Chapter 12
Six Days, Eighteen Hours, Fifty Minutes
. under the control of his grasp on the joystick, Frank Parker tried to secure the Sphere's dancing guidance systems. His fingers white-knuckled under his gloves, burning, crying out in their own pain, he clenched his teeth tighter and tighter. He bucked to and fro, left and right, held loosely into the pilot's chair by crisscrossing safety belts. He was thrown forward, the air forced out of his lungs as his chest ran into the belts, and bursts of brilliant, violent white light flashed, interrupting his view of Chronometer, but now - this far along in the BackStep - he couldn't look away.
. lingering inside that white light, comfortably out-of-reach but familiar, he saw faces. Familiar. Troubled. Welcoming faces.
. he saw Bradley Talmadge. He saw the man's eyes wizened by years of service to his country, locking behind them secrets entrusted only to the nation's bravest souls. Bradley was speaking, and Parker watched as the man's lips moved with controlled precision. Parker couldn't make out what the director was saying, though he tried, and he wasn't certain that any of it was meant for him anyway. All he knew was that - by the look in Talmadge's eyes - something had gone terribly wrong.
. he saw Craig Donovan. He was running. Where was he going? Parker couldn't tell. He was running, fast, legs pumping, arms diving, and he held a silver nine-millimeter pistol in his hand. Donovan gripped the weapon as if holding on for dear life. His fingers flinched for a moment as he stopped running. He brought the pistol up to shoulder height, and he fired .
.he saw Olga.
. precious Olga.
. she was crying. Her hands were hard on her face, trying to hold back the tears for anyone else to see, but it was no use. The tears rolled freely down her face and onto her neck. He watched as her body convulsed, wracked with emotion, and then he saw several pairs of hands reaching out to catch her as she slowly dipped toward the floor. They steadied her, righted her, and, slowly, she nodded. She was okay, she was telling them. She was okay.
. finally, she pulled her hands away from her face, and Parker studied her watery, bloodshot eyes. She heaved a heavy sigh, her bottom lip quivering slightly. Then, she spoke, and, this time, he could tell undeniably what she was saying.
."Parker ."
***
"Mr. Parker?"
Startled, he opened his eyes.
"Mr. Parker?"
He shook his head, trying to clear the mental fog, and then he remembered freely that he had been drugged back at the arrival site. He recalled the hiss of gas flooding the cylinder, and - for a moment - he grew angry. None of this made any sense. Nothing. Not the arrival. Not his reception. Not this . reaction. His world - as it had been so many times previously in his travels through time - has once again - yet again - inevitably - been turned upside down and inside out.
'Again,' he thought to himself. 'How can this keep happening to me again?'
Reaching up, he placed his hands on the cold glass. Beyond his grasp was that face. Her face.
The woman. The one from the arrival.
What was her name?
Had she even told him?
"Mr. Parker?"
"Yes," he said clearly. He rumbled his throat as he shook his head again. "I'm awake. I'm awake."
She smiled down at him, her expression almost maternal. "How are you feeling?"
He rapping his knuckles hard against the thick plate. "More than a little like a goldfish."
"I'm sorry about that," she said, "but, given the circumstances, it couldn't be avoided."
"What couldn't be avoided?"
"Protocols," she continued. "We have protocols - well, now we do - for dealing with such contingencies."
"Yes," he agreed.
What was it she had said? Back at the arrival site? He lay in the tube, and she said .
"Temporal contamination?"
She nodded. "That's right."
Suddenly, he realized that she was no longer in the rubberized containment suit, and he decided that he must've been deemed 'an acceptable risk' so long as he was kept under glass. His mind still reeling and rolling - bobbing like a buoy on rough surf - he shook his head again violently.
"Wow," he muttered.
"Feels good, eh?"
"Talk about a hangover," he said. "The last woman responsible for getting me this hammered at least gave birth to my son. I feel like I owe you dinner and a movie." His eyes focused, and he looked up at her smiling face. "What was that you gave me? Some kind of super-Demerol?"
"I'm afraid that's classified, Mr. Parker."
"Didn't you check my wallet?" he asked. "I think I have the clearance, sweetheart."
Tilting her head, she pursed her lips. She lost herself in thought for a few moments, and finally she confessed, "It's complicated, Mr. Parker. Yes, you have clearance for the kind of work that you do . but I'm afraid I'd be violating more than one lifetime's worth of federally required oaths of secrecy if I told you the kind of work that I do for the NSA."
"I don't doubt it," he agreed, moving around slowly in his tube, feeling for any means of escape. "But . you can tell me that we're both on the same side . right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Sir?"
"Hmm?"
"Don't call me, sir," he stated flatly. "I've never liked it. Ask anybody."
"Whatever you say, Mr. Parker."
"And call me Frank."
"How's that?"
"My name," he told her. "You know who I am. Call me Frank. Now, if it won't cause you to violate any oaths you've taken, would you be so kind as to tell me who you are?"
Placing her palm on the glass, she explained, "I'm Nina Welles. I'm a doctor with Langley. I train field agents."
He reached up and pressed his palm against the glass where hers lay. "Train them to do what?"
"Sorry," she said. "That'd be another violation."
"Great," he spat. "Look, Nina, if it isn't too much trouble, could I get you to open this thing up and let me out of here? I'm starting to feel more than a little claustrophic."
Slyly, she shook her head. "You're going to have to do better than that, Frank."
"Would it help if I said 'please'?"
Wrinkling her nose, she shook her head again. "I don't think so."
"There has to be some way out."
"You'll be out soon enough," she admitted, glancing down at the watch on her wrist. Squinting, Parker saw its blinking face, but he couldn't make out the time. "We're on approach to your base of operations in Nevada."
He nodded at her. "Did you tell them that I was coming?"
"They're well aware of our situation."
Confusing, befuddled, Parker studied the inside of the glass tube with his eyes and fingertips. "I wish I could say the same."
"What's that?"
"Nothing," he replied.
"Frank, I'm afraid I'm going to have to put you back under for a while."
Defensively, he held up his hands, pressing his splayed fingers to the cold surface. "No!" he shouted. "No more of the happy place! Please! I'm begging you! My head feels like the football after the field goal attempt bounced off the uprights."
"I don't have any choice," she confessed, and he heard the sincerity in her voice. She really didn't want to do it - it was all a matter of following orders, and Frank Parker knew that responsibility all too well. "I promise you that this dosage will be much smaller. Director Talmadge needs you awake to undergo the debrief."
"Please," he tried, "I'll be good. Let me just lay here. I'll close my eyes and play like I'm asleep. Nobody has to know but the two of us."
"That won't do."
"I promise! I'll give it my best! No one has to know! Nina, just give me a chance!"
He heard the hiss of gas released inside the chamber, and, suddenly, he was overwhelmed with the flashes of light again. He saw the faces of his friends - the faces of his colleagues, his partners, his pals - and he knew that time travel was playing tricks with his mind again. He saw Olga. He saw her crying, and, for a change, he wanted to sleep.
"I'm sorry, Frank," and he knew by the sound of her voice that she truly was. If Dr. Welles was anything, she was honest. He liked that in a woman, and he hoped that she would always be honest with him.
"I'm really very sorry."
End of Chapter 12
Six Days, Eighteen Hours, Fifty Minutes
. under the control of his grasp on the joystick, Frank Parker tried to secure the Sphere's dancing guidance systems. His fingers white-knuckled under his gloves, burning, crying out in their own pain, he clenched his teeth tighter and tighter. He bucked to and fro, left and right, held loosely into the pilot's chair by crisscrossing safety belts. He was thrown forward, the air forced out of his lungs as his chest ran into the belts, and bursts of brilliant, violent white light flashed, interrupting his view of Chronometer, but now - this far along in the BackStep - he couldn't look away.
. lingering inside that white light, comfortably out-of-reach but familiar, he saw faces. Familiar. Troubled. Welcoming faces.
. he saw Bradley Talmadge. He saw the man's eyes wizened by years of service to his country, locking behind them secrets entrusted only to the nation's bravest souls. Bradley was speaking, and Parker watched as the man's lips moved with controlled precision. Parker couldn't make out what the director was saying, though he tried, and he wasn't certain that any of it was meant for him anyway. All he knew was that - by the look in Talmadge's eyes - something had gone terribly wrong.
. he saw Craig Donovan. He was running. Where was he going? Parker couldn't tell. He was running, fast, legs pumping, arms diving, and he held a silver nine-millimeter pistol in his hand. Donovan gripped the weapon as if holding on for dear life. His fingers flinched for a moment as he stopped running. He brought the pistol up to shoulder height, and he fired .
.he saw Olga.
. precious Olga.
. she was crying. Her hands were hard on her face, trying to hold back the tears for anyone else to see, but it was no use. The tears rolled freely down her face and onto her neck. He watched as her body convulsed, wracked with emotion, and then he saw several pairs of hands reaching out to catch her as she slowly dipped toward the floor. They steadied her, righted her, and, slowly, she nodded. She was okay, she was telling them. She was okay.
. finally, she pulled her hands away from her face, and Parker studied her watery, bloodshot eyes. She heaved a heavy sigh, her bottom lip quivering slightly. Then, she spoke, and, this time, he could tell undeniably what she was saying.
."Parker ."
***
"Mr. Parker?"
Startled, he opened his eyes.
"Mr. Parker?"
He shook his head, trying to clear the mental fog, and then he remembered freely that he had been drugged back at the arrival site. He recalled the hiss of gas flooding the cylinder, and - for a moment - he grew angry. None of this made any sense. Nothing. Not the arrival. Not his reception. Not this . reaction. His world - as it had been so many times previously in his travels through time - has once again - yet again - inevitably - been turned upside down and inside out.
'Again,' he thought to himself. 'How can this keep happening to me again?'
Reaching up, he placed his hands on the cold glass. Beyond his grasp was that face. Her face.
The woman. The one from the arrival.
What was her name?
Had she even told him?
"Mr. Parker?"
"Yes," he said clearly. He rumbled his throat as he shook his head again. "I'm awake. I'm awake."
She smiled down at him, her expression almost maternal. "How are you feeling?"
He rapping his knuckles hard against the thick plate. "More than a little like a goldfish."
"I'm sorry about that," she said, "but, given the circumstances, it couldn't be avoided."
"What couldn't be avoided?"
"Protocols," she continued. "We have protocols - well, now we do - for dealing with such contingencies."
"Yes," he agreed.
What was it she had said? Back at the arrival site? He lay in the tube, and she said .
"Temporal contamination?"
She nodded. "That's right."
Suddenly, he realized that she was no longer in the rubberized containment suit, and he decided that he must've been deemed 'an acceptable risk' so long as he was kept under glass. His mind still reeling and rolling - bobbing like a buoy on rough surf - he shook his head again violently.
"Wow," he muttered.
"Feels good, eh?"
"Talk about a hangover," he said. "The last woman responsible for getting me this hammered at least gave birth to my son. I feel like I owe you dinner and a movie." His eyes focused, and he looked up at her smiling face. "What was that you gave me? Some kind of super-Demerol?"
"I'm afraid that's classified, Mr. Parker."
"Didn't you check my wallet?" he asked. "I think I have the clearance, sweetheart."
Tilting her head, she pursed her lips. She lost herself in thought for a few moments, and finally she confessed, "It's complicated, Mr. Parker. Yes, you have clearance for the kind of work that you do . but I'm afraid I'd be violating more than one lifetime's worth of federally required oaths of secrecy if I told you the kind of work that I do for the NSA."
"I don't doubt it," he agreed, moving around slowly in his tube, feeling for any means of escape. "But . you can tell me that we're both on the same side . right?"
"Yes, sir."
"Sir?"
"Hmm?"
"Don't call me, sir," he stated flatly. "I've never liked it. Ask anybody."
"Whatever you say, Mr. Parker."
"And call me Frank."
"How's that?"
"My name," he told her. "You know who I am. Call me Frank. Now, if it won't cause you to violate any oaths you've taken, would you be so kind as to tell me who you are?"
Placing her palm on the glass, she explained, "I'm Nina Welles. I'm a doctor with Langley. I train field agents."
He reached up and pressed his palm against the glass where hers lay. "Train them to do what?"
"Sorry," she said. "That'd be another violation."
"Great," he spat. "Look, Nina, if it isn't too much trouble, could I get you to open this thing up and let me out of here? I'm starting to feel more than a little claustrophic."
Slyly, she shook her head. "You're going to have to do better than that, Frank."
"Would it help if I said 'please'?"
Wrinkling her nose, she shook her head again. "I don't think so."
"There has to be some way out."
"You'll be out soon enough," she admitted, glancing down at the watch on her wrist. Squinting, Parker saw its blinking face, but he couldn't make out the time. "We're on approach to your base of operations in Nevada."
He nodded at her. "Did you tell them that I was coming?"
"They're well aware of our situation."
Confusing, befuddled, Parker studied the inside of the glass tube with his eyes and fingertips. "I wish I could say the same."
"What's that?"
"Nothing," he replied.
"Frank, I'm afraid I'm going to have to put you back under for a while."
Defensively, he held up his hands, pressing his splayed fingers to the cold surface. "No!" he shouted. "No more of the happy place! Please! I'm begging you! My head feels like the football after the field goal attempt bounced off the uprights."
"I don't have any choice," she confessed, and he heard the sincerity in her voice. She really didn't want to do it - it was all a matter of following orders, and Frank Parker knew that responsibility all too well. "I promise you that this dosage will be much smaller. Director Talmadge needs you awake to undergo the debrief."
"Please," he tried, "I'll be good. Let me just lay here. I'll close my eyes and play like I'm asleep. Nobody has to know but the two of us."
"That won't do."
"I promise! I'll give it my best! No one has to know! Nina, just give me a chance!"
He heard the hiss of gas released inside the chamber, and, suddenly, he was overwhelmed with the flashes of light again. He saw the faces of his friends - the faces of his colleagues, his partners, his pals - and he knew that time travel was playing tricks with his mind again. He saw Olga. He saw her crying, and, for a change, he wanted to sleep.
"I'm sorry, Frank," and he knew by the sound of her voice that she truly was. If Dr. Welles was anything, she was honest. He liked that in a woman, and he hoped that she would always be honest with him.
"I'm really very sorry."
End of Chapter 12