Chapter 37
Six Days, Four Hours, Five Minutes
Waiting always drove Craig Donovan insane.
It wasn't as if he wasn't a patient man. Much to the contrary. His tenure with BackStep alone was predicated on his ability to remain patient. Not with piloting the Sphere. He never really believed he would be given that opportunity. While he had the skills, he knew that his pain threshold wasn't nearly as high as Frank Parker's. Rather, his patience was always tested when a conundrum appeared. Hurry up and wait. Hurry up and wait. It was the never-ending scenario. Parker would telephone in from whatever location he had landed at this mission, and then Donovan would mobilize a response – with the necessary materials and manpower – only for the sole purpose of 'waiting' until their skills were required. On countless occasions, Parker did what Parker always did: he acted alone. The mission didn't necessarily call for a single agent, but the reality of time travel almost made it inevitable. Frank would have only so much time to coordinate once he arrived seven days ago, and Donovan – loyal, faithful friend – would wait for the call to duty. It wasn't as if Donovan never saw any action during his assignment with BackStep. He endured plenty. Most of it, however, was clean-up operations ... after the meat and potatoes had been savored by his lifelong friend.
'Waiting,' he thought. 'It's enough to kill a man.'
He did as he was instructed by Nate Ramsey. He sat there, in his office at the branch NSA office, knowing that eventually he would receive a teleconference call from one of the nation's most clandestine military bases in Nevada. Then – and only then – would he be given any explanation for the turn of events that involved his re-activation to Project BackStep as well as the reappearance of Frank Parker.
In the meantime, he still had a job to do.
The divisional secretary had seen to it that Donovan was provided with all of the Daily Stateside Threat Matrix – DSTMs – provided this morning, and, his concentration wavering, he pulled open the package and let the contents spill out onto his desk. The packet didn't seem any thicker today than it had been yesterday ... or the day before ... and he quickly immersed himself in reviewing any and all catalogued activity. From what he read, he learned that the Department of Homeland Security had suggested to the President that the Terror Alert Status be upgraded as a result of some recorded cellular communications in and around Tel Aviv, a conversation that suggested a threat against the Israeli Embassy. He learned that some Central Intelligence Agency operatives stationed outside Munich had intercepted a transport containing 'fissionable materials,' and it was believed that these materials were actually part of a shipment bound for Milwaukee, Wisconsin, where a splinter group of an unnamed Islamic sect was hoping to irradiate the water supply. He learned that computer hackers situated somewhere in or around the greater Denver area had managed to break into the United States Department of Defense personnel files, and they were threatening to auction the names of field personnel located in 'hot' locations overseas to known terrorist nations. Mostly, Craig Donovan learned that each and every day had become much like his experience with Project BackStep: so much more of the same thing.
There were always bad guys, and these bad guys were always out to get the good guys. It was his job to make sure that, despite whatever odds, they wouldn't succeed.
As the world had grown more complex, the simplicity of evil continued to dominate so much of his life that Donovan wasn't certain there was an ounce of goodness left in the world. Certainly, if there was, it was in small supply.
Cheryl popped in with her usual office smile and delivered the domestic updates to his DSTMs. He smiled his customary thanks at her, and she disappeared, leaving him with another small mountain of paperwork of today's events that the Agency deemed to be of lesser significance ... but still important. As usual, he shuffled through the pile – most of it consisted of photocopies of articles from stateside newspapers, stories that someone in the higher echelon of the NSA felt 'could' be worth following – and Donovan usually found these items of greater interest. Unlike the Agency memorandum, these were more people-oriented: they were stories about deaths, accidents, and other tragedies. Because they were largely about citizens of the United States, he could appreciate them more for the simple fact that he could put a face with a name. It always meant more to him when he could link a face and a name.
From the updates, he learned that an unregistered religious sect – insert "cult," he thought – in the Arkansas backwoods was claiming in printed propaganda to have nuclear weapons thanks to the Divine Providence of the Lord.
"Wonderful," he said to himself. "It's not dangerous enough to know that China has the bomb. Now, Billy Bob has one. That's just great."
Further down in the stack, he learned that some man in eastern Idaho was alleging to have sold military secrets to Iran for the last twelve years. He learned that a public transportation accident in Chicago was being blamed on some Vietnamese terrorist group he had never even heard of. Even further down the stack, Donovan learned from an Agency memo that a public storage facility outside the D.C. metro area had been destroyed in what initially appeared to be an act of arson. The memo stated that investigators on the scene had divulged some 'curious circumstances' associated to one of the tenants. Down along the bottom of the page, Donovan read that the circumstances related to the fire being started in a storage unit that held only illegally-obtained Nine Millimeter weapons.
"Wait a minute," he muttered, rereading the passage he had read. "Who in their right mind commits arson to destroy firearms?" He pulled the memo away from the stack to give it a closer read. "That does not compute."
Picking up the telephone, he dialed a number he had fingered once too often.
"Guerrero, here," he heard.
"Marty," Donovan said. "Guess who?"
"Donovan?"
"None other."
"Hell, Donovan, you've already ruined my day once," Detective Guerrero said. "Why do you and the NSA want to give it another try?"
"Easy, killer," Donovan replied. "I'm not out to ruin your day. I want to know what the word is on that storage facility fire outside of D.C. this morning."
"You're not talking about that Essential Storage fire, are you?" he asked. "Craig, that fire was only a matter of hours ago. They're probably still pouring water on the ashes. What makes you think there's any word on the street about that?"
Donovan smiled. "Come on, Marty. They trace the fire to a parcel containing stolen firearms. Who starts a fire to burn something that won't burn?"
"Someone looking to get attention," he heard.
"Exactly."
"How's the owner for a collar?"
"The owner?" Guerrero asked. "You're shooting blanks on that angle."
"Funny man."
"No, the owner maintained residence on the premises," the detective explained. "He's presently being treated for smoke inhalation. You know the profile as well as I do, Craig. An arsonist doesn't hang around to breathe in the fumes. He wants to fan the flames ... or end up being a fan of them, if you catch my drift. I think the owner's clean on this."
"What then?" Donovan queried. "Are we talking about a disgruntled tenant?"
"Who knows? It's way too early to tell. I know that they're still trying to track down the fellow to whom the lot was registered. Like I said, we haven't really had the chance to question the owner, given his condition, but I'll give you call once we do ... since Uncle Sam did what he thinks was a 'solid' this morning, I guess it's the least I could do to return the favor."
"How big was the stockpile of weapons?"
"The nines?" Guerrero asked, referring to the weapons' caliber. "It was pretty large. I understand that the parcel was filled with guns, not just nines, though. There was enough there to outfit a small army, if one were so inclined."
"But it doesn't make any sense," Donovan insisted. "Guns aren't going to burn. What did the arsonist want to hide?"
"My sense is that whoever did this wasn't interested in trying to hide anything," the detective replied. "At best, it was a sucker with a guilty conscience who decided he'd best get out of the gun-trafficking business before someone took him out of it permanently."
"A very well-funded sucker," Donovan piped.
"That he was."
"Keep me posted, will you?"
"Like I said," Guerrero offered, "one 'solid' deserves another."
End of Chapter 37
Six Days, Four Hours, Five Minutes
Waiting always drove Craig Donovan insane.
It wasn't as if he wasn't a patient man. Much to the contrary. His tenure with BackStep alone was predicated on his ability to remain patient. Not with piloting the Sphere. He never really believed he would be given that opportunity. While he had the skills, he knew that his pain threshold wasn't nearly as high as Frank Parker's. Rather, his patience was always tested when a conundrum appeared. Hurry up and wait. Hurry up and wait. It was the never-ending scenario. Parker would telephone in from whatever location he had landed at this mission, and then Donovan would mobilize a response – with the necessary materials and manpower – only for the sole purpose of 'waiting' until their skills were required. On countless occasions, Parker did what Parker always did: he acted alone. The mission didn't necessarily call for a single agent, but the reality of time travel almost made it inevitable. Frank would have only so much time to coordinate once he arrived seven days ago, and Donovan – loyal, faithful friend – would wait for the call to duty. It wasn't as if Donovan never saw any action during his assignment with BackStep. He endured plenty. Most of it, however, was clean-up operations ... after the meat and potatoes had been savored by his lifelong friend.
'Waiting,' he thought. 'It's enough to kill a man.'
He did as he was instructed by Nate Ramsey. He sat there, in his office at the branch NSA office, knowing that eventually he would receive a teleconference call from one of the nation's most clandestine military bases in Nevada. Then – and only then – would he be given any explanation for the turn of events that involved his re-activation to Project BackStep as well as the reappearance of Frank Parker.
In the meantime, he still had a job to do.
The divisional secretary had seen to it that Donovan was provided with all of the Daily Stateside Threat Matrix – DSTMs – provided this morning, and, his concentration wavering, he pulled open the package and let the contents spill out onto his desk. The packet didn't seem any thicker today than it had been yesterday ... or the day before ... and he quickly immersed himself in reviewing any and all catalogued activity. From what he read, he learned that the Department of Homeland Security had suggested to the President that the Terror Alert Status be upgraded as a result of some recorded cellular communications in and around Tel Aviv, a conversation that suggested a threat against the Israeli Embassy. He learned that some Central Intelligence Agency operatives stationed outside Munich had intercepted a transport containing 'fissionable materials,' and it was believed that these materials were actually part of a shipment bound for Milwaukee, Wisconsin, where a splinter group of an unnamed Islamic sect was hoping to irradiate the water supply. He learned that computer hackers situated somewhere in or around the greater Denver area had managed to break into the United States Department of Defense personnel files, and they were threatening to auction the names of field personnel located in 'hot' locations overseas to known terrorist nations. Mostly, Craig Donovan learned that each and every day had become much like his experience with Project BackStep: so much more of the same thing.
There were always bad guys, and these bad guys were always out to get the good guys. It was his job to make sure that, despite whatever odds, they wouldn't succeed.
As the world had grown more complex, the simplicity of evil continued to dominate so much of his life that Donovan wasn't certain there was an ounce of goodness left in the world. Certainly, if there was, it was in small supply.
Cheryl popped in with her usual office smile and delivered the domestic updates to his DSTMs. He smiled his customary thanks at her, and she disappeared, leaving him with another small mountain of paperwork of today's events that the Agency deemed to be of lesser significance ... but still important. As usual, he shuffled through the pile – most of it consisted of photocopies of articles from stateside newspapers, stories that someone in the higher echelon of the NSA felt 'could' be worth following – and Donovan usually found these items of greater interest. Unlike the Agency memorandum, these were more people-oriented: they were stories about deaths, accidents, and other tragedies. Because they were largely about citizens of the United States, he could appreciate them more for the simple fact that he could put a face with a name. It always meant more to him when he could link a face and a name.
From the updates, he learned that an unregistered religious sect – insert "cult," he thought – in the Arkansas backwoods was claiming in printed propaganda to have nuclear weapons thanks to the Divine Providence of the Lord.
"Wonderful," he said to himself. "It's not dangerous enough to know that China has the bomb. Now, Billy Bob has one. That's just great."
Further down in the stack, he learned that some man in eastern Idaho was alleging to have sold military secrets to Iran for the last twelve years. He learned that a public transportation accident in Chicago was being blamed on some Vietnamese terrorist group he had never even heard of. Even further down the stack, Donovan learned from an Agency memo that a public storage facility outside the D.C. metro area had been destroyed in what initially appeared to be an act of arson. The memo stated that investigators on the scene had divulged some 'curious circumstances' associated to one of the tenants. Down along the bottom of the page, Donovan read that the circumstances related to the fire being started in a storage unit that held only illegally-obtained Nine Millimeter weapons.
"Wait a minute," he muttered, rereading the passage he had read. "Who in their right mind commits arson to destroy firearms?" He pulled the memo away from the stack to give it a closer read. "That does not compute."
Picking up the telephone, he dialed a number he had fingered once too often.
"Guerrero, here," he heard.
"Marty," Donovan said. "Guess who?"
"Donovan?"
"None other."
"Hell, Donovan, you've already ruined my day once," Detective Guerrero said. "Why do you and the NSA want to give it another try?"
"Easy, killer," Donovan replied. "I'm not out to ruin your day. I want to know what the word is on that storage facility fire outside of D.C. this morning."
"You're not talking about that Essential Storage fire, are you?" he asked. "Craig, that fire was only a matter of hours ago. They're probably still pouring water on the ashes. What makes you think there's any word on the street about that?"
Donovan smiled. "Come on, Marty. They trace the fire to a parcel containing stolen firearms. Who starts a fire to burn something that won't burn?"
"Someone looking to get attention," he heard.
"Exactly."
"How's the owner for a collar?"
"The owner?" Guerrero asked. "You're shooting blanks on that angle."
"Funny man."
"No, the owner maintained residence on the premises," the detective explained. "He's presently being treated for smoke inhalation. You know the profile as well as I do, Craig. An arsonist doesn't hang around to breathe in the fumes. He wants to fan the flames ... or end up being a fan of them, if you catch my drift. I think the owner's clean on this."
"What then?" Donovan queried. "Are we talking about a disgruntled tenant?"
"Who knows? It's way too early to tell. I know that they're still trying to track down the fellow to whom the lot was registered. Like I said, we haven't really had the chance to question the owner, given his condition, but I'll give you call once we do ... since Uncle Sam did what he thinks was a 'solid' this morning, I guess it's the least I could do to return the favor."
"How big was the stockpile of weapons?"
"The nines?" Guerrero asked, referring to the weapons' caliber. "It was pretty large. I understand that the parcel was filled with guns, not just nines, though. There was enough there to outfit a small army, if one were so inclined."
"But it doesn't make any sense," Donovan insisted. "Guns aren't going to burn. What did the arsonist want to hide?"
"My sense is that whoever did this wasn't interested in trying to hide anything," the detective replied. "At best, it was a sucker with a guilty conscience who decided he'd best get out of the gun-trafficking business before someone took him out of it permanently."
"A very well-funded sucker," Donovan piped.
"That he was."
"Keep me posted, will you?"
"Like I said," Guerrero offered, "one 'solid' deserves another."
End of Chapter 37