Static hissed loudly in his ear. This was the only sound more irritating than Marc's voice.

"---ry, sir. I know you --- --sy now, bu- ----- -- someone ---- -ust see you," the man on the other end of the phone said.

Must see me? Who knows where I am? Tyler automatically thought of the guest living in quarters close by and wondered if he could be the cause of an unannounced visitor. Could things go any worse?

"Someone is here to see me? Speak up, I can hardly hear you," Tyler yelled into his phone.

"- --n hardly he-- ---. think --- --- -etting bad recep---- --om in there," Marc's voice said through a mix of static. "-is important that --- see ---- --rson."

"Who is it?" Tyler asked, practically yelling into his phone. "Get rid of them for me, I don't feel like seeing anybody right now."

"- can't do that, sir. They say -- -- -rgent that you ---- outside right now," Marc responded.

"Is it someone from the media?" Tyler asked. The media finding out about Tyler's secret project was just as big a threat as his stockholders finding out. The space station project and the saga surrounding it had been a headline for years now and helped provide a certain amount of cover for Tyler's project. With the media camped out in two different locations in the Arizona desert, Tyler's fear of being discovered in rural Washington was low.

"No, -- ----worth. -- -- not the media. It is a much more serious ------ --an that."

Short of the entire board of trustees of Ainsworth Industries, Tyler could not think of anyone causing a more serious situation than the media. Nobody should be able to get inside of the construction hangar, let alone come all the way to where Tyler was holed up.

"Okay, keep whoever's here outside the main gates," Tyler yelled into his phone. "I'm on my way out."

Tyler closed his phone without waiting for Marc's response. He opened the heavy metal door to his room, cringing at the loud creaking noise it made. No matter how much grease he put in the door's hinges, the loud squealing never went away. Tyler was already stressed out enough so the last thing he wanted was to be hit with a hundred questions by his fellow "houseguest," who was in the room right next door. Tyler had enough of his own paranoia, let alone dealing with someone else's worries.

Thankfully, Tyler's guest did not appear. He walked lightly down the hall to avoid making more noise but each step reverberated off the metal walls of the hollow corridor. The hallway was dimly lit and Tyler could barely see anything during his walk through the intricate maze. The main lighting system had not yet been installed but Tyler walked this path enough times to do it blind.

He walked toward the back of the ship, taking the staircase to the lower level. Tyler always forgot how long it took to follow this path inside the massive ship and suddenly worried that Marc would not be able to stall the visitor at the front gate.

Tyler emerged from the construction ramp located near the bow of the craft and hopped onto his golf cart. The huge construction hangar was eerily empty, or so he thought. Before he drove away, he spotted four men at the far end of the building. Three of them walked quickly toward Tyler and the ship, dressed in some sort of military attire. They were far enough away to be unrecognizable but he certainly knew the identity of the fourth man. Marc hurriedly tried to catch up to the other three, the small man's jog no match for the others.

I wonder if these are the new security guards Marc hired. Nice touch on the uniforms, that should keep any nosy kids away, Tyler thought.

Local punks were the only trouble the construction site ever had to deal with. Kids had actually sneaked into the facility one night and spray-painted the outside of the hangar but hadn't been able to break inside. Marc hired new, tighter security, yet another expense that was draining his ever diminishing funds. At least by the looks of these men, Marc had done a good job at finding guards who dressed the part.

As the three men approached even closer, Tyler could hear Marc yelling at them, telling them to slow down and leave the building at once.

I don't care if they are in charge of security. I still want as few people to see what's inside this hangar as possible. Just like Marc not to be able to control the men who work for him, Tyler thought, shaking his head. Tyler never had trouble getting his workers in line, though. A little yelling and threatening from the man who paid your check always had its way of solving insubordination.

"Excuse me," Tyler yelled as the men approached. His words echoed in the huge hangar. "You're not allowed in here. This is a restricted area, even if you do work security on this site. If you don't leave now, you will be fired immediately."

The men on the left and right could have almost passed for twins. They were the same height, a few inches above six feet, and appeared to be similarly well chiseled. Their square jaws and short buzz-cuts gave them a no-nonsense kind of look. Their military uniforms were well pressed and their boots so shiny that Tyler could see himself in them if he looked close enough. If the monstrous half-built vessel that hung in the middle of the hangar impressed them, they showed no sign of it. In fact, it did not seem to Tyler that the two men noticed the ship.

The man in between the two young men was completely different. He was an entire foot shorter and looked like he had thirty years on his two counterparts. His uniform was wrinkled and disheveled, as if he placed little importance on his outward appearance. The older man had many more small medals and ribbons near the top of his shirt. Tyler knew little about the significance of military insignia but could tell the older man was the most important of the three. He must be the one in charge of the security brigade.

While the two younger men appeared uninterested in the deep-sea vessel, the third man could not take his eyes off it. Even when the men stopped a few feet in front of Tyler, the older man continued staring at the craft, paying little attention to Tyler.

"This is a restricted area. Your job is to guard the outside of this hangar. Now if you don't leave immediately, I'll have Marc find another security company to replace you," Tyler threatened.

The old man continued ignoring Tyler but the expression on the faces of the other two men finally changed. Tyler noticed insolent smirks from both guards, as if they gave no consideration to what he said. Tyler refused to take such disrespect from anybody, especially his own employees. It was time to make an example out of these three men.

"Don't you know who I am?" Tyler asked.

"You are Tyler Ainsworth and we could care less who's in charge of your security," the old man finally said, his gruff voice calm yet firm.

Marc had caught up to the other men. His face was red and sweaty, as the excitement of the situation and the strain of keeping up left him short of breath.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ainsworth. But I couldn't stop them," he said between deep gulps of air.

"Of course you couldn't stop them," Tyler said. "But I assure you, I can. You three are fired. I want you off the premises immediately. Marc, hire a better security staff next time."

The same smirk returned to the lips of the two larger men and this time, the older man joined them with a chuckle. Tyler had the feeling there was something he did not know.

"I haven't hired the security staff yet," Marc answered.

"Then who the hell are these people and why the hell did you let them in?" Tyler demanded.

The older man stepped forward and extended his hand. Hesitantly, Tyler accepted and was shocked to feel a vice-like grip. He attempted to surpress a pained grimace but from the dominant gleam in the older man's eyes, Tyler knew he had failed.

"Admiral Walter Matthews, United States Navy," the small man said. He made no attempt to introduce the two lower-ranked men that accompanied him. They were there clearly for 'muscle' reasons. "This is quite a vessel you've got here."

Tyler realized that things had indeed gotten much worse for him. He was unsure how to feel about the appearance of the military, but the government definitely knew about his operation now. Although it was impossible not to worry about the implications of the government's presence, Tyler at least had his 'ace in the hole.' He hoped that having highly classified, highly sensitive information would be his ticket to freedom from government oppression. As long as the government let him proceed with his project, Tyler would promise to keep that information a secret.

"Thank you," Tyler said. "But I'm sure you're not here to compliment me on my accomplishments. Why don't you just cut to the chase and tell me what you want?"

"A no-nonsense kind of guy, I can respect that," Admiral Matthews said. "I'm here to request that you come with me for a ride."

"Where to?"

The admiral looked at Marc, clearly not comfortable with the man's presence for this conversation. Although Tyler wanted to know where he was being taken, he did not want to send Marc away. Anything he could do to make the admiral feel discomfort only helped his leverage.

"I'm not at liberty to disclose that information right now," the admiral answered with the skill of a politician.

"Am I in some sort of trouble?" Tyler asked.

"We have some questions for you about your craft here that require immediate answers," the admiral responded.

Clearly absent from the admiral's answer was a response to Tyler's question concerning possible trouble.

"And if I decide it's not in my best interests to go with you?" Tyler asked.

Admiral Matthews turned to the men on either side of him. Both took their cue perfectly in stride and stepped forward. They loomed tall over Tyler and Marc, who would clearly be no match if things became physical.

"Let's just say it's in your best interests to come with me," the admiral said, firmness returning to his voice.

If he could somehow get into the vessel before the two big men caught him, Tyler could find a place to hide. The ship was so large and Tyler knew it so well that he was positive it would take weeks for these men to locate him. But he did not know the seriousness of the situation and did not want an entire military squad descending upon his construction hangar. It was better to take care of whatever problem he needed, especially since the information he knew would give him the upper hand.

"Out of respect for a man of your rank, I will come with you," Tyler said.

"I appreciate that, Mr. Ainsworth," the admiral said. "Please follow me."

The three military men turned and walked away, with Tyler following a step behind. Marc hurried to keep up with his boss.

"What should I do, Mr. Ainsworth? Should I call your lawyer?"

"Do nothing. I will take care of this," Tyler said loudly, so the admiral could hear him. He lowered his voice for his next request to his assistant. "Go on the ship and explain what happened to our guest. He will be wondering what happened to me. Make sure you stress that this isn't a big deal, I don't need him freaking out and getting worried."

"I will get right on that, sir. Anything else?"

"No, go do that now. Hopefully this doesn't take more than a few hours."

"I'm on my way," Marc said, leaving his boss's side and returning toward the ship.

"This is quite a remarkable ship," the admiral complimented yet again.

"You have no idea," Tyler responded. "Just wait until it's done."

CHAPTER THREE.

"I realize you have an incredible amount of obligations with your job. If anyone realizes the difficulty in balancing job responsibility and dealing with the secret we know, it's me," President George Marshall explained. "But I want this project to be top on your list. It's just about the most important task any of us have and I trust nobody more than you to do it right."

Peter Mansfield sat across from the President in the Oval Office, wondering if any excuse could get him out of this. He was the prime candidate for this task but had never given much consideration to the possibility of being chosen for it. Power was something Mansfield always craved but this kind of power was far too God-like for the Chief of Staff's liking.

"I don't know, Mr. President. I realize that one of us has to do it but I'm not sure how I feel about being the one," Mansfield said skeptically.

President Marshall was surprised to hear Mansfield's reluctance. The President stood from his chair and walked around his large desk. He crossed the room to his small liquor table, where he poured a glass of cognac for each of them. Although the sun had only risen an hour earlier, neither man thought it was too early for a drink. He walked back toward his desk but stood next to Mansfield's chair, handing the second glass to his Chief of Staff. He took a longer than usual gulp.

"I have to say, Peter, I'm a bit surprised by your lack of enthusiasm," President Marshall said.

"It's not that I want to say no to you, sir, but-"

Marshall held up his hand to cut Mansfield off.

"Please, no apologies. And believe me when I say this: there is no way I would ever want to make this list myself, just as I'm sure James would not want to, either. We figured you would be okay doing it," Marshall said. "To be quite honest, I'm relieved that you have reservations about the whole thing. Most of the time, you seem I'm just going to come right out and say it heartless, like your emotions don't exist. I'm glad to see they've shown up this time."

"It doesn't pay to have emotions in this business," Mansfield said. "But this isn't just business. This is hand-selecting who will live and who will die, who will be given the opportunity to help continue the human race. I will be condemning millions of innocent people to death, millions of people who have done me no wrong or served no threat to my existence. I'm not a religious man, Mr. President, but even I realize the omnipotence of the situation."

President Marshall finished his drink and placed the empty glass on his liquor table. He walked back around his desk and sat down in his chair, feeling a bit lighter in the head.

"What should we do about this list then? We can't trust somebody outside of the 'Inner Circle' to handle it."

Mansfield finished his drink and placed his glass on the President's desk, making a louder bang than he'd meant.

"I'm not saying I won't do it, Mr. President. I know I'm the right man for the job. I just wasn't ready to be appointed this type of power," Mansfield said. "I will make decisions in the most business-like manner possible."

The President extracted an ultra-slim laptop computer from a drawer and slid it across his desk. Marshall briefly discussed the schematics of the computer, which would soon hold the list of the most important people in history: those chosen to continue life. A small LCD on the side doubled as a fingerprint scanner. The President explained that the computer would only power up if the machine scanned the thumbprint of Mansfield, Armour or himself.

"The census database and the entire FBI information base will be at your disposal. You will have detailed files of nearly three/quarters of the U.S. population at your fingertips. Fortunately we have some time to get this list together but the sooner we begin, the sooner we can finalize our plans. Shall we go over a few specifics? Please place your thumb on the scanner and open the computer. I have already made preliminary category lists of those that should be chosen."

Mansfield carefully placed his thumb on the small screen. The tip of his thumb momentarily glowed red as the scanner read his print. The computer beeped softly once and the computer whirred to life. At the main screen were three icons on the desktop, labeled CENSUS, FBI and MAIN LIST. Mansfield clicked on the last of the icons and a short list appeared on screen.

"There will be approximately 1,000 spots aboard the station. With Russian help costing us 250 of those spots, we are left with 750. As you can see on my list, there are a few categories I jotted down, including a corresponding number of estimated spots allotted for each group. I'm sure I missed a few groups of people; you are free to add or subtract numbers from each category as you see fit. I wanted to give you somewhere to start," Marshall said.

Mansfield perused the rough list the President prepared. It included a dozen categories of people vital to the possible success of continuing humanity. Living in an untested setting located in the harshest possible environment would be a true test of human resolve, a test that the human race could not afford to squander.

Scientists, doctors and members of the military made up a large part of the list's numbers, but there were two categories at the bottom labeled CITIZENS and SPECIAL. Mansfield did not know what the SPECIAL group entailed but he somehow knew these selections were going to be his toughest to make.

"I just hope the Russians choose the proper people to come aboard with us," Marshall said. "If 250 Russians decide to be uncooperative once they're on the space station, there could be hell to pay."

"Mr. President, I just hope the 750 Americans we select are understanding," Mansfield worried. "If people on board leave families behind and find out they'll never see or talk to them again, we could have a full-scale riot before Comet Clement ever strikes."

"I trust you'll choose the right kinds of people," Marshall said. "Everyone must sacrifice to a certain extent, for the sake of humanity. But it's your job to select people who won't be sacrificing too much. We are going to have a long struggle for survival. That's why it's imperative that you select strong people both physically and mentally."

This job would not only be mentally draining but also very time consuming. The criteria for choosing survivors would be much stricter than Mansfield originally anticipated. Finding a combination of young, strong, unattached men and women who possessed skills in a number of specific intellectual fields would not be a rapid process. While choosing people would be difficult, the most troublesome part would be the people he would not be able to choose.

Although President Marshall did not come out and say it, Mansfield read between the lines: nobody leaving behind close family members should be selected. In essence, Mansfield would be single-handedly destroying every family on the face of the Earth- "There's one more thing, Peter. In addition to the 750 candidates you select, I also want a list of a 250 more people. This list should comprise those not especially cooperative if in space, but could still be extremely valuable to a group of people trying to survive the disaster."

"I don't understand, sir. Why the need for a second list?" Mansfield asked.

Before President Marshall had the chance to explain the second list, his phone rang. The President pushed a button and activated the speakerphone.

"Yes, Mae?" Marshall asked.

"Sorry to interrupt you and Mr. Mansfield, sir, but Secretary of Defense Armour is here for your meeting on national security," said his secretary.

"Thank you, Mae. You can send James in."

Armour entered the Oval Office, reluctantly shaking hands with the Chief of Staff before turning to the President.

"It's good to see you, James," Marshall said.

Armour spotted the open laptop next to Mansfield. The Chief of Staff noticed Armour's glance and subsequently closed the computer screen. As was the case with so many others, there was no love lost between Mansfield and Armour, both of whom seemed to disagree on everything that dealt with the space station and Comet Clement.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," Armour said, glancing at his watch. "I'm a few minutes early. I can wait outside if you need privacy."

"Nonsense, Peter and I were just going over preliminary details regarding the list for the space station," Marshall said.

"I see," Armour said, turning to Mansfield. "I don't envy you for having that job."

"Somebody has to do it," Mansfield responded.

While Mansfield would occasionally confess his weaknesses to the President, he refused to admit vulnerability to anyone else. As far as he wanted James Armour to think, the job of making the passenger list would be an easy one for him.