Chapter 24
*** At the same time ***
Agent Alberto Ruiz always knew that – regardless of how placed he played the stateside intelligence game – his days were numbered.
It was the nature of the business for the NSA. One day, you're working deep cover in joint collaboration with the Federal Bureau of Investigation and state law enforcement authorities, and the next your name is on the mob's 'most wanted' hit list. Your cover is blown, and you're now not only a risk to yourself – your family, your friends, your loved ones – but also you're a risk to the national security of the agency you've sworn an oath to serve. You're suddenly a fugitive in your own country, never knowing whom to trust or for how long.
Could it be that the NSA assassinated their operatives? He had always known that – despite his high field rankings – he was expendable. What was it that Winston Churchill had said? "The graveyards are full of men who thought they weren't expendable." Or something like that. He accepted the truth as he moved up in a fast career path through the Agency ... quickly jumping in Black Ops once the opportunity presented itself ... quickly taking a desk job for the NSA at the recommendation of a senior officer ... and, now, serving as a 'cleaner' for covert ultra-sensitive government funded clandestine programs.
Long ago, he had heard about BackStep. Granted, at that point, almost every possible 'black' program was a rumor. Time travel. Extraterrestrial visitation. Wormholes. Remote viewing. Multiple dimensions. For every conspiracy, there was an unheard of government committee, or, if it had a name, it was something incredibly benign ... like 'The Office for Interdepartmental Transportation.' Sure, it sounded like little more than a tax-payer sponsored travel agency, but, in reality, the men and women assigned to the office dealt almost exclusively in exploring and extrapolating on the hundreds of theories of traveling to alternate timelines. Had they been successful? Ruiz had no way of knowing, but the existence of an organized committee almost guaranteed an agenda, the agenda almost guaranteed testing, and testing almost guaranteed results ... positive or negative.
Once aboard the NSA, he learned about Montauk, the Philadelphia Project, Roswell, Corona, Paperclip, Majik, as his post in stateside 'cleaning' required that he have what information was necessary to deny the existence of such programs. Of course, he couldn't prove any of the programs existed, and, if he was certain that they did exist, he couldn't prove any of them were active ... with the notable exception of the work associated to the events of the downed flying saucer outside of Roswell, New Mexico, back in 1947. Of that program, he had absolutely no doubt.
Unfortunately, that program – he feared – was about to take his life.
Motionless, he lay on the hospital bed, studying the endless folds of the plastic sheeting that surrounded his containment area. His ears attentive, he listened to the beep-beep-beep of his heart rate pulsing out courtesy of the bedside monitor. He felt the sting of needles stuck deep into his arms, feeding fluids – he had no idea what they were – into his bloodstream in an attempt to contain his collapse.
Was it all a matter of time?
He smirked at the thought.
"Time," he whispered. "How ironic."
A nurse wearing a CDC-issued protection suit stepped through the sheeting and up to his bedside. She smiled, and he noticed how genuine her expression was. Briefly, he recognized her from his work in the field, and then it dawned on him.
"Agent Ruiz," Dr. Nina Welles said. "We meet again."
"You were at the retrieval site," he recalled.
Placing a heavily gloved hand on his forearm – a chill raced through his body – she glanced down at the various monitors. "How are you feeling?"
Blinking from the sting of sweat in his eyes, he forced a smile on to his lips. He hated to appear weak around anyone, much less a woman as beautiful as she was. He took a deep breath, held out his chest, and exhaled, hoping that the motion would force his body to relax.
"I always feel my best in the presence of a lady," he flirted coyly. "I feel especially interested when I'm in the presence of doctors."
She patted his forearm, slowly taking it away to adjust a knob on one of the machines. "Now, now," she replied. "I wouldn't want to have the director write you up for sexually harassing the help, but I am glad that you're feeling strong enough to flirt. That's always a good sign. Especially with men. It guarantees that you have a strong pulse by saving me the effort to have to check." Turning back to him, she smiled. "Are you experiencing any pain?"
Still blinking the salt from his eyes, he wished he could bring his hands up to rub them. Unfortunately, he was bound to the bed at the wrists and ankles. "A little, doctor, but nothing this morphine drip isn't helping under control."
"Do you have the control so that you can self-medicate?"
"I'm sorry?"
"The control," she repeated. Glancing across, she saw that his left hand gripped – in a kind of frozen desperation – the plunger that could increase the morphine into his own bloodstream. She guessed that, with even the aid of a crowbar, he wouldn't be letting that go.
"Oh, this," he said. "Yes. I'm sorry. Yes, I do have it."
"You know," she tried softly, "you can ease up on that piece of plastic." Again, she studied his eyes, hoping her kind words were bringing him some comfort. "It doesn't have any arms or legs. It isn't going anywhere. No one's going to take it away from you, agent."
"Please, call me Alberto."
She smiled. Suppressing her professional instincts, she reached up and gently stroked his sweat-covered hair. "Of course, Alberto. And I'd have to say that we have a winner! You're the first Alberto I've ever met."
"I feel privileged."
"I'm the one who should feel privileged, Alberto. You're doing God's work for your country. All I do is show up with a stethoscope. Every now and then, Uncle Sam throws me a bone and is more than happy to sign a paycheck. But you? You're a field agent. You get down and dirty when it counts the most. I feel humbled being allowed to stand in your presence."
Nodding in the direction of the monitors, Ruiz wondered aloud, "What do the machines tell you, doctor?"
"Nina," she offered. "If I'm calling you Alberto, then I don't want you feeling that you have to play rank on me, agent. Deal?"
"Thank you, Nina."
"These machines?" she began. "They're monitoring your heart rate. They're measuring your blood pressure. They're checking the balance of oxygen in your blood flow." She pursed her lips before concluding, "And I think you're smart enough and certainly man enough to know that they're telling me ... you're sick."
He stared back at her, his eyes stinging suddenly from more than mere sweat.
"But that's only what the machines tell me. What I need from you, Alberto, is to know how sick you really are."
He thought for a moment. Not wanting to appear weak, he stated flatly, "I'm having some chest pain. It's not constant, though. It comes and goes."
"Sharp pains?" she asked. "Or is it more of a dull ache?"
"Sharp. Very sharp."
"Center of the chest or all around?"
"All around, really."
"But they come and go?"
"Yes," he answered.
"Are you feeling any pain now?"
"No. Not right now."
She nodded. "What else can you tell me?"
"I have some dizziness," he confided. "But, like the pain, it comes and goes. You know? How do I explain this?" He glanced up. "Those plastic curtains? Occasionally, they're spinning when I look at them, and they remind me of waves in the ocean."
"That's because of your fever."
"Yes, I know I have a fever. I can tell from the sweat," he reasoned. "As a little boy, when I'd get sick, my mother always used to call me her 'little dripper.'" Glancing up toward his forehead, he added, "I can tell by the water flow that this is more than the ordinary fever, though."
"Yes, it is," she confessed.
"How high is my temperature, Nina?"
She grimaced slightly. "You appear to holding steady around 103."
"Is that bad?"
"It isn't good," she replied honestly, "but I suspect it's going to get worse."
He nodded. "I know what's happening, Nina. It's okay. You don't have to hide anything from me. I want you to tell me the truth. I'll tell you what I can because I hope that ... maybe ... well, maybe something that I tell you will give you some clue as to how to go about keeping this from happening ... to the others."
She tilted her head. "There are others sick, too, Alberto."
"How many?"
Sighing, she explained, "Nine."
"Nine?" he asked, incredulous.
She laid her hand on his head, stroking his temple with her thumb. "At present, nine. There are a few others who are showing some initial symptoms, but their symptoms haven't – and they don't appear to be – manifesting into anything greater than a viral reaction." Holding back what she wanted to say, she instead offered, "It's far too soon to tell, Alberto. Even for yourself. Let the doctors here do the work. You relax. You've earned it."
"Don't kid me, Nina," he warned softly.
"I wouldn't do that."
"I've seen what happens," he said, a hint of emotion breaking in his voice. "I know that it kills quickly. I've seen it happen. I knew the risks when I went into the field to recover Parker, and I wouldn't have done anything any differently."
Fiery needles suddenly wracked his chest, and he lunged in bed. The straps about his wrists and ankles kept him stable. Impulsively, he squeezed the button and took another injection of morphine into his bloodstream.
"That look like it hurt, Alberto."
Weakly, he smiled. "I've had worse."
She nodded. "That's my boy." Leaning close, she ruffled his hair. "That's exactly the kind of spirit I want to hear from any patient in this ward. Promise me you'll stay with us?"
The pain returned as quickly as it had washed over him only seconds before. He bit his lip, his chin trembling under the sensation, and then the needles were gone.
"Nina, I give you my word ... man to woman ... I'll do the best I can ... until the very end."
End of Chapter 24
*** At the same time ***
Agent Alberto Ruiz always knew that – regardless of how placed he played the stateside intelligence game – his days were numbered.
It was the nature of the business for the NSA. One day, you're working deep cover in joint collaboration with the Federal Bureau of Investigation and state law enforcement authorities, and the next your name is on the mob's 'most wanted' hit list. Your cover is blown, and you're now not only a risk to yourself – your family, your friends, your loved ones – but also you're a risk to the national security of the agency you've sworn an oath to serve. You're suddenly a fugitive in your own country, never knowing whom to trust or for how long.
Could it be that the NSA assassinated their operatives? He had always known that – despite his high field rankings – he was expendable. What was it that Winston Churchill had said? "The graveyards are full of men who thought they weren't expendable." Or something like that. He accepted the truth as he moved up in a fast career path through the Agency ... quickly jumping in Black Ops once the opportunity presented itself ... quickly taking a desk job for the NSA at the recommendation of a senior officer ... and, now, serving as a 'cleaner' for covert ultra-sensitive government funded clandestine programs.
Long ago, he had heard about BackStep. Granted, at that point, almost every possible 'black' program was a rumor. Time travel. Extraterrestrial visitation. Wormholes. Remote viewing. Multiple dimensions. For every conspiracy, there was an unheard of government committee, or, if it had a name, it was something incredibly benign ... like 'The Office for Interdepartmental Transportation.' Sure, it sounded like little more than a tax-payer sponsored travel agency, but, in reality, the men and women assigned to the office dealt almost exclusively in exploring and extrapolating on the hundreds of theories of traveling to alternate timelines. Had they been successful? Ruiz had no way of knowing, but the existence of an organized committee almost guaranteed an agenda, the agenda almost guaranteed testing, and testing almost guaranteed results ... positive or negative.
Once aboard the NSA, he learned about Montauk, the Philadelphia Project, Roswell, Corona, Paperclip, Majik, as his post in stateside 'cleaning' required that he have what information was necessary to deny the existence of such programs. Of course, he couldn't prove any of the programs existed, and, if he was certain that they did exist, he couldn't prove any of them were active ... with the notable exception of the work associated to the events of the downed flying saucer outside of Roswell, New Mexico, back in 1947. Of that program, he had absolutely no doubt.
Unfortunately, that program – he feared – was about to take his life.
Motionless, he lay on the hospital bed, studying the endless folds of the plastic sheeting that surrounded his containment area. His ears attentive, he listened to the beep-beep-beep of his heart rate pulsing out courtesy of the bedside monitor. He felt the sting of needles stuck deep into his arms, feeding fluids – he had no idea what they were – into his bloodstream in an attempt to contain his collapse.
Was it all a matter of time?
He smirked at the thought.
"Time," he whispered. "How ironic."
A nurse wearing a CDC-issued protection suit stepped through the sheeting and up to his bedside. She smiled, and he noticed how genuine her expression was. Briefly, he recognized her from his work in the field, and then it dawned on him.
"Agent Ruiz," Dr. Nina Welles said. "We meet again."
"You were at the retrieval site," he recalled.
Placing a heavily gloved hand on his forearm – a chill raced through his body – she glanced down at the various monitors. "How are you feeling?"
Blinking from the sting of sweat in his eyes, he forced a smile on to his lips. He hated to appear weak around anyone, much less a woman as beautiful as she was. He took a deep breath, held out his chest, and exhaled, hoping that the motion would force his body to relax.
"I always feel my best in the presence of a lady," he flirted coyly. "I feel especially interested when I'm in the presence of doctors."
She patted his forearm, slowly taking it away to adjust a knob on one of the machines. "Now, now," she replied. "I wouldn't want to have the director write you up for sexually harassing the help, but I am glad that you're feeling strong enough to flirt. That's always a good sign. Especially with men. It guarantees that you have a strong pulse by saving me the effort to have to check." Turning back to him, she smiled. "Are you experiencing any pain?"
Still blinking the salt from his eyes, he wished he could bring his hands up to rub them. Unfortunately, he was bound to the bed at the wrists and ankles. "A little, doctor, but nothing this morphine drip isn't helping under control."
"Do you have the control so that you can self-medicate?"
"I'm sorry?"
"The control," she repeated. Glancing across, she saw that his left hand gripped – in a kind of frozen desperation – the plunger that could increase the morphine into his own bloodstream. She guessed that, with even the aid of a crowbar, he wouldn't be letting that go.
"Oh, this," he said. "Yes. I'm sorry. Yes, I do have it."
"You know," she tried softly, "you can ease up on that piece of plastic." Again, she studied his eyes, hoping her kind words were bringing him some comfort. "It doesn't have any arms or legs. It isn't going anywhere. No one's going to take it away from you, agent."
"Please, call me Alberto."
She smiled. Suppressing her professional instincts, she reached up and gently stroked his sweat-covered hair. "Of course, Alberto. And I'd have to say that we have a winner! You're the first Alberto I've ever met."
"I feel privileged."
"I'm the one who should feel privileged, Alberto. You're doing God's work for your country. All I do is show up with a stethoscope. Every now and then, Uncle Sam throws me a bone and is more than happy to sign a paycheck. But you? You're a field agent. You get down and dirty when it counts the most. I feel humbled being allowed to stand in your presence."
Nodding in the direction of the monitors, Ruiz wondered aloud, "What do the machines tell you, doctor?"
"Nina," she offered. "If I'm calling you Alberto, then I don't want you feeling that you have to play rank on me, agent. Deal?"
"Thank you, Nina."
"These machines?" she began. "They're monitoring your heart rate. They're measuring your blood pressure. They're checking the balance of oxygen in your blood flow." She pursed her lips before concluding, "And I think you're smart enough and certainly man enough to know that they're telling me ... you're sick."
He stared back at her, his eyes stinging suddenly from more than mere sweat.
"But that's only what the machines tell me. What I need from you, Alberto, is to know how sick you really are."
He thought for a moment. Not wanting to appear weak, he stated flatly, "I'm having some chest pain. It's not constant, though. It comes and goes."
"Sharp pains?" she asked. "Or is it more of a dull ache?"
"Sharp. Very sharp."
"Center of the chest or all around?"
"All around, really."
"But they come and go?"
"Yes," he answered.
"Are you feeling any pain now?"
"No. Not right now."
She nodded. "What else can you tell me?"
"I have some dizziness," he confided. "But, like the pain, it comes and goes. You know? How do I explain this?" He glanced up. "Those plastic curtains? Occasionally, they're spinning when I look at them, and they remind me of waves in the ocean."
"That's because of your fever."
"Yes, I know I have a fever. I can tell from the sweat," he reasoned. "As a little boy, when I'd get sick, my mother always used to call me her 'little dripper.'" Glancing up toward his forehead, he added, "I can tell by the water flow that this is more than the ordinary fever, though."
"Yes, it is," she confessed.
"How high is my temperature, Nina?"
She grimaced slightly. "You appear to holding steady around 103."
"Is that bad?"
"It isn't good," she replied honestly, "but I suspect it's going to get worse."
He nodded. "I know what's happening, Nina. It's okay. You don't have to hide anything from me. I want you to tell me the truth. I'll tell you what I can because I hope that ... maybe ... well, maybe something that I tell you will give you some clue as to how to go about keeping this from happening ... to the others."
She tilted her head. "There are others sick, too, Alberto."
"How many?"
Sighing, she explained, "Nine."
"Nine?" he asked, incredulous.
She laid her hand on his head, stroking his temple with her thumb. "At present, nine. There are a few others who are showing some initial symptoms, but their symptoms haven't – and they don't appear to be – manifesting into anything greater than a viral reaction." Holding back what she wanted to say, she instead offered, "It's far too soon to tell, Alberto. Even for yourself. Let the doctors here do the work. You relax. You've earned it."
"Don't kid me, Nina," he warned softly.
"I wouldn't do that."
"I've seen what happens," he said, a hint of emotion breaking in his voice. "I know that it kills quickly. I've seen it happen. I knew the risks when I went into the field to recover Parker, and I wouldn't have done anything any differently."
Fiery needles suddenly wracked his chest, and he lunged in bed. The straps about his wrists and ankles kept him stable. Impulsively, he squeezed the button and took another injection of morphine into his bloodstream.
"That look like it hurt, Alberto."
Weakly, he smiled. "I've had worse."
She nodded. "That's my boy." Leaning close, she ruffled his hair. "That's exactly the kind of spirit I want to hear from any patient in this ward. Promise me you'll stay with us?"
The pain returned as quickly as it had washed over him only seconds before. He bit his lip, his chin trembling under the sensation, and then the needles were gone.
"Nina, I give you my word ... man to woman ... I'll do the best I can ... until the very end."
End of Chapter 24