Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 06

Five Days, Twenty-Two Hours, Fifty-Nine Minutes

The Briefing Room was larger than Parker would've imagined, but, then again, the aircraft was a Boeing 707. The last two versions of Air Force One were Boeing 707's, and he knew the amenities aboard the Presidential jet included a small hospital with operating table as well as a major communications center complete with air attack countermeasures. This was, certainly, no small plane. Talmadge sat at the head of the table, a sat/phone pressed to his ear; he was barking his argument into it as the chrononaut entered the room, along with his guide, Finkle. Glancing around the table, he found Olga and Channing, and he moved toward them, clumsily stepping around the chairs, doing the best he could to keep from stumbling or falling on his ass thanks to the weight of his specialized containment suit. He found them, and he took the chair next to Olga. Gesturing, he had Finkle sit next to him.

Turning to the two, Parker asked, "What's the word? What's going on?"

The chrononaut watched as Michelson slipped his hand over Olga's arm protectively. "We don't know, Frank," the man said. "Bradley's on the horn with the White House, trying to get more information right now."

"It doesn't look good," Olga tried weakly, briefing meeting Parker's eyes but quickly turning away.

"What doesn't look good?"

Abruptly, Talmadge switched off the sat/phone and tossed it onto the table. It clanked hard, causing everyone in the room to immediately give him their undivided attention.

The director whirled in his chair to face Parker.

"You'll pardon me if I don't formally call this meeting to order," the director said, "but I'm going to dispense with the pleasantries in order to eliminate the most important issue." Taking a deep breath, he tried, "Frank, I've taken you word – in the past – that when you've come back in time from the future on any BackStep, you've told us everything you know about your mission. From experience, I've learned that that hasn't always been the case. I'm not presuming you've any guilt here. But ... on occasions when you've felt it either necessary, appropriate, or personally convenient, I've discovered that you've withheld some vital piece of information in order to allow for you to – shall we say – truly prove your reputation as a cowboy and save the world all on your own. In some of those instances, you know I looked the other way. When the NSA demanded I take disciplinary action against you, I lied and told them I did."

Aghast, Parker said, "You lied? For me?"

Disgusted, Ramsey spat, "Do you mean to tell me that I had the permission of the federal government to make Parker's life a living hell ... and you didn't even tell me?"

"Yes," Talmadge said. "Truth be told, if you review Frank's personnel file, I think you'll find that you've been sanctioned far more times than you've ever been ... sanctioned. But this isn't any performance review. We're here for one purpose only, and that's to get clarification that this mission – this delicate mission – isn't one of those times that you've carefully filtered information, Frank."

Looking around the table, Parker realized everyone was staring intently.

"Bradley," he tried. "No. Absolutely not. I mean ... yes. In the past, I've withheld information. Some times – on occasions – I've had to. I couldn't take the risk that I said too much about what was happening because it might've affected the way we responded. And ... er ... yes, there were other times that I withheld information for more ... er ... personal reasons ... but I never put the world at risk. I put my career at risk. I put my own life at risk. But I never put the safety of our nation in any danger." Shrugging, he added, "One time or another, I think I even put Ramsey's career at risk, but that was a chance I thought worth taking."

"Parker, if we weren't in a meeting, I'd be royally kicking you butt right about now!" Ramsey shot.

Politely, Michelson offered, "Frank, I think the point that Bradley is trying to make is that, by withholding information, you were making a judgment call that's reserved for his position within the program, not yours."

"Damn straight!" Ramsey cut in.

"That may be Bradley's point," Parker snapped at the other chrononaut, "but the question he's about to ask is whether or not I'm withholding any information now ... am I right, Bradley?"

The director nodded. "That's correct. If you are, then now is the time to come clean."

Parker held up a hand, raising three fingers. "Scouts' honor, boss. I've told you everything I know."

"Scouts' honor?" Ramsey asked incredulous. "Since when were you ever a scout? The Boy Scouts wouldn't have anything to do with you!"

Ignoring the director of security's outburst, Talmadge acknowledged the chrononaut with a quick nod. "All right, then. You've given me your word. I'll take it at face value."

"Why?" Parker pressed. "What is it? What's happened?"

Facing his team, the director showed them his expression of grave seriousness. "At the request of the Department of Homeland Security," he began, "the White House has raised the Terror Alert Level to red."

"Red?" Olga asked. "Doesn't that mean that a terrorist attack is imminent?"

Talmadge nodded. "Olga, according to the White House, the United States is under attack."

"What?" Michelson demanded.

"Almost two hours ago, the United States lost complete control of its satellite monitoring system," the director explained, leaning forward in his chair, pressing his elbows to the table. "The Department of Defense initiated diagnostic procedures to bring the system back under control, but, so far, the system has been unresponsive. However, we have been informed by several nations of the world – those possessing satellites with intelligence gathering capability – that an explosion not unlike a controlled nuclear burst took place in northern Alaska just moments after our space defense grid went black."

"Nuclear?" Nina asked. "Bradley, are you saying that someone has taken the first shot?"

Ramsey slapped his hand to the briefing room table. "I knew it! I knew it!" he shouted. "It's those damn Soviet states! We never should have trusted them to keep their damn fingers off the damn button! And now we're going to pay for it with American blood!"

"Take it easy," Talmadge offered. "There's no cause for panic. Without any satellite images, we don't possess the means to determine what happened in Alaska, but we do have two crucial pieces of information from what our allies with active satellites have been able to share. First: the explosion was non-nuclear, but it was of a magnitude and composition that their scientists have yet to determine." The director took a moment, breathing deeply, before he finished: "Second: the President's son-in-law, Trace Hightower, was apparently the target of the terrorist attack."

Olga gasped. At a White House function, she had met Hightower and his wife, Julianne. They were both so pleasant, so talkative. Julianne had kept talking about her husband, how he was an adventure-seeker willing to go anywhere or risk anything, and Olga remember, at the time, that Trace had distinctly reminded her of Frank Parker. "Is he ... do we know if he's alive?"

"We don't," Talmadge announced. "The White House is working under the assumption that he is, and this would indicate that the terrorist attack has been directed specifically at the First Family." Shifting uncomfortably in the chair – he wished he had ordered BackStep personnel to haul his own Conference Room chair on board as this one was stiff from underuse – the director rapped his knuckles against the table. "As a result, the Secret Service has activated Executive Privilege, and they've taken the President and his family in custody. They're all being held at an undisclosed location so as to belay any further attack on him, his wife, or his daughters."

"So the Vice-President is running the country?" Finkle tried, trying to get a better understanding of the greater cause for alarm.

"Unfortunately, that can't be the case," Ramsey interjected. "The last I knew, the Vice-President was on a goodwill assignment in Great Britain. Another one of those damn executive privileges ... making it look like you're serving national interests but instead you're out playing golf in someone else's backyard."

"Nate is correct," the director confirmed. "The Vice-President is in England. He, as well, has been taken into custody by British Intelligence, and he's being secured as we speak. However, Homeland Security has grounded all air traffic, domestic and international, from entering or leaving U.S. airspace." Gravely, he nodded. "I tried to get an answer as to who is calling the shots at the White House, but I couldn't get any definitive explanation. My guess is that Ethan Stoddard – the President's Chief of Staff – has temporarily been placed in charge, but, again, that's only a guess. However, we've been ordered to turn around and head back for NeverNeverLand ... and that's why I have to ask again, Frank: did any of this happen in the other timeline?"

Parker felt all eyes on him again, and he sensed the temperature rise under his suit.

"Are we sure this thing's climate control system works?" he asked. "It just keeps getting hotter and hotter under here."

"Frank!"

The chrononaut pounded a gloved fist on the table. "Dammit, Bradley! The answer is no! I'm giving you my word! None of this ... not the attack in Alaska ... not the warnings from Homeland Security ... not the grounding of aircraft ... none of this happened in my timeline!" He took a pause to adjust the suit's temperature before adding, "The only thing that matters was that Heston Tower was destroyed by Richard DeMarco, and Majd el Din Zamal was killed in that explosion. Zamal's death caused the administration's plans for peace in the Middle East to fall apart, so the NSA authorized a BackStep for me to go back in time and keep the explosion from happening, to stop DeMarco before he had the chance to kill anyone! I swear to you! That's all that happened!"

"Bradley," Mentnor interrupted quickly, no longer willing to remain silent, "I think it's time that we give Frank the benefit of the doubt and accept the fact that he's told us everything he knows." The scientist leaned forward, reaching out and placing a single hand on the table. "If you remember from our briefing at BackStep Command, Frank was completely surprised to learn that Richard DeMarco was already on American soil. From what he remembers of his timeline, DeMarco hadn't yet arrived in the United States. However, in our timeline, DeMarco is here. Given that fact, I think it's clearly safe to assume that a series of events to which Frank has absolutely no knowledge have been set into motion." He paused for a moment, hoping that everyone present was keeping up with his argument. "When I talked about this being a temporal parallelogram – two timelines that were uniquely similar – I did not mean to imply that every event would be the same. Clearly, in our world, Frank Parker died years ago, and until Channing Michelson came along the program was in disarray. Now, for reasons that neither you nor I have the ability to understand, Parker has been thrust into our timeline. Who knows? Perhaps that single event – perhaps Frank's arrival in our world – has disrupted the flow of time. We may as well figure that we're starting over from scratch in this scenario. That way, none of these events – and I have no doubt that there will be more of them – will come as such a great surprise and only further distract us from putting right whatever is destined to go wrong in our version of the here and now ... but I do suspect that there is one person who can answer all of these questions."

Talmadge didn't ask. He simply raised an eyebrow.

"Larnord," Mentnor explained. "He's asked to see Frank Parker, and for what reason? After all, in Frank's world, Larnord doesn't even exist."

The director squinted as he considered what he heard. "You're right, Isaac. It isn't as if the two of them will be reminiscing about what's happened before. But Larnord has demanded a meeting with Frank, and that means that we have to disobey direct orders from the White House." Talmadge turned and nodded at the suited chrononaut. "We have to get to Washington. That's the only place we're going to get to the bottom of this."

Holding up his hands, Michelson interjected. "Wait a minute, Bradley. You're talking about disobeying an order from ... well ... whoever is our present Commander-in-Chief. Given what's happened, isn't that more than just a little dangerous?"

Talmadge smiled. "Channing, since when did you ever concern yourself with what's dangerous?"

"This is different," the man argued. "We're talking about risking our careers here, Bradley. We're talking about the possibility – however remote – of appearing as if we're committing treason! After all, we're not far from NeverNeverLand. How's it going to look when the White House realizes that we didn't turn back as we were ordered to do?"

Parker laughed. "They're not going to know, Channing! Like Bradley said, they don't have any control over their satellites!"

"Air Traffic Control has redundant systems, Frank," Michelson persisted. "There's more than one way to track a plane."

"That's true," Talmadge agreed, "but with the heightened security that will no doubt be surrounding the White House, it may take several minutes for them to discover that we haven't turned back. By then, who knows how close to Washington we could be?"

"Yes," Olga offered, "but who knows how far we'll be allowed to get?" Everyone at the table turned to study her face. "Once they've realized that we've disobeyed orders, won't they scramble fighter jets to ... shoot us down?"

The room fell quiet as the thought sank in.

After a long pause, Talmadge finally announced: "I've made my decision. We're continuing to Washington. I believe that Frank has told us everything he knows. He's served his country well – in this and in a previous lifetime – and I've no reason to doubt the veracity of his claims." He tapped a finger on the table. "However, in the meantime, I want every person on board this plane focused on gathering every scrap of information possible in order to determine what's going on thirty thousand feet below us. If the United States was subject to another terrorist attack, I want to know about it. If it's something else – some unforeseen event that took the life of the President's son-in-law – then I want to know about that as well." He smiled at the group. "Nathan? You have some old friends in the NSA. I want you to do everything possible to get in touch with them, see what it is they might be able to share with us. Dr. Welles? I'd like you to go to the communications room and see if you can contact any of your associates at the Centers for Disease Control. If the nation's been put on the highest possible alert status, there's no doubt in my mind that Homeland Security has issued a ified briefing to the head of the CDC. See what you can learn ... if anything. Isaac? You left the project for a short while, so there's no doubt in my mind that you have some colleagues in the private sector who can probably shed light on any leaks of this event to the civilian population. If this story has hit the news, then there's bound to be some panic. See what you can find out." He nodded. "The clock is ticking people. Let's get to work. My guess is that we only have a matter of, say, thirty or forty minutes before we're greeted by fighter jets ... and I'd like to have some leverage with which to push past the fighter jockeys." The man grimaced. "We all know how disappointed those boys are when they don't get to blow something up."

END of Chapter 06