Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 19
At the same time
The pilot set the Boeing down easily on the runway, the plane's wheels screeching their protest as the black rubber met the painted asphalt, and BackStep One arrived in Washington, D.C. Braking hard, the pilot slowed the aircraft and gradually steered it around the airfield, taxiing in the direction of the secured NSA hangar. Through his cockpit windows, he could see that the ground crew was already in place. The first agent held up his orange wands – small beacons of lava in the evening darkness – and he conducted the pilot all the way to the stop-line. Immediately, another crewmember chocked the wheels to secure the plane in place, to keep it from rolling, and yet another maneuvered the mobile staircase into position.
Aboard the aircraft, one of the technicians released the seal on the door, cranked the arm over, and opened the plane.
Bradley Talmadge stepped through the large oval doorway. Marching down the stairs, he noticed the uniformed man approached – it was a man he recognized – and he waved. "Colonel McGinty!" he exclaimed. "Well, in troubled times like these, it's certainly good to see a friendly face."
Extending his hand, McGinty smiled. The two men shook hands warmly. "It's been an awful lot of Hell and high water since Alamogordo, director."
Talmadge nodded. "I think that we can all say our prayers for that."
"That we can, sir." Glancing back up the stairway, he asked, "Is your team ready?"
Talmadge nodded. "They'll be down shortly. Most of them have been up for the last twenty-four hours. They're functioning on catnaps, as it is. But, suffice it to say, they're all ready to learn more about what's been going on while we've been in the air." With a look of concern, he tried, "What the devil happened with Hightower?"
Aboard BackStep One, Nina Welles and Ebdon Finkle helped Frank Parker get to his feet. The chrononaut stumbled, the dead weight of the suit nearly forcing him back down onto his cot, but he forced his feet under him and stood wobbling until they offered their support.
"This is going to be difficult at first, Frank," Nina warned, steadying the man where he stood by bracing her hands on his back. "You've been asleep – lying down – and your body hasn't adjusted to the added weight of the containment suit."
"Tell me something I don't know."
"You're sounding crabby," she replied, "like a child who needs a nap."
"Thanks for reminding me, mom," Parker quipped.
Almost simultaneously, Ebdon reached up and whacked the back of the chrononaut's thick helmet. More surprised than angered, the chrononaut glanced back at the elderly restaurant owner turned government agent.
"What the hell was that for, Ebdon?"
"Fool," the old man challenged playfully.
"What?" Parker protested. "What did I do?"
"Well, if Nina's your mother, then that makes me your father," the man explained, "and no son of mine – hero or not – disrespects the woman of the house."
Surrendering to the both of them, Parker chuckled as the three of them laughed in unison, making their way together through the isolation chamber's airlock.
Stretching as she shook herself from a deep sleep, Olga Vukavitch was oblivious to the fact that she was accidentally dumping all of her mission files onto the floor of the aircraft. She swore under her breath, leaning down to gather them back together into neat piles. Quickly, Michelson unhooked his seatbelt and lowered himself to help.
"I'm such a klutz," Olga said.
"Stop it," he told her. "It isn't your fault."
She muttered another Russian curse word under her breath.
"We've all been up for hours," Michelson explained. "As a doctor, you should know what sleep deprivation does to anyone." He sighed. "The way this mission is shaping up, we'll be lucky to catch twenty winks let alone forty any time soon."
Begrudgingly, she agreed. Taking the files from his hands, she sat back in her seat, uncertain of what to say next. The two of them had remained silent most of the trip. Actually, the silence aboard BackStep One was little more than an extension of what had begun back in NeverNever Land. Parker's untimely arrival – a virtual resurrection from the dead, if there ever were one – had awakened something in her that she couldn't admit to herself ... much less to the new man in her life.
"Channing?"
Standing, he turned to her.
"You know how I feel about you ... don't you?" she asked.
Resigned, the man nodded. "Didn't we already had this conversation back in Nevada?"
"Channing, please."
"I do know how you feel, sweetheart ... but now isn't the time," he assured her. "I know exactly how you feel. But there's ... there's far more at stake right now than just you and I." Reaching out, he took her nearest hand in his and squeezed. "Look, let's keep things as together as possible right now, okay? Trust me, Olga. That's the only way either of us are going to be able to see this thing through."
Smiling, she gripped his hand tighter. She couldn't believe that – after all these years – she had found someone so perfect, so utterly perfect to spend her life with.
"Thank you, Channing."
Isaac Mentnor glanced through the window at the military personnel rushing about the hangar, and he said, "This is precisely why I left the BackStep Program."
Yawning, Ramsey sat up in his seat, adjusting his tie. He dipped his fingers in his clear glass of water and brought the liquid up to his neck, scrubbing it along the back. "What's that, Isaac?"
"The military," Mentnor said.
"What about 'em?"
"After September 11th, things fell apart," the man said. "Nathan, I don't think that at any other time in human history we – as a culture – ever lost more control of ourselves. Frank died, saving thousands of lives in what would've been the worst possible terrorist disaster on our soil ... but that didn't end it. It should have. His sacrifice should have stopped all of the ... all of the chaos."
Ramsey sniffed. "I don't know that I agree with you there, Isaac."
"The world," Mentnor continued. "All of a sudden, it became a much smaller place." He stared out the window, watching the soldiers preparing a makeshift briefing area for the team. "What we believed could never possibly ever happen in America happened ... and it woke the world from a much more welcome dream."
The younger man unclipped his seatbelt and stood up. "Isaac, you're a smart man. You always have been. Hell, you're the smartest man I've ever known, and that says something. But I think you're missing the point, my friend. If you really think about it, we've never had control of our world. That's the only problem any of us should be concerned with."
The scientist glanced up at the security director. "What do you mean?"
Momentarily lost in thought, Ramsey tried, "The way I see things, we've never had control of anything. We've always convinced ourselves that we did. It was ... what do they call it ... a fool's paradise?" He smiled. "Hell, since the beginning of time, we've all answered to a higher power. For me, I've always answered to Bradley. For the proud men and women out there running around following orders, it's their commanding officer." He winced. "If you believe in God, then the Almighty sets the ground rules ... so, any way you shake the tree, the apples are always grown by somebody else."
Mentnor studied the younger man's expression. "Nathan, I don't think I've ever heard you speak so plainly."
Laughing, Ramsey leaned over and grabbed his grey suit coat from the chair beside him. He always wore grey, and Mentnor guessed that the director of security must've found something 'absolute' about choosing and staying with a signature color.
"It's only my opinion," Ramsey said, "but all those terrorists did was answer the call they heard from a higher power. I'm not saying it's right. I'm saying ... I'm just saying that that is all they did." He cocked his head to one side. "And now, for answering that call, our boys and girls are serving it right back in their faces in every hot spot around the world. Me? I wouldn't mind being there in the thick of it with 'em. It may not be the most glamorous scenario I can imagine, but it sure beat the hell out of most alternatives I can think of."
The scientist smiled. "Well, I – for one – am glad that you're here."
Turning, Ramsey placed a hand on the scientist's shoulder. "Right back at you, Isaac." Righting himself, adjusting his suit coat, he concluded, "Now, let's get out there and learn whose butt we're going to kick for the latest mess Parker caused."
As he watched the director walk away under the shadow of that all-too- familiar gray coat, Mentnor thought, "Well – for the briefest possible moment – I thought I was glad that you were here!"
END of Chapter 19
At the same time
The pilot set the Boeing down easily on the runway, the plane's wheels screeching their protest as the black rubber met the painted asphalt, and BackStep One arrived in Washington, D.C. Braking hard, the pilot slowed the aircraft and gradually steered it around the airfield, taxiing in the direction of the secured NSA hangar. Through his cockpit windows, he could see that the ground crew was already in place. The first agent held up his orange wands – small beacons of lava in the evening darkness – and he conducted the pilot all the way to the stop-line. Immediately, another crewmember chocked the wheels to secure the plane in place, to keep it from rolling, and yet another maneuvered the mobile staircase into position.
Aboard the aircraft, one of the technicians released the seal on the door, cranked the arm over, and opened the plane.
Bradley Talmadge stepped through the large oval doorway. Marching down the stairs, he noticed the uniformed man approached – it was a man he recognized – and he waved. "Colonel McGinty!" he exclaimed. "Well, in troubled times like these, it's certainly good to see a friendly face."
Extending his hand, McGinty smiled. The two men shook hands warmly. "It's been an awful lot of Hell and high water since Alamogordo, director."
Talmadge nodded. "I think that we can all say our prayers for that."
"That we can, sir." Glancing back up the stairway, he asked, "Is your team ready?"
Talmadge nodded. "They'll be down shortly. Most of them have been up for the last twenty-four hours. They're functioning on catnaps, as it is. But, suffice it to say, they're all ready to learn more about what's been going on while we've been in the air." With a look of concern, he tried, "What the devil happened with Hightower?"
Aboard BackStep One, Nina Welles and Ebdon Finkle helped Frank Parker get to his feet. The chrononaut stumbled, the dead weight of the suit nearly forcing him back down onto his cot, but he forced his feet under him and stood wobbling until they offered their support.
"This is going to be difficult at first, Frank," Nina warned, steadying the man where he stood by bracing her hands on his back. "You've been asleep – lying down – and your body hasn't adjusted to the added weight of the containment suit."
"Tell me something I don't know."
"You're sounding crabby," she replied, "like a child who needs a nap."
"Thanks for reminding me, mom," Parker quipped.
Almost simultaneously, Ebdon reached up and whacked the back of the chrononaut's thick helmet. More surprised than angered, the chrononaut glanced back at the elderly restaurant owner turned government agent.
"What the hell was that for, Ebdon?"
"Fool," the old man challenged playfully.
"What?" Parker protested. "What did I do?"
"Well, if Nina's your mother, then that makes me your father," the man explained, "and no son of mine – hero or not – disrespects the woman of the house."
Surrendering to the both of them, Parker chuckled as the three of them laughed in unison, making their way together through the isolation chamber's airlock.
Stretching as she shook herself from a deep sleep, Olga Vukavitch was oblivious to the fact that she was accidentally dumping all of her mission files onto the floor of the aircraft. She swore under her breath, leaning down to gather them back together into neat piles. Quickly, Michelson unhooked his seatbelt and lowered himself to help.
"I'm such a klutz," Olga said.
"Stop it," he told her. "It isn't your fault."
She muttered another Russian curse word under her breath.
"We've all been up for hours," Michelson explained. "As a doctor, you should know what sleep deprivation does to anyone." He sighed. "The way this mission is shaping up, we'll be lucky to catch twenty winks let alone forty any time soon."
Begrudgingly, she agreed. Taking the files from his hands, she sat back in her seat, uncertain of what to say next. The two of them had remained silent most of the trip. Actually, the silence aboard BackStep One was little more than an extension of what had begun back in NeverNever Land. Parker's untimely arrival – a virtual resurrection from the dead, if there ever were one – had awakened something in her that she couldn't admit to herself ... much less to the new man in her life.
"Channing?"
Standing, he turned to her.
"You know how I feel about you ... don't you?" she asked.
Resigned, the man nodded. "Didn't we already had this conversation back in Nevada?"
"Channing, please."
"I do know how you feel, sweetheart ... but now isn't the time," he assured her. "I know exactly how you feel. But there's ... there's far more at stake right now than just you and I." Reaching out, he took her nearest hand in his and squeezed. "Look, let's keep things as together as possible right now, okay? Trust me, Olga. That's the only way either of us are going to be able to see this thing through."
Smiling, she gripped his hand tighter. She couldn't believe that – after all these years – she had found someone so perfect, so utterly perfect to spend her life with.
"Thank you, Channing."
Isaac Mentnor glanced through the window at the military personnel rushing about the hangar, and he said, "This is precisely why I left the BackStep Program."
Yawning, Ramsey sat up in his seat, adjusting his tie. He dipped his fingers in his clear glass of water and brought the liquid up to his neck, scrubbing it along the back. "What's that, Isaac?"
"The military," Mentnor said.
"What about 'em?"
"After September 11th, things fell apart," the man said. "Nathan, I don't think that at any other time in human history we – as a culture – ever lost more control of ourselves. Frank died, saving thousands of lives in what would've been the worst possible terrorist disaster on our soil ... but that didn't end it. It should have. His sacrifice should have stopped all of the ... all of the chaos."
Ramsey sniffed. "I don't know that I agree with you there, Isaac."
"The world," Mentnor continued. "All of a sudden, it became a much smaller place." He stared out the window, watching the soldiers preparing a makeshift briefing area for the team. "What we believed could never possibly ever happen in America happened ... and it woke the world from a much more welcome dream."
The younger man unclipped his seatbelt and stood up. "Isaac, you're a smart man. You always have been. Hell, you're the smartest man I've ever known, and that says something. But I think you're missing the point, my friend. If you really think about it, we've never had control of our world. That's the only problem any of us should be concerned with."
The scientist glanced up at the security director. "What do you mean?"
Momentarily lost in thought, Ramsey tried, "The way I see things, we've never had control of anything. We've always convinced ourselves that we did. It was ... what do they call it ... a fool's paradise?" He smiled. "Hell, since the beginning of time, we've all answered to a higher power. For me, I've always answered to Bradley. For the proud men and women out there running around following orders, it's their commanding officer." He winced. "If you believe in God, then the Almighty sets the ground rules ... so, any way you shake the tree, the apples are always grown by somebody else."
Mentnor studied the younger man's expression. "Nathan, I don't think I've ever heard you speak so plainly."
Laughing, Ramsey leaned over and grabbed his grey suit coat from the chair beside him. He always wore grey, and Mentnor guessed that the director of security must've found something 'absolute' about choosing and staying with a signature color.
"It's only my opinion," Ramsey said, "but all those terrorists did was answer the call they heard from a higher power. I'm not saying it's right. I'm saying ... I'm just saying that that is all they did." He cocked his head to one side. "And now, for answering that call, our boys and girls are serving it right back in their faces in every hot spot around the world. Me? I wouldn't mind being there in the thick of it with 'em. It may not be the most glamorous scenario I can imagine, but it sure beat the hell out of most alternatives I can think of."
The scientist smiled. "Well, I – for one – am glad that you're here."
Turning, Ramsey placed a hand on the scientist's shoulder. "Right back at you, Isaac." Righting himself, adjusting his suit coat, he concluded, "Now, let's get out there and learn whose butt we're going to kick for the latest mess Parker caused."
As he watched the director walk away under the shadow of that all-too- familiar gray coat, Mentnor thought, "Well – for the briefest possible moment – I thought I was glad that you were here!"
END of Chapter 19
