Chapter 06
Six Days, Twenty Hours, Fifty-One Minutes
With Channing Michelson close on her heels, Olga pushed open the glass door and stepped into the Neverland's darkened Situation Room.
First, she saw Nathan Ramsey. The trim, thin-haired Chief of Security - his tie characteristically loosed about his neck - quickly held up his index finger to his lips, ordering her to remain silent. Beyond him, she saw Bradley Talmadge, Director of Project Backstep. He nodded at her briefly, the muscles in his jaw drawn tight, and then returned his attention to the viewscreen. She studied it, noticing the familiar visual indicators of the VID/COM/SAT link.
"What's happening?" she muttered to Channing.
"You know what they say about your guess being as good as mine."
Brusquely, Ramsey whirled on them and hissed a loud, "Shhhh!"
Quickly, they took their assigned chairs at the conference table.
"Agent," Talmadge interrupted, "if I may, I'd like to point out that two members of my operations team have joined us in conference."
The man on the screen - dressed entirely in a black suited in perfect round eyeglasses - held a finger to his ear, clearly pressing the audio source down so as to better hear Talmadge's words. Then, he nodded. "Thank you for the update, director."
Gesturing with his hand, Talmadge waved in Olga's direction. "This is Olga Vukavitch. She's our Chief Medical Officer. With her is Channing Michelson. He's the current chrononaut assigned to Backstep." After a brief pause, the leader concluded, "I'd like the both of you to meet Alberto Ruiz. He's a field agent for the NSA. Think of him as our eyes on the scene."
"Dr. Vukavitch?" Ruiz interrupted.
Sitting forward, Olga stared at the young agent's face.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," he said. "I've heard a great deal about the work you've done with the project. It's an honor to serve you and your teammates in this time of crisis."
Curtly, she nodded her reply. "There will be time for pleasantries later, Agent Ruiz."
"And Mr. Michelson?" Ruiz leaned closer to his video link. "Let me personally say that the work you've done for this country is beyond the call of duty - for any of us - sir."
Smiling, Michelson waved at the video monitor. "Make sure I'm on your list for Christmas cards this year, agent, and that's a good enough thanks for me."
Olga stared at the screen. Over Ruiz's shoulder, she made out field operatives dressed in pale blue pressure suits - contamination protective gear, she knew.
"Agent Ruiz," she began, "can you bring us up to speed on what's happened?"
Again, the agent stuck his finger in his ear. "You'll have to apologize for the delay in my report, doctor," he replied. "As you can see, I'm in the field, and the noise level is very distracting."
"There's no need to apologize, Albert," Talmadge interrupted.
"Of course, sir."
To her shock, Olga watched as more and more of the heavily-suited, heavily- protected personnel moved across the screen behind the NSA's agent. Several of them were marching in procession, carrying massive hoses that typically supplied -
"Oxygen?" she asked quizzically. "Mr. Ruiz, are those men supplying oxygen to some containment facility?"
Startled, the agent took a few steps backward, hoping to reveal the activity behind him. A massive plastic structure was under construction - suited men and women were sealing off what looked to be a simple structure - a house, perhaps a small shop - completely with quarantine materials.
"Yes, Dr. Vukavitch," Ruiz finally asserted. "We have here what we believe to be a Level Prime Temporal Containment Situation."
"Level Prime?"
From his spot at the conference table, Michelson let out a gasp. "That's - that's impossible."
"To the contrary, Channing - that's the highest degree of containment possible for operations even marginally associated to a Backstep failure," Talmadge added.
Rising, Michelson strode casually around the dark conference table. He approached the screen, reaching out to touch it as though he couldn't believe what he was seeing with his eyes.
"Don't get your dirty fingerprints all over the equipment, Michelson," Ramsey sniped.
Without so much as the turn of his head, the chrononaut shot back, "Shut up, Ramsey."
"Not now, gentlemen," Talmadge ordered.
The temporal technicians scurried about the screen. Their isolation tent was almost finished, and they were connecting the oxygen cabling to broad circular ports.
"If Olga's right," Michelson reasoned, pointing at the image, "and those men are connecting oxygen, that means that you're containing people inside that - that - that crypt, Bradley."
Gruffly, the director shook his head. "That's no crypt you're looking at, Channing."
"No?"
"Of course not."
"Then what is it?"
"Sir?"
Agent Ruiz broke in over the com line, his expression hopeful.
"Yes, agent?" Talmadge asked.
"If I may?"
The director chewed his bottom lip for several seconds. Finally, he agreed. "Go ahead."
Comfortable, Ruiz stepped center screen once more. "Gentlemen - and doctor - what you are looking at is what we initially believe to be a temporal disaster. It's precisely the kind of temporal event that the NSA Oversight Committee feared might happen once your backsteps became more commonplace. I'm not quite certain how to explain everything that I believe is of the utmost importance, but this situation requires the kind of time that perhaps not even an authorized backstep could fix."
"Bradley?" Olga burst out, no longer to stomach the partial explanations and intelligence doublespeak. "Please! Someone! Anyone! Tell us what's going on!"
Immediately, Ruiz barked into his collared microphone.
"We've discovered another Sphere."
The conference room fell silent.
"As I said, Olga," Talmadge tried softly. "It's codename - it's conundrum."
Michelson held up a hand. "Wait a minute, Bradley." He pointed at the screen. "Are you saying that - this entire operation - this is the result of Conundrum?"
Standing quiet, the director nodded.
"How is that possible?" the chrononaut demanded. "I mean - how is that possible - by any stretch of the imagination?"
"Channing, don't."
Everyone in the room turned toward Olga. Slowly, she stood. She realized that a glimmer of moisture she felt at the corner of her eye probably showed to all of them. She took a deep breath. Glancing at the screen, she watched as the technicians completed their task in attached air lines to the newly constructed containment facility. There wasn't a doubt in her mind that the facility was erected in record time - probably faster than the NSA Task Force Level Prime teams ever achieved.
"Olga," Michelson interrupted her fascination with the events unfolding on the monitor. "You tell me, sweetness - how is this possible?"
Calmly, she swallowed.
Simply, she said, "It's Frank Parker. That's how it's possible."
END of Chapter 06
Six Days, Twenty Hours, Fifty-One Minutes
With Channing Michelson close on her heels, Olga pushed open the glass door and stepped into the Neverland's darkened Situation Room.
First, she saw Nathan Ramsey. The trim, thin-haired Chief of Security - his tie characteristically loosed about his neck - quickly held up his index finger to his lips, ordering her to remain silent. Beyond him, she saw Bradley Talmadge, Director of Project Backstep. He nodded at her briefly, the muscles in his jaw drawn tight, and then returned his attention to the viewscreen. She studied it, noticing the familiar visual indicators of the VID/COM/SAT link.
"What's happening?" she muttered to Channing.
"You know what they say about your guess being as good as mine."
Brusquely, Ramsey whirled on them and hissed a loud, "Shhhh!"
Quickly, they took their assigned chairs at the conference table.
"Agent," Talmadge interrupted, "if I may, I'd like to point out that two members of my operations team have joined us in conference."
The man on the screen - dressed entirely in a black suited in perfect round eyeglasses - held a finger to his ear, clearly pressing the audio source down so as to better hear Talmadge's words. Then, he nodded. "Thank you for the update, director."
Gesturing with his hand, Talmadge waved in Olga's direction. "This is Olga Vukavitch. She's our Chief Medical Officer. With her is Channing Michelson. He's the current chrononaut assigned to Backstep." After a brief pause, the leader concluded, "I'd like the both of you to meet Alberto Ruiz. He's a field agent for the NSA. Think of him as our eyes on the scene."
"Dr. Vukavitch?" Ruiz interrupted.
Sitting forward, Olga stared at the young agent's face.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," he said. "I've heard a great deal about the work you've done with the project. It's an honor to serve you and your teammates in this time of crisis."
Curtly, she nodded her reply. "There will be time for pleasantries later, Agent Ruiz."
"And Mr. Michelson?" Ruiz leaned closer to his video link. "Let me personally say that the work you've done for this country is beyond the call of duty - for any of us - sir."
Smiling, Michelson waved at the video monitor. "Make sure I'm on your list for Christmas cards this year, agent, and that's a good enough thanks for me."
Olga stared at the screen. Over Ruiz's shoulder, she made out field operatives dressed in pale blue pressure suits - contamination protective gear, she knew.
"Agent Ruiz," she began, "can you bring us up to speed on what's happened?"
Again, the agent stuck his finger in his ear. "You'll have to apologize for the delay in my report, doctor," he replied. "As you can see, I'm in the field, and the noise level is very distracting."
"There's no need to apologize, Albert," Talmadge interrupted.
"Of course, sir."
To her shock, Olga watched as more and more of the heavily-suited, heavily- protected personnel moved across the screen behind the NSA's agent. Several of them were marching in procession, carrying massive hoses that typically supplied -
"Oxygen?" she asked quizzically. "Mr. Ruiz, are those men supplying oxygen to some containment facility?"
Startled, the agent took a few steps backward, hoping to reveal the activity behind him. A massive plastic structure was under construction - suited men and women were sealing off what looked to be a simple structure - a house, perhaps a small shop - completely with quarantine materials.
"Yes, Dr. Vukavitch," Ruiz finally asserted. "We have here what we believe to be a Level Prime Temporal Containment Situation."
"Level Prime?"
From his spot at the conference table, Michelson let out a gasp. "That's - that's impossible."
"To the contrary, Channing - that's the highest degree of containment possible for operations even marginally associated to a Backstep failure," Talmadge added.
Rising, Michelson strode casually around the dark conference table. He approached the screen, reaching out to touch it as though he couldn't believe what he was seeing with his eyes.
"Don't get your dirty fingerprints all over the equipment, Michelson," Ramsey sniped.
Without so much as the turn of his head, the chrononaut shot back, "Shut up, Ramsey."
"Not now, gentlemen," Talmadge ordered.
The temporal technicians scurried about the screen. Their isolation tent was almost finished, and they were connecting the oxygen cabling to broad circular ports.
"If Olga's right," Michelson reasoned, pointing at the image, "and those men are connecting oxygen, that means that you're containing people inside that - that - that crypt, Bradley."
Gruffly, the director shook his head. "That's no crypt you're looking at, Channing."
"No?"
"Of course not."
"Then what is it?"
"Sir?"
Agent Ruiz broke in over the com line, his expression hopeful.
"Yes, agent?" Talmadge asked.
"If I may?"
The director chewed his bottom lip for several seconds. Finally, he agreed. "Go ahead."
Comfortable, Ruiz stepped center screen once more. "Gentlemen - and doctor - what you are looking at is what we initially believe to be a temporal disaster. It's precisely the kind of temporal event that the NSA Oversight Committee feared might happen once your backsteps became more commonplace. I'm not quite certain how to explain everything that I believe is of the utmost importance, but this situation requires the kind of time that perhaps not even an authorized backstep could fix."
"Bradley?" Olga burst out, no longer to stomach the partial explanations and intelligence doublespeak. "Please! Someone! Anyone! Tell us what's going on!"
Immediately, Ruiz barked into his collared microphone.
"We've discovered another Sphere."
The conference room fell silent.
"As I said, Olga," Talmadge tried softly. "It's codename - it's conundrum."
Michelson held up a hand. "Wait a minute, Bradley." He pointed at the screen. "Are you saying that - this entire operation - this is the result of Conundrum?"
Standing quiet, the director nodded.
"How is that possible?" the chrononaut demanded. "I mean - how is that possible - by any stretch of the imagination?"
"Channing, don't."
Everyone in the room turned toward Olga. Slowly, she stood. She realized that a glimmer of moisture she felt at the corner of her eye probably showed to all of them. She took a deep breath. Glancing at the screen, she watched as the technicians completed their task in attached air lines to the newly constructed containment facility. There wasn't a doubt in her mind that the facility was erected in record time - probably faster than the NSA Task Force Level Prime teams ever achieved.
"Olga," Michelson interrupted her fascination with the events unfolding on the monitor. "You tell me, sweetness - how is this possible?"
Calmly, she swallowed.
Simply, she said, "It's Frank Parker. That's how it's possible."
END of Chapter 06