now put the game back on, I want to see the replay of the homerun."

John continued to stare at the television, apparently not hearing a single word his friend said. He was off on his own world, where only he and Heather existed...

"She's not even that much older than us," John said. "She's only like 18 or 19 or something like that. When we're 20, she won't even be 30 yet. I would do anything for a girl like that."

"I'm sure she'd be happy that you watch her show," Colin said, rolling his eyes.

"I don't most of the time," John said. "My parents don't let me watch this. They say it's garbage and that I'm not old enough to see these things yet."

"You'd better put the game back on then," Colin said, thinking of anything to say to watch more of the game.

The scene with Heather Sanders came to end and was replaced by a scene with a beautiful girl just as scantily clad. John pushed the button marked PREVIOUS but the channel did not change. He tried pressing other buttons but they did not work either.

"Must need new batteries," he said.

"JOHN! Are you guys up there?" a voice called from outside the room. It was his father's voice and they could hear his footsteps approaching the room. Instinctively, Colin jumped up and pushed the CHANNEL CHANGE button on the TV, switching from 'Beach Duty' to the news station. At that moment, John's bedroom door opened and his father walked into the room.

"Hi Colin," John's father said.

"Hey, Mr. Fare."

"Do you want to stay for dinner tonight?"

"Sure, thanks."

"Okay, it'll be ready soon," Mr. Fare said. He was about to walk out of the room when something on the television made him stop. "You boys are watching the news?"

Colin turned toward the television, where footage showed President Marshall coming off a plane. The caption at the bottom of the screen read: PRESIDENT'S RETURN TRIP FROM RUSSIA. The footage was followed by a press conference with the President, who talked about how 'Russia was impressed with the U.S.'s vision for the space station and how they would be more than happy to volunteer help with the construction.'

"Yes, sir," Colin said. "Our social studies teacher at school tells us we should keep up with current events."

"Yeah," John agreed. "He said we might even have a quiz on it this week."

"So, what do you think of the President's trip to Russia? Why do you think he needed to spend a whole week there?" John's father asked.

"I'm not sure," John answered quickly. "What do you think?"

His father shot John a quizzical look and his eyes portrayed the doubt that his son had even paid attention to the news.

"To be honest with you, I don't really like it," he said. "It seems like the President is admitting that America is incapable of building the space station on our own. It seems like we're in too big a rush to get construction going. Maybe we should slow down, do a good job and not have to worry about the work other countries will do for us. Because if I were lucky enough to get a trip to the space station, I would feel much more comfortable if I'd known an American worked on it than a Russian."

"Yeah, I agree," said John. "America doesn't need help from anybody."

John's father playfully jabbed his son in the arm, in much the same way John had done to Colin earlier.

"Besides, with the way you put things together, maybe they should send you to space to help build it."

By the time Earl arrived at his cabin with the final load of cement bags in the back of his truck, the sun was beginning to dip below the mountains. After laying the cinder block floor of his shelter, Earl was surprised to find that dozens of bags of cement he'd purchased would not be enough for the floor and the rest of the shelter. The number of cinder blocks and amount of wood had been perfectly planned for but he still needed one last trip to the home improvement store.

He parked his truck and grabbed two bags of cement, struggling to hold them both and walk steadily at the same time. When he approached his front door, he dropped the bags, not because they were too heavy but because of what he saw in front of him.

The front door of his cabin was wide open.

Someone is here, he worried. Someone is here and they know about my tunnel and my shelter and they are probably sabotaging it right now.

Earl's underground tunnel and shelter were the two most important things in his life. If something were to happen to them, his life would be worthless. He ran into his house right away, without thinking or worrying about the possible risks if an armed intruder was still inside.

First, he rushed through the few rooms of the cabin, finding the living room, bedroom, kitchen and bathroom empty. Earl ran into the basement, finding his digging tools and golf cart in the exact spots where he'd left them. When he saw the tunnel still in one piece, he let out a sigh of relief that the saboteurs had not struck yet. Before entering the tunnel, Earl grabbed the closest weapon he could find, a pitchfork that had helped him break up solid areas of dirt.

Although he wanted to sprint through the tunnel, Earl knew that any intruders still inside would not set off an explosion until they escaped the tunnel themselves. He skulked forward, gripping the pitchfork tightly, wondering if the tunnel always seemed this dark. Careful not to step on the wooden floors and make any noise, Earl slowly walked along the dirt ground, keeping himself hidden in the shadows, waiting to strike at any moment that the intruders showed themselves.

But that moment never came. Earl tiptoed to the end of the tunnel where he found the shelter empty. He got down on his hands and knees and inspected the concrete floor of the shelter, looking for any tiny crack or hiding place where explosives could've been hidden. He found nothing, not a single clue that anyone had stepped foot in the shelter. Finding that his cabin, the tunnel and the shelter were all clear, Earl sprinted back through the tunnel, without caring that his pounding footsteps echoed along the wooden path.

Outside, the world had gotten much darker than before his inspection of the premises. He stood in his doorway and looked around the grounds, seeing that all of his building materials were stacked perfectly, nothing out of place. For some reason, though, Earl did not feel like he was alone. A loud rustling emanated from the direction of the tree line on the east side of his property. Earl could not feel the wind blowing much, at least not enough to cause this much noise.

"Hello?" he yelled, staring in the direction where he heard the noise coming. "Is anybody out there?"

The rustling stopped as Earl held his breath, determined to hear any possible noise. After a moment, he heard it again, this time louder than before.

What the hell is out there? It has to be the government. They're pissed that I went to see Peter Mansfield and they're coming to get me. I never should have mentioned my shelter to him.

Sweat began to trickle down Earl's face as he continued toward the trees.

"I didn't tell anybody anything," he yelled, desperately trying to find the source of the rustling. "I swear, I told nobody. I kept the comet a secret."

The rustling sound finally stopped and after a long minute of silence, Earl closed and locked his front door.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

July 10, 2013 On the ground floor of the White House, near the back of the building, a large storage room is located just beyond the executive offices. This storage room is where mail addressed to the President at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue is sent, where it is catalogued based upon importance and relevance. Ninety percent of this mail is never even opened, yet is stored for years before being discarded. Dozens of ten-foot high shelves stand crowded together in this room. An elderly man named Simon walked quickly between the shelves, placing every letter in the exact spot where it was supposed to go. Simon, a full-time employee of the White House, dated his mailroom employment back to the Nixon administration.

Mansfield walked into the mailroom and tapped a tarnished silver bell that sat on the counter. Simon was somewhere among the seemingly infinite rows of shelves but Mansfield was not about to look for him. The only time the Chief of Staff opened the small counter door and walked among the shelves of mail, Simon harshly berated him.

"Are you a member of the United States Postal Service?" Simon had asked, his old voice not nearly as frail as his old body.

"No," Mansfield answered, surprised at being reprimanded by the old man who'd always seemed so helpful and kindly.

"Then you do not belong back here," Simon said. "This is official United States mail business."

From that day on, Mansfield knew not to invade old Simon's perfectly ordered shelves. Moments after ringing the bell, Simon emerged from the back of the room. When he saw Mansfield, he smiled.

"Back again?" Simon asked, having seen the Chief of Staff everyday for the past month. "I'm glad to see you still follow the rules."

"Come on, Simon," Mansfield said. "I haven't broken that rule for years now. Must you keep reminding me of one mistake?"

"Yes," Simon said, chuckling. The two now laughed about the situation. At the time, Mansfield was tempted to have the man fired. "You might forget and try to come back here again if I stopped reminding you."

"You don't have to worry about that," Mansfield assured him.

"So what can I do for you, Mr. Mansfield?"

"I need you to check on a name for me," Peter said.

"Earl Ackerman again?" Simon asked.

"Are you a mind reader, Simon?"

"I'm certainly not," old Simon explained. "But you've only asked me to check that name every day for the past few weeks. Let me go look."

Simon came back a few minutes later, carrying a letter in his hands.

That has to be it, Mansfield thought to himself, glad that he could intercept the letter before the President saw it. Mansfield did not want Marshall to know about the letter or the unexpected meeting with Ackerman the night of the benefit. After all, Marshall had been talking about letting Ackerman back into the 'Inner Circle' and Mansfield would do anything to stop that from happening.

"Ackerman?" Mansfield asked hopefully.

"`Fraid not," old Simon said. "Still haven't received anything from that name."

"Then what's that?" Mansfield asked disappointedly, pointing to the other letter in Simon's hand.

"We finally received a letter from one of the people on the list you gave me a few years back," Simon said. "I was a bit shocked when I finally saw a familiar name on this envelope."

Soon after the discovery of the comet, Mansfield put together a list of names of everybody associated with the secret. He gave the list to Simon on the off chance one of these people would actually write to the President.

Simon handed the letter to Mansfield, who looked at the return address and saw the name Emily Peterson. The Chief of Staff immediately recalled Neil's daughter.

What could she possibly be writing to the President about?

He opened the letter and slowly read through it, becoming enraptured by the simple innocence of the young girl's words.

"Is everything okay?" Simon asked.

Mansfield folded up the letter and put it back in the envelope.

"Everything is fine," he said and walked out of the mailroom.

Mansfield headed into the Oval Office and found President Marshall talking with his secretary, Mae. Mae saw the look of urgency on Mansfield's face and did not need to be told that the two needed privacy.

"What is it?" Marshall asked as soon as Mae closed the Oval Office door. Mansfield simply held up the letter. "Hmm, that's strange. I was going to call you in because of a letter as well."

The President held up a letter of his own but the Chief of Staff did not need to see the return address to know who it was from.