Von Neumann’s War

Ret Ball: I see. So the government is behind a cover-up of an ET invasion. Typical of them, Megiddo my old friend. Well, I’ll have to get my telescope out and go take a look at the red planet for myself! We will speak the Truth! No matter what forces come against us! You’re on the air…

Time: Present minus four months — loss of first U.S. Mars probe

“Well, Tom, you work for NASA, you tell us,” Roger said with a sly grin. “Alan and I are just lowly space defense contractors and wouldn’t know anything ’bout no NASA rocket science.”

Dr. Roger P. Reynolds was born, raised, and educated in his home state of Alabama. Although he was well known in the space reconnaissance community as somewhat of a space systems engineering genius, outside of those classified rooms you would never know it. In his late thirties with a runner’s build, a more seemingly stereotypical educated Southern redneck you could never find — right down to his slow Southern drawl and his Roll Tide necktie and ball cap.

“That’s right. Us here Huntsville Alabama hicks don’t know nuthin’ ’bout no rocket science,” Alan said in his best Southern drawl, laughing. Alan Davis, unlike Dr. Reynolds, whom he thought of as “his sidekick,” was only first generation redneck; his parents had moved to Huntsville when he was seven. Now at thirty-seven years old there were still hints of his Yankee dialect in his speech. Alan had stayed a North Alabamian and gone through college at the local university earning master’s degrees in mechanical and electrical engineering before “going corporate” and getting a job doing mechanical and electrical engineering on space defense projects for the Space and Missile Defense Command and the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA).

“Why would all the probes there suddenly quit workin’?” Roger said more seriously as he swirled the pitcher of beer in front of him and started to pour more into his glass. The Hooters’ waitress passing by slapped him on the hand and took the pitcher away before he could pour a drop.

“That’s my job,” the slim brunette said.

“Ha, serious job security issues you got there, honey,” Alan said with a laugh as he offered his empty beer glass up as well. “Yeah, Tom,” he continued. “You tell us how that could happen.”

Tom leaned back on his stool and took a big draw from his beer glass. “Well, personally, I think we should nuke Mars now. There ain’t no electromagnetic phenomena or anything that could do it. Haylfahr, iffin’ it wore solar flares or somethin’, it’d be affecting satellites here at Earth,” he said in his horrible attempt at an Alabama accent.

Thomas Conley Powell, Ph.D., was a Californian only recently transplanted to North Alabama. Tom was the elderly “gray beard” of the bunch. In his early fifties and with slightly graying dark hair he represented an archetype of overeducated academician who would rather spend his time solving fourth order sets of coupled differential equations than eating when he was hungry. He was originally from the California Institute of Technology and had been transferred from the Jet Propulsion Laboratory. So, the Alabama “hicks” had to give the “expert rocket scientist from JPL” a hard time.

“ ‘I don’t know’ is the only answer I can come up with, guys,” he said seriously. “And you’re not the only ones asking, trust me.” With that, Tom shrugged and hit his beer again.

“You know, I’ve been catchin’ up on some of my newsgroups the past few days,” Roger mused. “And the weirdest thing is that some of the amateur astronomy groups are saying that the actual color of Mars is changing. Now, I don’t know that I believe that since that would require some major changes in either the surface or the atmosphere of the planet.” Roger grabbed a buffalo wing by both ends and twisted it counterclockwise, then pulled both bones from it leaving nothing but the meat of the chicken wing in one strip. He dipped it in the hot sauce and then in the ranch dressing in front of him. “I guess we could calculate the surface change requirements, if we knew the extent of change that was being claimed.”

“I don’t think I believe that shit,” Alan replied.

“No, the calcuflation fwool be feasy,” Roger said with a mouthful of buffalo wing.

“No, you idiot,” Alan said. “I don’t believe the color of Mars is changing.”

“Well, that part I’m not sure about either. But I know that we ain’t talking to any of our probes there anymore.” Tom tried the trick with a wing and it squirted out of his hands and onto the floor. “Shit!”

“I got it,” their waitress said, swaying over to wipe up Tom’s mess.