Parallelogram : Chapter 03
By E. L. Zimmerman (ncc1205@aol.com)
Six Days, 21 Hours
"Finkle, huh?"
Exhausted, Frank Parker sat down on the steps that led up to the wooden porch, where the elderly black man kept rocking away in his chair.
"That's right," the old man answered, maintaining a complacent back-and-forth, back-and-forth rhythm in his creaking rocker. He stared quietly at the calm forest surrounding the eatery, and he added, "Ebdon Finkle."
"Ebdon?" Parker shot, not realizing how loud he had repeated the man's name. "Edbon AND Finkle?" Reaching up, he massaged his right shoulder. Characteristic of any Backstep, it had begun to ache. Olga had wanted him to enroll in some physical therapy, but he remembered, with a smile, when she had slapped him at the suggestion of what physical therapy he needed most. "My, my. Those are two rare fixtures, Ebdon, this being the twenty-first century and all." Immediately, recalling his manners, the chrononaut turned and extended his hand up toward the gentleman. "Nice to meet you. Officially."
Smiling, Ebdon Finkle reached down and gripped Parker's hand warmly. "Well, officially, it's nice to meet you, Mister - ?"
"Uh," Parker stumbled, trying to find the right words. He had been trained, in these situations, to release as little information about himself as possible, but he felt a need to respond to a polite question. After all, what could a name hurt?
"Frank," he finally surrendered.
"No last name?"
"You don't want to know," he mumbled. "Actually, it's better for you if you don't."
"Why's that?"
"Just the way it is, my friend."
"That doesn't make much sense," Ebdon observed.
"I get that a lot," Parker replied, smiling up at him.
"I'll bet you do," the old man said, returning to glancing around his property as he rocked away comfortably. "Especially, if that's the way you introduce yourself. Why, Matilda and I raised all four of our children to introduce themselves in the proper way, giving out a first and last name, and always, always, giving a stranger a firm but friendly handshake. That's all you have in the world, when all's said and done, Frank. We've all got nothing to offer but a firm and friendly handshake ... along with a proper introduction."
Parker set his helmet down on the step beside him. "You'll have to forgive my manners, Ebdon. I'm kind of ... kind of a recluse. Goes with the territory, if you know what I mean."
"Can't say that I do."
"Don't worry," Parker said, "I won't be here long enough to offend anyone else."
"Friends coming to get you, are they?" the old man asked.
"That's right," Parker answered. "They should be along any minute. Scout's honor. I'll be out of your hair and off this porch in no time."
"These friends of yours?" the man persisted. "Do they know your last name?"
Smiling, Frank glanced up at the elderly business owner. "You just won't give up, will you?" Receiving no response, he surrendered, "Parker. Frank Parker." Leaning closer to the man, he added, "Do me a favor? Don't tell anyone that I told you."
Ebdon stopped rocking for a moment. "Son, why in the name of all that is sacred on this green Earth would anybody care?"
Laughing, Parker found perfect logic in the old man's common sense. "I guess I never thought of it that way, Ebdon."
"Mr. Finkle," he corrected. "See, now that I know we both have last names, I say we use 'em."
With that, the old man resumed his rocking.
"You're not a helicopter pilot," Ebdon announced, not looking at the chrononaut but, instead, studying the helmet.
"How do you know that?"
"That's no helicopter pilot's helmet," the man explained, pointing at it. "I've ridden in a helicopter. Took one of those rides at the State Fair. Flew over the entire fairgrounds. Granted, it was a couple of years back. Helicopter pilots, they wear more of a headset, not a helmet. You know? Kind of like big electronic ear muffs. They're insulated to cut down of the noise produced by the rotor, and they also provide for the earpieces to a radio communication system. A microphone stretches down, usually from the left earpiece. It curls around right to the front of the pilot's mouth. That's what helicopter pilots wear." Again, he pointed at the helmet. "That thing you have there ... well, that looks kind of like the one Neil Armstrong wore when he stepped out on the moon in 1969."
Suppressing a laugh, Parker realized he couldn't compromise the project, himself, or his mission. "I've got to hand it to you, Ebdon. There's no pulling a fast one on you. This here?" He held up the helmet for a second. "It's an experimental model. Top secret. Very hush-hush."
"How so?"
"Well," Parker began, "if I told you, then it wouldn't be a secret, now would it?"
For a second, the man stopped rocking. He studied Parker's smile for several moments. Slowly, he resumed. "I guess you're right about that."
Lifting his head, Parker could make out the sound of trucks roaring in the distance. Tilting his head, he also thought he heard the whirling blades of a helicopter ... maybe two ... on approach to his location.
'Strange,' he thought. 'Talmadge has never endorsed that kind of manpower being dispatched previously ... but, then again, that phone call wasn't exactly routine either.'
Parker felt a nudge on his shoulder.
He turned to look. To his surprise, Ebdon Finkle was holding out a handkerchief.
"You're bleeding," the man said simply.
Brushing the back of his palm under his nose, Parker glanced down at the fresh blood that stained his hand. "Oh," he replied. "Yeah. That happens ... uh ... when I put it down too fast. Air currents. Turbulence. Stuff like that."
"An experimental helicopter?" Ebdon tried.
"I don't think I said it was an experimental helicopter," Parker admitted, taking the handkerchief and dabbing under his nose and around his eyes, the more common points of cellular weakening. "I said I was wearing an experimental helmet. That's all."
Curious, he glanced up at the elderly rocker. "Thanks for the handkerchief, by the way."
"Don't mention it," Ebdon replied. "I don't want it to nauseate my customers."
"Your customers?"
Parker suddenly noticed about a dozen faces pressed against the glass, staring out from their dinner tables at him.
"I wouldn't want the sight of blood to make them sick to their stomachs," Ebdon continued. "That wouldn't be good for business."
"No," Parker agreed. "It wouldn't."
Suddenly, several massive green Army trucks swung into view from deep around the curve, coming from the direction Frank Parker had hiked a few hours earlier. They were rapidly bearing down on Finkle's Gas and Grill. Squinting, Parker could make out several armed soldiers hanging off the rear of each truck.
Armed soldiers.
Heading this way.
"What the hell?" Parker asked, rising.
"Are these your friends?" Ebdon asked, stopping his rocker as he leaned forward to study the virtual platoon arriving on his property.
Slowly shaking his head, Parker answered with the only words he could bring to mind: "I guess so."
As the trucks ground to a halt on the dirt shoulder, two black Apache helicopters soared just over the rooftop of the Gas and Grill. They roared loudly, shaking the windows of the establishment, and Parker had to steady himself from being blown over in the ruckus. The armed soldiers leapt from the rear of the trucks. Immediately, they scrimmaged, taking up the formation of a line quarantining the Gas and Grill from any approaching motorists. The passenger door of the lead truck opened, and an officer wearing a pressed uniform hopped down to the gravel, marching toward the porch.
"This isn't right," Parker muttered.
"What's that?"
"Nothing, Ebdon," the chrononaut said. "You ... you just stay where you are. Don't get up. Don't make any sudden moves. Do you hear me?"
"Why shouldn't I get up?" he asked. "They're on my property."
"Just don't get up," Parker insisted. "I don't want to responsible for your safety if one of these recruits gets trigger happy on us. Understand?"
"Whatever you say, Frank."
Two soldiers suddenly flanked the smartly dressed officer marching up to the porch of the Gas and Grill. The soldiers immediately raised their rifles, bearing down on the Frank Parker, specifically zeroing in on the precise spot where the chrononaut stood.
Nervous, Parker took a step sideways to cut them off from targeting Ebdon Finkle.
"A simple ride would've sufficed, fellows," Parker tried, as the trio came to a halt directly in front of him. "No need for the military escort."
The officer was young. His face was unwrinkled by the vagaries of age or maturity that typically marked seasoned military personnel. His lips were drawn tight over his teeth, and he didn't smile when he asked, "Are you Frank Parker?"
Slowly, Parker nodded. "If it'll get your men to lower their weapons, I'll answer to the name of Betty Boop." He jerked his head in the direction of the restaurant behind him. "There are people in there, sir. They don't need to be frightened any more than I do."
This time, the officer smiled. When he spoke, however, he screamed.
"ARE YOU FRANK PARKER?"
Realizing that he was in the middle of a situation he couldn't begin to understand, Parker deliberately replied, "I'm Frank Parker. Former CIA. Currently assigned to Project Backstep, reporting to Bradley Talmadge, who seems to have outdone himself on this practical joke, if I may say so."
Gesturing for his escorts to move in, the officer answered, "For the record, sir, there's absolutely no scientific possibility that you're Frank Parker."
"What?"
"Seize him. Get a lock-down this establishment. I want Parker under arrest, and take the old man with him."
Moving in, one of the armed guards barked, "Sir, we are placing you under military arrest."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Parker protested, raising his hands, palms out, at the advancing men. "I already told you. The joke's on me, and it's gone far enough already."
"Sir, this is no joke, sir," the guard snapped.
"Where's Donovan?" Parker demanded.
The officer in charge held up his hand, and the soldiers stopped.
"Where's Donovan?" Parker repeated. "Commander Craig Donovan? Where is he?"
"Mr. Parker or whomever you are," the officer began, "I'm going to ask you only once to keep your mouth closed and your opinions to yourself. If you resist arrest, I have orders to respond with extreme prejudice out of concern for our national security. My men will shoot you at my command." Grimacing, he looked the chrononaut over. "I certainly hope that you won't let it come to that for the sake of this old man and his customers."
"Now you listen to me," Parker taunted, taking one step forward, "and I'll make this perfectly clear. I'm not going anywhere until I speak directly to either Bradley Talmadge or Commander Craig Donovan."
The officer nodded.
Frank Parker felt the butt of a soldier's rifle whack across the rear of his neck. Stars erupted in his vision as he sensed his knees weakening. He dropped forward, closing his eyes, and fell face-first into the dirt, unconscious.
END of Chapter 03
By E. L. Zimmerman (ncc1205@aol.com)
Six Days, 21 Hours
"Finkle, huh?"
Exhausted, Frank Parker sat down on the steps that led up to the wooden porch, where the elderly black man kept rocking away in his chair.
"That's right," the old man answered, maintaining a complacent back-and-forth, back-and-forth rhythm in his creaking rocker. He stared quietly at the calm forest surrounding the eatery, and he added, "Ebdon Finkle."
"Ebdon?" Parker shot, not realizing how loud he had repeated the man's name. "Edbon AND Finkle?" Reaching up, he massaged his right shoulder. Characteristic of any Backstep, it had begun to ache. Olga had wanted him to enroll in some physical therapy, but he remembered, with a smile, when she had slapped him at the suggestion of what physical therapy he needed most. "My, my. Those are two rare fixtures, Ebdon, this being the twenty-first century and all." Immediately, recalling his manners, the chrononaut turned and extended his hand up toward the gentleman. "Nice to meet you. Officially."
Smiling, Ebdon Finkle reached down and gripped Parker's hand warmly. "Well, officially, it's nice to meet you, Mister - ?"
"Uh," Parker stumbled, trying to find the right words. He had been trained, in these situations, to release as little information about himself as possible, but he felt a need to respond to a polite question. After all, what could a name hurt?
"Frank," he finally surrendered.
"No last name?"
"You don't want to know," he mumbled. "Actually, it's better for you if you don't."
"Why's that?"
"Just the way it is, my friend."
"That doesn't make much sense," Ebdon observed.
"I get that a lot," Parker replied, smiling up at him.
"I'll bet you do," the old man said, returning to glancing around his property as he rocked away comfortably. "Especially, if that's the way you introduce yourself. Why, Matilda and I raised all four of our children to introduce themselves in the proper way, giving out a first and last name, and always, always, giving a stranger a firm but friendly handshake. That's all you have in the world, when all's said and done, Frank. We've all got nothing to offer but a firm and friendly handshake ... along with a proper introduction."
Parker set his helmet down on the step beside him. "You'll have to forgive my manners, Ebdon. I'm kind of ... kind of a recluse. Goes with the territory, if you know what I mean."
"Can't say that I do."
"Don't worry," Parker said, "I won't be here long enough to offend anyone else."
"Friends coming to get you, are they?" the old man asked.
"That's right," Parker answered. "They should be along any minute. Scout's honor. I'll be out of your hair and off this porch in no time."
"These friends of yours?" the man persisted. "Do they know your last name?"
Smiling, Frank glanced up at the elderly business owner. "You just won't give up, will you?" Receiving no response, he surrendered, "Parker. Frank Parker." Leaning closer to the man, he added, "Do me a favor? Don't tell anyone that I told you."
Ebdon stopped rocking for a moment. "Son, why in the name of all that is sacred on this green Earth would anybody care?"
Laughing, Parker found perfect logic in the old man's common sense. "I guess I never thought of it that way, Ebdon."
"Mr. Finkle," he corrected. "See, now that I know we both have last names, I say we use 'em."
With that, the old man resumed his rocking.
"You're not a helicopter pilot," Ebdon announced, not looking at the chrononaut but, instead, studying the helmet.
"How do you know that?"
"That's no helicopter pilot's helmet," the man explained, pointing at it. "I've ridden in a helicopter. Took one of those rides at the State Fair. Flew over the entire fairgrounds. Granted, it was a couple of years back. Helicopter pilots, they wear more of a headset, not a helmet. You know? Kind of like big electronic ear muffs. They're insulated to cut down of the noise produced by the rotor, and they also provide for the earpieces to a radio communication system. A microphone stretches down, usually from the left earpiece. It curls around right to the front of the pilot's mouth. That's what helicopter pilots wear." Again, he pointed at the helmet. "That thing you have there ... well, that looks kind of like the one Neil Armstrong wore when he stepped out on the moon in 1969."
Suppressing a laugh, Parker realized he couldn't compromise the project, himself, or his mission. "I've got to hand it to you, Ebdon. There's no pulling a fast one on you. This here?" He held up the helmet for a second. "It's an experimental model. Top secret. Very hush-hush."
"How so?"
"Well," Parker began, "if I told you, then it wouldn't be a secret, now would it?"
For a second, the man stopped rocking. He studied Parker's smile for several moments. Slowly, he resumed. "I guess you're right about that."
Lifting his head, Parker could make out the sound of trucks roaring in the distance. Tilting his head, he also thought he heard the whirling blades of a helicopter ... maybe two ... on approach to his location.
'Strange,' he thought. 'Talmadge has never endorsed that kind of manpower being dispatched previously ... but, then again, that phone call wasn't exactly routine either.'
Parker felt a nudge on his shoulder.
He turned to look. To his surprise, Ebdon Finkle was holding out a handkerchief.
"You're bleeding," the man said simply.
Brushing the back of his palm under his nose, Parker glanced down at the fresh blood that stained his hand. "Oh," he replied. "Yeah. That happens ... uh ... when I put it down too fast. Air currents. Turbulence. Stuff like that."
"An experimental helicopter?" Ebdon tried.
"I don't think I said it was an experimental helicopter," Parker admitted, taking the handkerchief and dabbing under his nose and around his eyes, the more common points of cellular weakening. "I said I was wearing an experimental helmet. That's all."
Curious, he glanced up at the elderly rocker. "Thanks for the handkerchief, by the way."
"Don't mention it," Ebdon replied. "I don't want it to nauseate my customers."
"Your customers?"
Parker suddenly noticed about a dozen faces pressed against the glass, staring out from their dinner tables at him.
"I wouldn't want the sight of blood to make them sick to their stomachs," Ebdon continued. "That wouldn't be good for business."
"No," Parker agreed. "It wouldn't."
Suddenly, several massive green Army trucks swung into view from deep around the curve, coming from the direction Frank Parker had hiked a few hours earlier. They were rapidly bearing down on Finkle's Gas and Grill. Squinting, Parker could make out several armed soldiers hanging off the rear of each truck.
Armed soldiers.
Heading this way.
"What the hell?" Parker asked, rising.
"Are these your friends?" Ebdon asked, stopping his rocker as he leaned forward to study the virtual platoon arriving on his property.
Slowly shaking his head, Parker answered with the only words he could bring to mind: "I guess so."
As the trucks ground to a halt on the dirt shoulder, two black Apache helicopters soared just over the rooftop of the Gas and Grill. They roared loudly, shaking the windows of the establishment, and Parker had to steady himself from being blown over in the ruckus. The armed soldiers leapt from the rear of the trucks. Immediately, they scrimmaged, taking up the formation of a line quarantining the Gas and Grill from any approaching motorists. The passenger door of the lead truck opened, and an officer wearing a pressed uniform hopped down to the gravel, marching toward the porch.
"This isn't right," Parker muttered.
"What's that?"
"Nothing, Ebdon," the chrononaut said. "You ... you just stay where you are. Don't get up. Don't make any sudden moves. Do you hear me?"
"Why shouldn't I get up?" he asked. "They're on my property."
"Just don't get up," Parker insisted. "I don't want to responsible for your safety if one of these recruits gets trigger happy on us. Understand?"
"Whatever you say, Frank."
Two soldiers suddenly flanked the smartly dressed officer marching up to the porch of the Gas and Grill. The soldiers immediately raised their rifles, bearing down on the Frank Parker, specifically zeroing in on the precise spot where the chrononaut stood.
Nervous, Parker took a step sideways to cut them off from targeting Ebdon Finkle.
"A simple ride would've sufficed, fellows," Parker tried, as the trio came to a halt directly in front of him. "No need for the military escort."
The officer was young. His face was unwrinkled by the vagaries of age or maturity that typically marked seasoned military personnel. His lips were drawn tight over his teeth, and he didn't smile when he asked, "Are you Frank Parker?"
Slowly, Parker nodded. "If it'll get your men to lower their weapons, I'll answer to the name of Betty Boop." He jerked his head in the direction of the restaurant behind him. "There are people in there, sir. They don't need to be frightened any more than I do."
This time, the officer smiled. When he spoke, however, he screamed.
"ARE YOU FRANK PARKER?"
Realizing that he was in the middle of a situation he couldn't begin to understand, Parker deliberately replied, "I'm Frank Parker. Former CIA. Currently assigned to Project Backstep, reporting to Bradley Talmadge, who seems to have outdone himself on this practical joke, if I may say so."
Gesturing for his escorts to move in, the officer answered, "For the record, sir, there's absolutely no scientific possibility that you're Frank Parker."
"What?"
"Seize him. Get a lock-down this establishment. I want Parker under arrest, and take the old man with him."
Moving in, one of the armed guards barked, "Sir, we are placing you under military arrest."
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Parker protested, raising his hands, palms out, at the advancing men. "I already told you. The joke's on me, and it's gone far enough already."
"Sir, this is no joke, sir," the guard snapped.
"Where's Donovan?" Parker demanded.
The officer in charge held up his hand, and the soldiers stopped.
"Where's Donovan?" Parker repeated. "Commander Craig Donovan? Where is he?"
"Mr. Parker or whomever you are," the officer began, "I'm going to ask you only once to keep your mouth closed and your opinions to yourself. If you resist arrest, I have orders to respond with extreme prejudice out of concern for our national security. My men will shoot you at my command." Grimacing, he looked the chrononaut over. "I certainly hope that you won't let it come to that for the sake of this old man and his customers."
"Now you listen to me," Parker taunted, taking one step forward, "and I'll make this perfectly clear. I'm not going anywhere until I speak directly to either Bradley Talmadge or Commander Craig Donovan."
The officer nodded.
Frank Parker felt the butt of a soldier's rifle whack across the rear of his neck. Stars erupted in his vision as he sensed his knees weakening. He dropped forward, closing his eyes, and fell face-first into the dirt, unconscious.
END of Chapter 03