Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 03

Five Days, Twenty-Three Hours, Eighteen Minutes

Under the escort of two F/A-22 Raptors, the Boeing 707-320B aircraft – bearing the tail number 77777 – taxied down the Runway Delta at Area 51. The aircraft quickly built up to maximum ground speed, and – ever so gracefully – its nose lifted upward, pointing toward the sky, the vessel following – and it climbed majestically into the clear blue. The engines whined as the Boeing's pilot forced the descent for quickly than was recommended – Project BackStep personnel had an infamous history within and beyond the NSA for pushing the limits of their equipment's established capabilities – and the aircraft, codenamed 'Rip Van Winkle,' received no less from the government's most-protected servicemen and women. After the pilot – Andover – announced to his escorts that he had reached 32,000 feet, the Raptors – waggling their wings in a show of support – veered off to return to base.

Aboard, Dr. Olga Vukavitch sat in the sciences cabin, ruffling through the latest medical briefings on the survivors of temporal contamination. Frank Parker had done them no good, but the Chroniticin – the virus under secret development by the CDC since the phenomenon of time-travel infection had been discovered – had delivered a much needed boost to the effectiveness of her patients' immune systems. So far, everyone was responding positively. Their vitals were strong, and, from what she read, their appetites had quickly returned. She smiled at the thought of the sweaty and groggy patients turning their individual oxygen tents – the finest isolation chambers BackStep could provide – into miniature transparent eateries.

"Good grief," she said. "I'd hate to serve that clean-up crew."

The door opened, swinging easily inward, and Chrononaut Channing Michelson cautiously stepped inward. With an expression of innocence – one she had long ago fallen deeply in love with – the man asked, "I hope I'm not disturbing you, Olga."

Closing the file folder, she smiled up at the man. "Of course not," she responded. Sliding the files away from her, she added, "Actually, I'm glad you stopped by. I could use a break."

He shuffled over to the table, carrying a bottle of crystal clear water in his hand, and he held it out for you. "I thought you might be thirsty. I know that you've been working for – what? – nine, ten, twelve hours straight?" Gesturing over his shoulder, he said, "I'm having the kitchen send up some sandwiches. There's some ribeye in the refrigerator, and I didn't want to see it go to any waste. You know how the GAC hates waste. Since it's just sitting there, I hoped a couple of steak sandwiches might do the trick. I thought ... I thought maybe that it would be all right if we ate ... while we talked."

Massaging her own neck, she agreed. "That would be wonderful."

He frowned. "You haven't heard what I have to say."

Ignoring the possible implication, she assured him, "Channing, it's always wonderful to hear what you have to say."

[Five Days, Twenty-Three Hours, Fifteen Minutes.]

The Boeing's lower deck had been fitted with an isolation chamber – completely hermetically sealed – for the very purpose in which Frank Parker now occupied the comfortable chamber. Sure, it had the same clinical feel that his sealed quarters did in the cellars of BackStep's main complex, but, by those standards, he was on holiday. The bed was far more comfortable, equipped with soft sheets, a thin comforter, and two pillows (instead of the cursory one). Also, it had a full box spring instead of a spring matte upon which the mattress sat, so, as far as comfort went, it slept much easier ... and he desperately needed some quality sleep. Granted, the tranquilizers Dr. Welles had administered put him under, but that sleep was plagued with nightmares of a BackStep gone horrible wrong ... this BackStep, to a certain degree, so the sleep was restless at best. Here, he guessed he would catch a few z's nicely. Still, he couldn't be certain of anything. If he had learned anything since his arrival in this timeline, then it was that nothing – not even his own second guesses – should be taken for granted.

"What's on your mind, Frank?"

Parker glanced over at Ebdon Finkle. The old man – an aging restaurant owner who inadvertently, but not reluctantly, had found himself part of a top secret government mission – was leisurely playing solitare on a fold- out tray he had found in a storage locker. Thankfully, Finkle didn't need a protective suit to keep him from temporal contamination. He had been inoculated with enough time to spare, and his immune system was strong. In fact, so far as Parker knew, Ebdon was the only living being on Earth he could make human contact with ... but Frank Parker didn't need anyone to hold his hand.

"What do you mean, Ebdon?"

"Your face is longer than one of the mugs on Mount Rushmore."

Sniffling with laughter, Parker asked, "Is that a joke?"

"Yes," Finkle said. "A poor one."

"Ah, Ebdon, even a poor joke has a place in an insane man's universe."

"Are you saying that you're insane, or are you implying that I'm insane?"

Parker shrugged. "The way this mission is turning out, I'd have to say it's a bit of both."

Lowering his eyes at the chrononaut, Finkle offered, "You don't want to go insulting the only guest this side of one of those containment suits, Frank. I'll have to ask for another room, you know."

"Don't do that," the man conceded. "I'd miss the company."

Pointing at the bed tray, the older gentleman asked, "Do you want to play some cards?"

Smiling, Parker said, "I've been known to take men to the bank under the danger of a poker game. Did you bring your wallet?"

Tiredly, Finkle replied, "Now, Frank, I might run my own restaurant, but I'm not Donald Trump. Do you really want to spend the next few hours taking this old coot's Social Security check?"

Parker laughed, and, for the first time since he had arrived, he felt ... he felt good.

"No, sir," he agreed. "I really wouldn't want to do that to my roommate."

"Thank you very much."

Suddenly, the two of them heard the compression of the airlock separating them from the rest of the aircraft's passengers. The massive latch on the compartment's door twirled, and a CDC-suited Dr. Nina Welles stepped inside.

"What are the two of you doing awake?" she criticized, carrying a standard medical kit with her that she immediately tossed onto Frank's bed. "I thought you were told explicitly to get some sleep ... and this doesn't look like either of you have made an attempt."

Innocently, Parker tried, "I have trouble sleeping when I fly."

"And I have trouble sleeping when he has trouble sleeping," Finkle quipped. "Isn't that ... like ... some sort of Stockholm Syndrome?"

"Not even remotely," she said. "It's only a poor excuse for disobeying a direct order from Bradley."

"Hey," Parker interrupted, "I know for a fact that – if he could be in here – Bradley Talmadge would out at least his next two paychecks. He loves a round of poker, but he's not exactly in my league, if you know what I mean. I was just about to take Ebdon here to the cleaners. What say the good doctor join us?"

Cocking her head to one side, Welles placed her hands on her hips. She fixed both of them with an evil stare – her eyes clearly visible through the protective faceplate – and she sighed angrily. After a moment's pause, she asked, "Five card stud?"

The chrononaut glanced over at the restauranteer, who shrugged, so he replied, "We can do that."

"Well, I guess your vitals can wait," she surrendered. "If you're well enough to play poker, I'd say that you're well enough to skip one medical check-up ... but only for a few hands. The two of you really do need to get some sleep. Once we land in Washington, God only knows how much time you'll have to rest, and I can't have our two most prized possessions counting sheep in the middle of saving the world as we know it." She dropped easily onto Ebdon's bed and ordered, "Give me the cards. I'll deal the first hand."

[Five Days, Twenty-Three Hours, Twelve Minutes.]

Michelson opened a bottle of wine, and, setting the two glasses in front of him, he calmly filled them both. Finished, he corked the bottle and easily slid one glass closer to the doctor.

"We never finished our talk," he said, "before this whole affair began."

Picking up the wine – a glass of merlot – she smiled weakly. "No. We didn't."

"I believe we left off with you."

She swallowed a quick sip. "What do you mean?"

"You wanted to tell me something," Michelson remembered aloud. He gently shook the glass in his hand, and Olga watched as the dark liquid swirling and swirling – he was a practice connoisseur, she knew – under his refined control. The simple act reminded her of the fact that he was one of the few people in the history of the human race with the ability to control the violently bucking control arm within a Sphere. She smiled at the analogy.

"Yes," she finally agreed, "I wanted to talk about us."

He paused, lifting the glass to his nose and sniffing. "I'm listening."

Slightly exasperated, she lowered her head, pressing her chin to her collarbone. "Channing, I don't think that now is the right time."

"That's too much irony, even for you, Olga," he said. "Given what we do, all we have is time." He finally brought the glass to his lips and sipped. Swallowing, he offered, "Let's make the best of a bad situation, and let's finish our talk."

"Channing, really ..."

"I won't take no for an answer."

"I'm not telling you no, sweetheart. I'm telling you that ... now is not the time ..."

"When is the time?" he interrupted.

"One challenge at a time," she replied evenly, though she knew what his response would be.

"Those are my words," he countered.

"I know they are."

"In fact, you know damn well that that's my personal credo," he challenged. "Living one challenge at a time is the very philosophy I use to approach life ... but if you're trying to say that I should approach my love life one woman at a time, then I'd have to argue that, so far as a love life is concerned, I'm through." Peacefully, he set his glass on the table. "There's only one woman for me, Olga, and you know that. You've known that for over a year." He leaned forward. "You are the only woman I want in my life. You are the only woman I want to be with. You are the only woman I want to wake up with."

"Channing," she tried, "you know that I have all of those feelings, too ... but now is not the time."

"Is that because of this mission," he began, "or is that because Frank Parker has reappeared?"

She knew Parker would come up in the course of this conversation. It was ... inevitable.

"This is not about Frank Parker."

"I think it is."

"It isn't," she refused. "I give you my word."

"You told me once that you thought you loved him," Michelson confessed. "As a matter of fact, your love for him is what kept you away from me – at arm's length – for far too long. When we should have been getting under one another's skin – crawling around trying to find the way to one another's heart – you couldn't do that, and, if I remember correctly, it was specifically because you couldn't forget your feelings for Frank Parker."

"I never said that I couldn't forget my feelings for Mr. Parker," she argued coolly "What I said is that I didn't want to put aside my feelings for Mr. Parker."

Slowly, Michelson nodded. "I remember that. I wanted to see if you remembered those words – those exact words – as clearly as I did."

Olga threw back her head in exhaustion. In the last twelve hours, she fought to save the lives of men and women she didn't know. She fought the rising irritation at knowing a choice needed to be made, refusing to accept the fact that one man didn't belong in her life any longer while another man – a good, kind, and gentle man – did. But ... against the better part of everything logical running through her scientific mind ... she fought the wanton temptation – the honest human longing, need, and deepest, darkest desire to surrender all will, curl up in Frank Parker's arms, and bundle herself in his warmth, feeling his breath wash over her, sensing the gentle beat of the man's heart, confident that if there were any man in the known universe who could quite possibly feel exactly what it was she felt, understand exactly what it was that she thought ... it was Frank Parker ... it was not Channing Michelson. Yes, the years had forced them together, but it wasn't as if she hadn't slipped emotionally closer and closer to the chrononaut. He was ... comfortable. He was ... logical. He was ... perfect. Here, the man sat, sipping wine he had sent up along with some delicious sandwiches, and he remained perfectly civil in trying to decipher the confusion of his human heart. He wanted to be with her. That much, Olga never questioned. But ... was he meant for her? That answer eluded her. It was a riddle for the ages.

'Do I settle for love now,' she wondered, 'content in the knowledge that I have found it ... or do I risk everything I've ever wanted to chance ... to a gamble?'

[Five Days, Twenty-Three Hours, Nine Minutes.]

"I'll see your B-12 shot, doctor," Parker replied, staring down at his pair of Kings backed up with a pair of Threes, "with the belt buckle from an alternate timeline, and I'll call." He turned to Ebdon. "It's up to you, buddy."

"Again?"

"That's right," the chrononaut teased. "And none of that 'how can it be me' stuff this time. I'd say that you're due for a hand. Why not go all out and bet the farm?"

"I don't own a farm."

From her side of the bed and from under her protective suit, Nina added, "I don't own a farm, either, Mr. Finkle."

"No," he agreed, "but you've at least been provided a medical kit this man seems intent on swindling you out of."

"Swindle?" Parker nearly screeched. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! What are you talking about, Ebdon? I've been on a roll the last three hands! You know how luck goes in streaks!"

"I also know mashed potatoes go with meat, but do you see either of those entrees available for me to bet with?"

"Well ... okay. Forget about betting the farm. Why not go all out and bet the restaurant?"

"It's in both mine and my wife's name. She'd kill me quicker for losing it in a card game than she'd kill you for almost having killed me." He wrinkled his forehead. "Did that make any sense?"

"I understood you perfect, Mr. Finkle," Nina answered, with a smile.

"But you're on his side?"

"No, sir," she insisted. "I only treat him. I don't take sides. As far as poker goes, Mr. Parker is on his own."

"Thank you."

"Oh, don't thank me," she said. "You're on your own."

Trying desperately to conceal his hand while he gestured wildly, Parker teased, "Ebdon, do you mean to tell me that – in the middle of the worst possible catastrophe this world could possibly face – you would need to phone home to get your wife's permission to make a simple poker bet?"

Raising an eyebrow, the old man answered, "You've never been married, have you, Frank?"

"Come on, Ebdon! You served in World War II, for Pete's sake! You faced off the world's worst lunatic in the ultimate battle to the death! The War to End All Wars! Certainly, you can cough up some real scratch to save your ass in poker!"

"I told you the last time around," Finkle tried. "And the hand before that. And the hand before that. And the hand before that. Frank, I don't have any money."

"You own a restaurant! How can you not have any money?"

"Son, you listen about as well as my rocker. I think traveling through time has scrambled more than your eggs."

"You take that back!" Parker teased.

"Seriously, I think it's impaired your ability to complete a sentence."

"What?" Parker objected. "Do you mean to tell me that those military goons pulled you off the front porch of your place of business, and you didn't even have your wallet on you?"

With reserved pride, Finkle argued, "Frank, I was sitting on my own front porch. I was minding my own business. I was rocking my life away peacefully in a rocker that passed down from my father to me and from his father to him. Would you like to tell me why in the Sam Hill I'd have to carry my wallet in order to rock in my own rocker? Hell, I think you're off your rocker! Before I knew it – and certainly long before the thought of getting my wallet so much as crossed my mind – you came running up out of nowhere, bleeding from the mouth and eyes and such ... so I didn't waste time collecting my things."

"Okay, okay," the chrononaut surrendered. "Fine. You don't have any money. What have you got?"

Sounding incredulous, the old man barked, "I told you the last time the only thing I have to offer is the shirt on my back ... and you're not getting that!"

Before Parker could must a reasonable argument, the plane's alarm system sounded. The three of them glanced up in the direction of the intercom, and they heard Bradley Talmadge announce, "People, we have a Priority One Airspace Alert Situation in effect. I need all on board personnel – I repeat, all on board personnel – to report to the Briefing Room. Frank Parker, this includes you. Suit up with aide of Mr. Finkle and get yourself to Briefing. We have a serious situation to discuss!"

Sighing, the chrononaut wondered how an already untenable situation could possibly have grown worse.

END of Chapter 03