Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 12
Five Days, Twenty Hours, Twenty-Three Minutes
Panting, Trace Hightower threw himself onto the ground, giving himself a moment's rest. His chest fought under his clothing, rising and falling as rapidly as he could suck the air into his lungs. He had been running as fast as he could – at what certainly must have been a breakneck speed – across the empty and unforgiving Alaskan frontier – pumping his legs like pistons as hard as they would go through the ice and the snow – but he felt as if he were going nowhere, as if he were plodding in place for all the good it did. Lying on his back, he realized how good the cold felt, and he stared up into the permanently fixed expression of indifference on the face of Secret Service Agent Nolan Murphy.
"How long have we been running?" Hightower managed to ask between his gasps for air.
"Don't know, sir."
"Can't you guess?"
"I never was one much for guessing."
Damn the man! He didn't even appear winded.
"Well, would you do me a favor and give me some idle banter while I lay here trying to stay alive?"
Murphy grimaced, his fingers locked on his right thigh. Briskly, he massaged a cramp that had taken hold of his leg, and he guessed, "About two hours. Maybe more."
The man was a perfectionist, and Hightower was surprised that his answer was far short of perfection.
"You don't honestly know?"
"No, sir, I do not know." Murphy shook his head, wincing as he found his face flooded with a shock of cold wind. "Check your watch, Mr. Hightower. You'll see that it's stopped ... like mine."
Pulling up his arm, the man yanked back the arm of his coat, and he saw that the second hand wasn't moving.
"How is that possible?" he tried.
Murphy turned his head to glance back in the direction they had come. About thirty minutes back, he had given up hope that any other members of their party had survived. About fifteen minutes back, he had reached the same conclusion that his 'package' – Hightower – just uttered: they weren't going to make it back to civilization.
"My best guess – though I've already said I hate making them – is that we were exposed to some kind of electromagnetic pulse," the agent explained matter-of-factly.
"An EMP?" Hightower wondered aloud. "Isn't that ... Murphy, aren't EMPs associated to nuclear tests?"
"Some of them," the man agreed, "but not all."
Suddenly fearing more for his life than he had moments ago, the younger man asked, "Do you think we've been exposed?"
Pointing his expression at the President's son-in-law, Murphy replied, "That would be another guess, sir, and, no insult intended, I've met my quota for guesses on this trip."
The tone of the man's voice unnerved Hightower. Murphy was top notch. He was one of the best agents in the Secret Service, and Hightower knew it. He had served four Presidents, and the man had an unblemished service record. He came into the new Administration with a reserved calm, knowing that this would be his last tour of duty. After so many years, so many missions, and so many dangers, he finally decided to retire at the ripe young age of fifty-five. Still, with as sturdy as the man was built, Hightower would guess the man was still in his prime and had plenty of surprises in stowed reserve. Coming from a background where he was raised by an aunt who had died while he was training with the military, Murphy didn't have any remaining family, and, perhaps as an emotional defense mechanism for his own sanity, he had insisted on assignments protected the President's family. It was his way of having brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, and cousins of his own ... without any direct lineage. This gave him added incentive to take extra special care on these missions of derringdo that Hightower refused to part with once his father-in-law found himself elected to the nation's highest calling. While the other agents had gladly changed out in the rotation, Murphy stayed with him ... from the failed bid to climb Mount 'what the hell was I thinking' Everest all the way to his excursion into an active volcano.
Although the agent would never say, Hightower fancied imagining that – in other circumstances – that they were friends, kindred spirits that shared the need for an adrenaline rush. Little did he know that he was far for the truth, for Murphy only cared about having someone to care for. His needs were simple. The Secret Service paid him well enough. The Service also provided him with a surrogate family, but he refused to get close to any of them. He wanted to. After all, that was a human need to someone who had spent so much of his life in loneliness. A decade or so back, Murphy had convinced himself innocently that he didn't need family ... but it didn't last for long for he had reached the same revelation about a decade before that one ... and a decade before that one ...
His was the highest possible calling: to take a bullet for someone you were barely allowed to get to know.
Hightower was convinced they were friends. He couldn't have been more wrong. They were men forced together out of political circumstance. Anything more? That was a blind man's fantasy.
"We should keep moving, sir," Murphy stated flatly.
Hightower shook his head, the blood pounding a heartbeat in his skull. "In a minute, Murphy. Please just give me another minute ..."
"Sir, I think it's best..."
"You don't think," Hightower countered. "You respond to orders. You evaluate the needs of the situation, and then you enact a gameplan that will satisfy the endgame with the least possible casualty." The young man blinked the cold tears from the corner of his eyes. "I'm not about to be a casualty run to death. I said we'll go ... in a minute."
Uncomfortable, the agent turned and glared at the younger man.
"Sir, if you'll pardon my speaking freely, then I'll give you the privilege of my being blunt."
"I'm listening, Murphy."
The agent pointed in the direction they had come. "In case you missed it, someone tried to wipe you off the face of the planet. Those men weren't aiming at me. They were aiming at you because of your personal importance to the President. And, in case you've forgotten, they struck using a weapon of unimaginable power. I don't know if it was a particle beam weapon. I don't know if it was some type of stealth neutron blast. Sir, I frankly don't have the slightest idea of what it was, but I do know this: they've used it once, they missed, and you're not dead." He paused a moment to catch his breath, his nose turning a bright red from the Alaskan chill. He leaned down to bring his face closer to Hightower's. "Whatever the possibility, there is no doubt in my mind that these men used satellites – probably our own – to target you, to hone in on your exact position."
"Our own satellites?" the younger man perked up. "Murphy, are you saying that this attack was directed by men within our own government?"
"Given what we know, it certainly stands to reason." Murphy stood up again, scanning the desolate terrain for any signs of life. "Who else but those in the White House knew about this little exercise of yours? You have to realize that if these men have satellite tracking capability, then they most likely possess the ability to re-task the orbits of other satellites – companion satellites – in order see whether or not the first strike was successful."
Murphy was right. Hightower glanced up at the sky, realizing suddenly that they – the killers – could be watching him at this very moment. Watching him. Studying him. Targetting him.
"We've been running for at least two hours across undisturbed terrain ... undisturbed expect for our footprints, sir, and those tracks will lead them directly to us. Now that means that you get up off your ass and you need to move. Now." He pointed in the direction they were heading. "From this point forward, sir, we head in that direction – the direction of Zulu Base – and I think it best that you follow my orders to the letter. That may be the only way that I can possibly ensure your safety. Is that clear?"
Hightower couldn't argue with the logic. Despite what Murphy thought, the young man looking up to the agent, considered him a friend. Sitting up, he forced himself to slow down his breaths, and he rose to his feet. "I'm sorry, Murphy," he confessed. "I ... I guess I wasn't thinking."
Calmly, the agent nodded. "There's no need to apologize, sir."
"Are you kidding?" the young man tried. "I'm being a selfish ass."
Smirking, Murphy chided him with, "I'm not much for arguing either, sir."
"You're out here doing your job trying to save me, and I'm asking for a breather."
"With all due respect, Mr. Hightower," Murphy spat, growing irritated, "this has nothing to do with my doing my job. This has everything to do with our survival. Not mine. Not yours. But ours." The older man locked eyes on his companion. "Yes, it is my job to keep you alive, but the only way I can do that is to keep myself alive. And, sir?" The agent held a look of sincerity about him. "I know you've taken all sorts of hell from the American media. They've christened you a rebel for wanting to spend these past few years on these little pet project adventures of yours. Who am I to call it differently, but I've seen you in action. I know you understand the necessity for safety, despite wanting to experience what you personally feel is living life to the fullest. But I give you my word that this isn't one of your thrill seeker outings. This is life-or-death. There is no thrill. There is no game. There is no rush ... nothing except for the rushing of our feet."
With that, Hightower turned, forcing his body to move. He started off at a job, at first, allowing his legs to get back into a rhythm, until he poured his endurance into it. He tore through the snow more easily now that he had been properly motivated. He convinced himself that this was no different than any of his other adventures. He ignored the thought of any lethal jeopardy, and he ran. He refused to accept the frosty kiss of the wind, and he ran faster. He thought of his beautiful wife – sitting wherever she was with her family, quite possibly wondering about his fate – and he moved onward, pumping his legs a bit harder at the idea of losing Amy. He wouldn't lose Amy. He'd have to be hard – a machine – and he'd have to break this frontier, a place he had come to for the purposes of sport but now wanted nothing more of it except to see it long left behind.
END of Chapter 12
Five Days, Twenty Hours, Twenty-Three Minutes
Panting, Trace Hightower threw himself onto the ground, giving himself a moment's rest. His chest fought under his clothing, rising and falling as rapidly as he could suck the air into his lungs. He had been running as fast as he could – at what certainly must have been a breakneck speed – across the empty and unforgiving Alaskan frontier – pumping his legs like pistons as hard as they would go through the ice and the snow – but he felt as if he were going nowhere, as if he were plodding in place for all the good it did. Lying on his back, he realized how good the cold felt, and he stared up into the permanently fixed expression of indifference on the face of Secret Service Agent Nolan Murphy.
"How long have we been running?" Hightower managed to ask between his gasps for air.
"Don't know, sir."
"Can't you guess?"
"I never was one much for guessing."
Damn the man! He didn't even appear winded.
"Well, would you do me a favor and give me some idle banter while I lay here trying to stay alive?"
Murphy grimaced, his fingers locked on his right thigh. Briskly, he massaged a cramp that had taken hold of his leg, and he guessed, "About two hours. Maybe more."
The man was a perfectionist, and Hightower was surprised that his answer was far short of perfection.
"You don't honestly know?"
"No, sir, I do not know." Murphy shook his head, wincing as he found his face flooded with a shock of cold wind. "Check your watch, Mr. Hightower. You'll see that it's stopped ... like mine."
Pulling up his arm, the man yanked back the arm of his coat, and he saw that the second hand wasn't moving.
"How is that possible?" he tried.
Murphy turned his head to glance back in the direction they had come. About thirty minutes back, he had given up hope that any other members of their party had survived. About fifteen minutes back, he had reached the same conclusion that his 'package' – Hightower – just uttered: they weren't going to make it back to civilization.
"My best guess – though I've already said I hate making them – is that we were exposed to some kind of electromagnetic pulse," the agent explained matter-of-factly.
"An EMP?" Hightower wondered aloud. "Isn't that ... Murphy, aren't EMPs associated to nuclear tests?"
"Some of them," the man agreed, "but not all."
Suddenly fearing more for his life than he had moments ago, the younger man asked, "Do you think we've been exposed?"
Pointing his expression at the President's son-in-law, Murphy replied, "That would be another guess, sir, and, no insult intended, I've met my quota for guesses on this trip."
The tone of the man's voice unnerved Hightower. Murphy was top notch. He was one of the best agents in the Secret Service, and Hightower knew it. He had served four Presidents, and the man had an unblemished service record. He came into the new Administration with a reserved calm, knowing that this would be his last tour of duty. After so many years, so many missions, and so many dangers, he finally decided to retire at the ripe young age of fifty-five. Still, with as sturdy as the man was built, Hightower would guess the man was still in his prime and had plenty of surprises in stowed reserve. Coming from a background where he was raised by an aunt who had died while he was training with the military, Murphy didn't have any remaining family, and, perhaps as an emotional defense mechanism for his own sanity, he had insisted on assignments protected the President's family. It was his way of having brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, and cousins of his own ... without any direct lineage. This gave him added incentive to take extra special care on these missions of derringdo that Hightower refused to part with once his father-in-law found himself elected to the nation's highest calling. While the other agents had gladly changed out in the rotation, Murphy stayed with him ... from the failed bid to climb Mount 'what the hell was I thinking' Everest all the way to his excursion into an active volcano.
Although the agent would never say, Hightower fancied imagining that – in other circumstances – that they were friends, kindred spirits that shared the need for an adrenaline rush. Little did he know that he was far for the truth, for Murphy only cared about having someone to care for. His needs were simple. The Secret Service paid him well enough. The Service also provided him with a surrogate family, but he refused to get close to any of them. He wanted to. After all, that was a human need to someone who had spent so much of his life in loneliness. A decade or so back, Murphy had convinced himself innocently that he didn't need family ... but it didn't last for long for he had reached the same revelation about a decade before that one ... and a decade before that one ...
His was the highest possible calling: to take a bullet for someone you were barely allowed to get to know.
Hightower was convinced they were friends. He couldn't have been more wrong. They were men forced together out of political circumstance. Anything more? That was a blind man's fantasy.
"We should keep moving, sir," Murphy stated flatly.
Hightower shook his head, the blood pounding a heartbeat in his skull. "In a minute, Murphy. Please just give me another minute ..."
"Sir, I think it's best..."
"You don't think," Hightower countered. "You respond to orders. You evaluate the needs of the situation, and then you enact a gameplan that will satisfy the endgame with the least possible casualty." The young man blinked the cold tears from the corner of his eyes. "I'm not about to be a casualty run to death. I said we'll go ... in a minute."
Uncomfortable, the agent turned and glared at the younger man.
"Sir, if you'll pardon my speaking freely, then I'll give you the privilege of my being blunt."
"I'm listening, Murphy."
The agent pointed in the direction they had come. "In case you missed it, someone tried to wipe you off the face of the planet. Those men weren't aiming at me. They were aiming at you because of your personal importance to the President. And, in case you've forgotten, they struck using a weapon of unimaginable power. I don't know if it was a particle beam weapon. I don't know if it was some type of stealth neutron blast. Sir, I frankly don't have the slightest idea of what it was, but I do know this: they've used it once, they missed, and you're not dead." He paused a moment to catch his breath, his nose turning a bright red from the Alaskan chill. He leaned down to bring his face closer to Hightower's. "Whatever the possibility, there is no doubt in my mind that these men used satellites – probably our own – to target you, to hone in on your exact position."
"Our own satellites?" the younger man perked up. "Murphy, are you saying that this attack was directed by men within our own government?"
"Given what we know, it certainly stands to reason." Murphy stood up again, scanning the desolate terrain for any signs of life. "Who else but those in the White House knew about this little exercise of yours? You have to realize that if these men have satellite tracking capability, then they most likely possess the ability to re-task the orbits of other satellites – companion satellites – in order see whether or not the first strike was successful."
Murphy was right. Hightower glanced up at the sky, realizing suddenly that they – the killers – could be watching him at this very moment. Watching him. Studying him. Targetting him.
"We've been running for at least two hours across undisturbed terrain ... undisturbed expect for our footprints, sir, and those tracks will lead them directly to us. Now that means that you get up off your ass and you need to move. Now." He pointed in the direction they were heading. "From this point forward, sir, we head in that direction – the direction of Zulu Base – and I think it best that you follow my orders to the letter. That may be the only way that I can possibly ensure your safety. Is that clear?"
Hightower couldn't argue with the logic. Despite what Murphy thought, the young man looking up to the agent, considered him a friend. Sitting up, he forced himself to slow down his breaths, and he rose to his feet. "I'm sorry, Murphy," he confessed. "I ... I guess I wasn't thinking."
Calmly, the agent nodded. "There's no need to apologize, sir."
"Are you kidding?" the young man tried. "I'm being a selfish ass."
Smirking, Murphy chided him with, "I'm not much for arguing either, sir."
"You're out here doing your job trying to save me, and I'm asking for a breather."
"With all due respect, Mr. Hightower," Murphy spat, growing irritated, "this has nothing to do with my doing my job. This has everything to do with our survival. Not mine. Not yours. But ours." The older man locked eyes on his companion. "Yes, it is my job to keep you alive, but the only way I can do that is to keep myself alive. And, sir?" The agent held a look of sincerity about him. "I know you've taken all sorts of hell from the American media. They've christened you a rebel for wanting to spend these past few years on these little pet project adventures of yours. Who am I to call it differently, but I've seen you in action. I know you understand the necessity for safety, despite wanting to experience what you personally feel is living life to the fullest. But I give you my word that this isn't one of your thrill seeker outings. This is life-or-death. There is no thrill. There is no game. There is no rush ... nothing except for the rushing of our feet."
With that, Hightower turned, forcing his body to move. He started off at a job, at first, allowing his legs to get back into a rhythm, until he poured his endurance into it. He tore through the snow more easily now that he had been properly motivated. He convinced himself that this was no different than any of his other adventures. He ignored the thought of any lethal jeopardy, and he ran. He refused to accept the frosty kiss of the wind, and he ran faster. He thought of his beautiful wife – sitting wherever she was with her family, quite possibly wondering about his fate – and he moved onward, pumping his legs a bit harder at the idea of losing Amy. He wouldn't lose Amy. He'd have to be hard – a machine – and he'd have to break this frontier, a place he had come to for the purposes of sport but now wanted nothing more of it except to see it long left behind.
END of Chapter 12
