Instead of making his way to the podium, Marshall walked to the front row of construction workers. He stopped in front of two completely different men, who both stood up right away. The President first extended his hand to the taller of the two men.

"I'm George Marshall," Marshall said.

"Vladimir Maskaev. Happy to be meet you, Mr. President," the tall, handsome Russian said. Well chiseled and standing four inches over six feet, the blond-haired, blue-eyed Russian looked at least ten years younger than his true age of forty. His vice-like grip on Marshall's hand made the President wince in pain.

"The pleasure is all mine, Vladimir," the President said, gently rubbing his hand. "That's quite a grip you have there."

"Thank you," Maskaev answered.

"May I ask where you are from?" Marshall inquired.

"I grow up in north part of Moscow until I old enough to be joining Russia space program," Vladimir said. "Ever since, I live with my family to train where Russian's call Zvezdny Gorodok. My wife and two son still there now."

"That name sure is a mouthful," Marshall said. "Could you please repeat the name?"

"Zvezdny Gorodok. It is what Americans call Star City."

"Star City," Marshall repeated. "That's very appropriate. Thank you for sharing with me, Vladimir."

The President extended his hand to the Russian again, this time squeezing much harder in a feeble attempt to match the man's strength. Vladimir Maskaev sat down as the President slid over to the next man.

Even if President Marshall tried, he could not have found another man who looked more different than Vladimir. Barely five and a half feet tall, this man had brown hair and eyes and looked like he might weigh 150 pounds soaking wet. And unlike the handsome Russian, this man was ugly. Still, this man had a smile as wide as the President had ever seen and his handshake nearly matched the grip of the Russian's.

"And your name, son?" the President asked.

"Frankie Barnes, sir," the ugly man answered. "And I have to say, Mr. President, that besides the time I lost my virginity, I've never been as excited as I am right now."

There were a few quick, nervous laughs throughout the auditorium, as Marshall was momentarily taken aback. Most people Marshall interacted with assumed he lost his sense of humor the moment he was sworn into office. Laughter was just what this tense situation needed, though, and the President began to chuckle.

Frankie Barnes must have immediately regretted the comment, as his smile disappeared, his face turned red and he began apologizing profusely.

"I'm sorry, Mr. President. This is not the time or the place for such an inappropriate comment," Barnes tried explaining. "I have the tendency to talk too much and say the wrong things when I'm nervous."

"Believe what he says," Vladimir interjected, causing more laughter. "Frankie is never to be shutting his mouth."

"That's okay," President Marshall said once the laughter calmed. "There is no need to apologize for telling the truth. Although I find it a bit disturbing if Frankie is as excited around me as he was when around that poor, unfortunate girl."

The smile returned to Frankie's face. The rest of the men had a good laugh at their partner's expense. The construction workers relaxed when they realized the President was like any other normal guy. Frankie Barnes, on the other hand, still continued to blush. Marshall was not here to embarrass anyone so he continued with the point of his talk.

"Where are you from, Frankie?" Marshall asked.

"Philly," Barnes answered. "I mean Philadelphia, sir."

"And do you know Vladimir, Frankie?"

Barnes looked confused by the question, wondering if there was some sort of trick answer the President wanted. Barnes glanced at the Russian for help but Vladimir only shrugged.

"Don't worry, Frankie. This isn't a trick," Marshall said.

"Of course I know Vladimir," the ugly man responded. "Vlad and me are on the same construction team. That's Team 1, sir. Vlad here has taught me just about everything I'll need to know for working in space."

President Marshall smiled and Frankie was relieved.

"Thank you, Frankie. Now please sit down and relax," Marshall said, gesturing at Frankie's chair. The President finally walked over to the head of the auditorium, stopping in front of the podium.

"Vladimir and Frankie are the perfect example of what this project means. Moscow and Star City are very far away from Philadelphia, thousands of miles separating the two cities. Not only is the difference of location great, but the differences in nearly every facet of life. The people, the culture, the general way of life: it would be hard for you to find any two people with as different a background as Vladimir and Frankie. Yet they've come together..."

"...to begin a journey that could change the way people view the world," President Marshall said.

James Armour stood in the doorway to the auditorium, listening to President Marshall address the workers. After receiving more attention than the President upon entering the large room, the NASSA Chief stayed near the entrance, as far from the limelight as possible. Marshall was the speechmaker, proven by the fact that the men in the room focused solely on him. Besides, Armour's mind was on another matter at the moment, a matter with the potential for major national security implications.

Marshall had barely gotten into the heart of his speech when Armour felt his cell phone vibrate. Armour slowly backed out of the auditorium and walked down the empty hallway where nobody could hear him.

"Walter, what have you got for me?" Armour asked right away, uncharacteristically dispensing with pleasantries.

"This has been a tough nut to crack, James. And I do mean nut," Admiral Walter Matthews said. "This Ainsworth punk keeps insisting that his seacraft is for one use only: an underwater cruise line."

"That's the big government secret?" Armour asked.

"Apparently Ainsworth allowed this information to be leaked to his men so they would keep quiet about what they were doing. Ainsworth says he wants the announcement of the cruise line to be made only when the craft is totally completed and ready for business," the admiral said. "At least that's the story he's sticking with."

"But we don't believe that," Armour stated, assessing this opinion from hearing the admiral's mistrusting tone of voice. "Have you found any holes in his story? Anything that would lead you to believe Tyler Ainsworth is a threat to this country?"

"That's what has been so perplexing James. I've grilled him with questions, I've threatened him with treason, I've left him locked in a small room for hours. He hasn't eaten or drank or gone to the bathroom all day. I've used every tactic short of torture and to be honest, I'm surprised none of them have worked on somebody who grew up with a silver spoon stuck up his...well, you get the picture. He just won't crack, his story apparently won't change. And while he admitted to feeling animosity toward the government, he's vehemently denied that his craft was designed as any sort of weapon."

As Admiral Matthews spoke, Armour slowly paced the long hallway, trying to understand any part of Ainsworth's story. Armour had known the kid, even spoken with him a few times, and never recognized the potential for danger. But the explanation Ainsworth had given Admiral Matthews seemed nothing short of insanity.

"This underwater cruise line story is ridiculous," Armour thought aloud. "Nobody is foolish enough to sabotage their multi-billion dollar company and throw away hundreds of millions of dollars of their own money to risk on such a crazy, unprofitable venture. Ainsworth is way too smart to think we'd buy that story."

"I agree, James," said Matthews. "There is something about this entire situation that is awfully strange. I thought I was onto something at one point but he suddenly just about stopped talking."

"Why did he stop? What were the two of you talking about that made him clam up?"

"I don't really know, James," the admiral explained. "But you might have something to do with it."

"Me? I told you not to mention my involvement in any of this," Armour said.

"That's the strange part about it, James. I didn't mention you. Just before Ainsworth stopped talking to me, he told me that he would not speak with anyone else except you, President Marshall or Peter Mansfield. I've never met Mansfield before but I've heard he can be a real pain in the...well, I'm sure you've met him."

The mention of the three surviving members of the 'Inner Circle' hit Armour like a punch in the face. His heart felt like it turned to jelly and he immediately stopped pacing.

Could it only be a coincidence that Ainsworth would ask to speak to the three of us? Armour wondered. Speaking with me or the President made sense but why choose Mansfield?

Armour quickly faked a laugh before asking his next question.

"Did he say why the three of us?"

"Nope. He's crazy, that's the only conclusion I could come up with."

"Yeah, that must be it," Armour agreed, as a bead of sweat trickled down his face.

Armour sincerely hoped it was purely coincidental but something about the situation told him otherwise. Armour suddenly didn't know how he wanted this situation handled since he did not know Ainsworth's motives. The only thing he knew was he must tell the President this information right away.

"If that's all you have for me now, I should discuss this with some of my analysts to decide how to proceed," Armour said.

"Understood," Matthews answered.

Armour was about to end the connection when Matthews spoke once again.

"I just remembered one last thing, James. I doubt it has much relevance but Ainsworth mentioned a word a few times that he seemed to think was important," the admiral said. "Let me check my notes here to see if I can find it."

A lump formed in Armour's throat as he heard Admiral Matthews rifling through pages on the other end. One particular word popped into Armour's mind and he prayed that Matthews would not say it.

"Clement, that's what it was. I had a few of my men look into it but they came up with nothing. Does Clement mean anything to you?" Matthews asked.

It means that Ainsworth somehow knows of the deadly comet that is going to destroy the world. It also means that somebody in the 'Inner Circle' has some serious explaining to do.

"Yes, it does," Armour said. "It means that Ainsworth is probably too crazy to pose any immediate threat. I want you to keep him overnight and make him feel uncomfortable. But then release him in the morning."

"Release him?" Matthews asked, sounding surprised. "Are you sure that's a wise move with the potential danger his craft poses?"

"The craft is nowhere near completion," Armour assured. "Just make sure Ainsworth is watched. If he goes anywhere, follow him and keep me informed."

Armour disconnected the phone line and quickly walked back toward the auditorium, where the President still spoke. The NASSA Chief entered the auditorium and gave the hand signal for Marshall to wrap up his speech.

CHAPTER SIX.

MAY 17, 2015.

Colin McKay scrubbed the dishes with the same wrist action he used when throwing a curveball. At least that was what he pretended in order to make finishing his chores seem less boring.

Although Sunday was the day Colin's father expected him to clean the entire house, it was still the boy's favorite day of the week. Some members of the local high school's junior varsity baseball team practiced at the field just down the road from his house. Colin watched them practice for five Sundays in a row before he worked up the courage to talk to them. When he finally did, he was ecstatic when they told him to grab his glove and join in the practice.

Colin figured that a few of them let him play just so they would have someone to make fun of.

"Who let the midget join the team? Shouldn't you be home watching cartoons or something, kid?" a pale-faced redheaded boy teased.

Colin was embarrassed by the jokes, especially when a few of the other kids laughed. He played right field during that first practice and was relegated to shagging fly balls during their batting practice. Each member on the team took ten minutes of batting practice, trying to hit off a tall blond-haired boy who was the best pitcher on the team. The way the balls flew off most hitters' bats proved the best pitcher was still not very good.

No wonder everyone hits him, Colin thought all the way from right field. He barely has any velocity on his fastball and no break whatsoever on his curve. I faced pitchers as good as him when I played t-ball.

Once every member of the team got a chance to hit, the boys got together near the pitcher's mound and were about to end practice.

"What about the little kid? Shouldn't he get his turn to hit? I doubt any of our helmets would fit his tiny head," the redhead teased.

"Shut up, Sam. Do you always have to be such a jerk?" the pitcher said. "What about it, Colin? Do you want to get in a few swings?"

Everyone on the team stared at Colin. The team looked tired, they'd been playing for nearly three hours, and did not seem excited that their practice would be extended by one more hitter. Colin did not want to do anything to anger anyone.

"No, that's okay," he answered.

The practice broke up and the boys from the team began to leave in different directions.

"What's wrong, kid?" the redhead continued to heckle. "Afraid to hit against the big boys? We promise we'll pitch underhand to you so you can hit the ball."

Colin desperately fought back tears. He didn't know what he did to make this one kid hate him so much. He felt the urge to punch the redhead but realized that would do nothing to help. The redhead was much bigger than Colin but that didn't scare him.

"Maybe we should pitch underhand to you so you can hit better, Sam," the pitcher interjected. Sam stopped laughing and finally walked away. "Hey, kid. We play here every Sunday if you want to stop by again. And don't pay attention to Sam, he only made the team because his dad is a teacher at our school."

Colin sensed the pitcher was nice to him because he felt bad. The last thing Colin wanted from anyone was pity but he supposed it was better than rudeness. For the rest of the following week, Colin was undecided whether he wanted to return the next Sunday. Being put out in right field was a nice way for the older kids to get him out of the way. But Colin never played little league before-his father would never sign him up-so playing real baseball with anyone felt good.

At least good enough to risk another Sunday. Colin arrived at the baseball field bright and early that next Sunday, excited and nervous to play again with kids five years older than him. Most of the guys looked much more tired than the previous weekend and the pitcher whose name was Ted explained that they had a game the night before.

"Did you win?" Colin asked.

"Nope, our team doesn't win very often," Ted chuckled. "The best kids around here end up going to private schools. I actually pitched last night, got hit around pretty hard."

When the rest of the team arrived, the guys took their normal positions in the field.

"You better get out in right, youngster," the redhead said.

For the team being so tired, their bats sure were awake. Each person who took batting practice hit the ball much better than the week before. About halfway through the lineup, Colin watched as Ted stopped pitching and began to rub his shoulder.

"My arm is dead, guys," he called from the mound. "Does anyone else want to take over?"

Before the thought of volunteering even entered his mind, Colin's heart skipped a beat in his chest. Colin never pitched to an actual person before, even though he'd spent hundreds of hours throwing pitches against the tree in his backyard. He'd also studied the way major league pitchers threw, trying to absorb as much knowledge as he could on how to throw different pitches. Colin felt he threw well but the invisible batter in his backyard wasn't especially known for his batting average.

His mind told him not to volunteer but Colin's arm had a mind of its own, raising high into the air. When nobody else offered, Ted eventually saw Colin.

"You want to pitch, Colin?" Ted asked, clearly surprised. "Does anyone else mind?"

When there were no objections, Colin jogged from the outfield to the pitcher's mound, feeling like a reliever coming in to save Game 7 of the World Series. The ball waited for Colin on the mound; he had never pitched from a mound before. He was also suddenly terrified that everyone would be watching him. He took a few deep breaths and tried to convince himself to pitch like he did when alone. His insides finally began to settle again when Colin saw who the next batter was.

"So, I get to face the midget first. I just hope you can reach the plate from all the way over there," Sam said as he stepped into the batter's box. "You guys in the outfield better move way back."

Colin stepped on the rubber and stared into the catcher's glove, concentrating totally on his target. He tried to ignore the batter but constant heckling made that nearly impossible.

"You can do this," Colin whispered to himself before going into his windup. Pitching from a mound for the first time felt strange and his first pitch sailed two feet over the catcher's head.

"Just a bit high, little man," Sam yelled from the plate. "Maybe you want to go back to right field now."