Chapter 32
Six Days, Six Hours, Ten Minutes
"Dammit, Donovan!" Ramsey screamed from the video monitor, a vein clearly enlarged in his forehead. "Would you like to start this telephone call with an explanation of just where the hell you've been?"
Reclining in his chair, his hands resting easily on his desk, Craig Donovan rolled his eyes at the screen. Same old Ramsey. Same old charm. Two years had passed, but, in Ramseyan terms, nothing ever changed ... not even as the result of a BackStep.
"It's good to see you, too, Ramsey."
"I left a message for you over an hour ago!"
"I got your message."
"Well, if I had known that you were going to take your own sweet time calling me back, then I would have called in a few favors owed to me by some detectives I know with the Washington D.C. police. I would've had them find your sorry ass, pull it out of that fancy sports car you race down the freeway in, and haul you into the nearest NSA-secure video link!"
Nodding indifferently, the man muttered, "It just so happens that I was with the Washington D.C. police, Ramsey."
"Save the attitude for the reunion, Craig," he replied. "Right now, I'm up to my elbows in NeverNever Land crapola! The last thing I need added to my personal pile is some snot-nosed NSA superstar who's gone 'orphan' failing to toe the company line any more! The next time I give you an order to call me, I expect you to drop everything and get yourself to the nearest land line! Am I making myself clear?"
"Look," Donovan tried, waving a hand at the camera lens, "I don't report to you any longer, Ramsey. I signed off BackStep after ... well, I did that long enough ago to know that it's nothing more old history. It isn't worth reliving. Who do you think you are? Where do you get off calling my supervisor, issuing me NSA directives? I don't answer to you. I don't answer to Bradley. As long as we're being perfectly candid with one another, I don't report to anyone associated with the Project BackStep!"
Smiling, Ramsey retorted, "The winds of change are blowing, my friend, and you're about to be blown over." On his end of the video transmission, the Director of Security held up a piece of paper – Donovan couldn't make out any of the typed message – bearing the official NSA letterhead and logo. "As of ten minutes ago, you were re-assigned to Project BackStep at the expressed direction of the President of the United States."
"The President?"
"Oh, that's right," the man smirked. "The President of the God- blessed United States of America!" Ramsey cocked his head on the screen. "You're heard of him, haven't you?"
Curious, Donovan asked, "Ramsey, why don't we start this whole conversation from the top with you telling me what the President has to do with all of this?"
"Oh, so now I have your undivided attention, do I?"
"RAMSEY!"
The man stopped long enough to brush frail strands of hair back across the top of his head. "All right," he consented, "I'm going to give you what I know, but I have to inform you that this is above top secret, Donovan. We're talking top drawer stuff here, and that means you're not at liberty to discuss any of what I'm about to tell you – not that you'll believe it until you see it – with anyone ... and that includes that no-good D.C. pencil-neck, Terry Simon. I never much cared that that brown-nosing pinhead. You can tell him I said so if you're so inclined."
"Understood," Donovan sighed.
Ramsey nodded. "We've got ourselves a Conundrum like never anticipated."
"That's what I heard," the man replied. "But ... how is that possible?"
"It beats the hell out of me at this point," Ramsey confessed. "All hell broke loose about fifteen hours ago when the Sphere dropped down into some virtual swampland in nowhere Mississippi. Since then, the President has been on high alert. Bradley and Isaac have spent the last two hours conducting a debriefing ..."
"Isaac?" Donovan interrupted. "You've got to be kidding me? Isaac ... he's come back? When he resigned, he swore he'd never be back. How did Bradley get him to change his mind?"
Again, the Director of Security flashed the NSA letterhead. "You know how the wheel gets greased. The NSA is full of reserve activation clauses – they're all hidden in the fine print – for whatever purpose the big dogs serve." He paused, setting the paper back down on his desk. "Look, Donovan, I'll keep this short and sweet because – like you – I have other, more pressing matters to attend to at the moment. The straight skinney is that Bradley does not – I repeat – does not want you on a plane back here until we know what the hell Parker's doing in this timeline."
"So Frank is here?"
"That's affirmative," Ramsey said. Suddenly, his face flushed red with anger, and his eyes drooped with disappointment. "It isn't our Frank Parker, as you well know, but it is Parker, nonetheless. Not only is he here, but also he infected the entire Primary Temporal Response Team."
Donovan felt a chill wash over him where he sat. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, offering a personal moment of silence before asking, "How many are dead?"
"Three," the man confirmed.
"Damn."
"We have a few others who are hanging by a thread."
Disheartened, Donovan gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw trembling.
"And there's one civilian."
"Civilian?" he tried. "How was that allowed to happen?"
"You know Parker. He'll shake hands with any ole stranger he sees walking down the streets."
Ramsey was right: Craig Donovan knew Frank Parker. Without question, he knew him better than anyone else involved with BackStep. Consequently, he knew him well enough to know that Chrononaut Frank Parker – former Navy SEAL and fellow human being – would risk his own life before placing a single innocent civilian in jeopardy. Clearly, Donovan realized, Frank didn't know about temporal contamination, which meant that the infections possibly didn't exist in other timelines or other realities. That simple fact gave him hope that the BackStep Program – despite arguments from its principal political critics – would continue to serve mankind's best interest as it had over the years.
"Anyway," Ramsey mumbled, "he's here. Until we know what his mission is, that's all I can say. Once we're in the know, then circumstances may change, and Bradley may order you back here. He wanted to let you know that's an alternative he's keeping on the table. As it stands now, you're to keep yourself available ... and that doesn't allow for one hour gaps between my telephone calls and your answer, is that understood?"
"Understood," Donovan flatly chirped.
"Stay near this phone," Ramsey ordered. "We're tentatively scheduling a conference with Frank for about four p.m. your time."
"That's not that far off."
"Then, as I ordered, you shouldn't wander. And don't dawdle next time."
"But you've no idea what Frank's doing here?"
"Not a clue."
Donovan shook his head. "All right," he agreed. "I'll sit tight."
Ramsey nodded back at the man. "Then we'll talk again."
The videolink went dead, the screen blacking out, and Donovan turned toward the shafts of sunlight streaming through the blinds covering his office's window.
Frank Parker.
Here.
Now.
After all of these years?
"This can't be good," he muttered to himself.
End of Chapter 32
Six Days, Six Hours, Ten Minutes
"Dammit, Donovan!" Ramsey screamed from the video monitor, a vein clearly enlarged in his forehead. "Would you like to start this telephone call with an explanation of just where the hell you've been?"
Reclining in his chair, his hands resting easily on his desk, Craig Donovan rolled his eyes at the screen. Same old Ramsey. Same old charm. Two years had passed, but, in Ramseyan terms, nothing ever changed ... not even as the result of a BackStep.
"It's good to see you, too, Ramsey."
"I left a message for you over an hour ago!"
"I got your message."
"Well, if I had known that you were going to take your own sweet time calling me back, then I would have called in a few favors owed to me by some detectives I know with the Washington D.C. police. I would've had them find your sorry ass, pull it out of that fancy sports car you race down the freeway in, and haul you into the nearest NSA-secure video link!"
Nodding indifferently, the man muttered, "It just so happens that I was with the Washington D.C. police, Ramsey."
"Save the attitude for the reunion, Craig," he replied. "Right now, I'm up to my elbows in NeverNever Land crapola! The last thing I need added to my personal pile is some snot-nosed NSA superstar who's gone 'orphan' failing to toe the company line any more! The next time I give you an order to call me, I expect you to drop everything and get yourself to the nearest land line! Am I making myself clear?"
"Look," Donovan tried, waving a hand at the camera lens, "I don't report to you any longer, Ramsey. I signed off BackStep after ... well, I did that long enough ago to know that it's nothing more old history. It isn't worth reliving. Who do you think you are? Where do you get off calling my supervisor, issuing me NSA directives? I don't answer to you. I don't answer to Bradley. As long as we're being perfectly candid with one another, I don't report to anyone associated with the Project BackStep!"
Smiling, Ramsey retorted, "The winds of change are blowing, my friend, and you're about to be blown over." On his end of the video transmission, the Director of Security held up a piece of paper – Donovan couldn't make out any of the typed message – bearing the official NSA letterhead and logo. "As of ten minutes ago, you were re-assigned to Project BackStep at the expressed direction of the President of the United States."
"The President?"
"Oh, that's right," the man smirked. "The President of the God- blessed United States of America!" Ramsey cocked his head on the screen. "You're heard of him, haven't you?"
Curious, Donovan asked, "Ramsey, why don't we start this whole conversation from the top with you telling me what the President has to do with all of this?"
"Oh, so now I have your undivided attention, do I?"
"RAMSEY!"
The man stopped long enough to brush frail strands of hair back across the top of his head. "All right," he consented, "I'm going to give you what I know, but I have to inform you that this is above top secret, Donovan. We're talking top drawer stuff here, and that means you're not at liberty to discuss any of what I'm about to tell you – not that you'll believe it until you see it – with anyone ... and that includes that no-good D.C. pencil-neck, Terry Simon. I never much cared that that brown-nosing pinhead. You can tell him I said so if you're so inclined."
"Understood," Donovan sighed.
Ramsey nodded. "We've got ourselves a Conundrum like never anticipated."
"That's what I heard," the man replied. "But ... how is that possible?"
"It beats the hell out of me at this point," Ramsey confessed. "All hell broke loose about fifteen hours ago when the Sphere dropped down into some virtual swampland in nowhere Mississippi. Since then, the President has been on high alert. Bradley and Isaac have spent the last two hours conducting a debriefing ..."
"Isaac?" Donovan interrupted. "You've got to be kidding me? Isaac ... he's come back? When he resigned, he swore he'd never be back. How did Bradley get him to change his mind?"
Again, the Director of Security flashed the NSA letterhead. "You know how the wheel gets greased. The NSA is full of reserve activation clauses – they're all hidden in the fine print – for whatever purpose the big dogs serve." He paused, setting the paper back down on his desk. "Look, Donovan, I'll keep this short and sweet because – like you – I have other, more pressing matters to attend to at the moment. The straight skinney is that Bradley does not – I repeat – does not want you on a plane back here until we know what the hell Parker's doing in this timeline."
"So Frank is here?"
"That's affirmative," Ramsey said. Suddenly, his face flushed red with anger, and his eyes drooped with disappointment. "It isn't our Frank Parker, as you well know, but it is Parker, nonetheless. Not only is he here, but also he infected the entire Primary Temporal Response Team."
Donovan felt a chill wash over him where he sat. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, offering a personal moment of silence before asking, "How many are dead?"
"Three," the man confirmed.
"Damn."
"We have a few others who are hanging by a thread."
Disheartened, Donovan gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw trembling.
"And there's one civilian."
"Civilian?" he tried. "How was that allowed to happen?"
"You know Parker. He'll shake hands with any ole stranger he sees walking down the streets."
Ramsey was right: Craig Donovan knew Frank Parker. Without question, he knew him better than anyone else involved with BackStep. Consequently, he knew him well enough to know that Chrononaut Frank Parker – former Navy SEAL and fellow human being – would risk his own life before placing a single innocent civilian in jeopardy. Clearly, Donovan realized, Frank didn't know about temporal contamination, which meant that the infections possibly didn't exist in other timelines or other realities. That simple fact gave him hope that the BackStep Program – despite arguments from its principal political critics – would continue to serve mankind's best interest as it had over the years.
"Anyway," Ramsey mumbled, "he's here. Until we know what his mission is, that's all I can say. Once we're in the know, then circumstances may change, and Bradley may order you back here. He wanted to let you know that's an alternative he's keeping on the table. As it stands now, you're to keep yourself available ... and that doesn't allow for one hour gaps between my telephone calls and your answer, is that understood?"
"Understood," Donovan flatly chirped.
"Stay near this phone," Ramsey ordered. "We're tentatively scheduling a conference with Frank for about four p.m. your time."
"That's not that far off."
"Then, as I ordered, you shouldn't wander. And don't dawdle next time."
"But you've no idea what Frank's doing here?"
"Not a clue."
Donovan shook his head. "All right," he agreed. "I'll sit tight."
Ramsey nodded back at the man. "Then we'll talk again."
The videolink went dead, the screen blacking out, and Donovan turned toward the shafts of sunlight streaming through the blinds covering his office's window.
Frank Parker.
Here.
Now.
After all of these years?
"This can't be good," he muttered to himself.
End of Chapter 32