Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 27
Five Days, Seventeen Hours, Twenty-Two Minutes
McGinty made good on his promise: he had Mentnor and Ramsey delivered to the White House, cleared by security, and waiting in the Briefing Room in record time. At the table, Ramsey relaxed, slowly rifling through the staff of satellite photographs that sat tucked into a manila folder – complete with the Presidential seal – on the table. Mentnor, on the other hand, wandered restlessly from window to window, glancing out into the dark skies and somber buildings. His mood had grown intense, but only one who knew him well – like Nathan Ramsey – would see it.
"This isn't right," the scientist finally said.
"What isn't right, Isaac?"
He turned and crossed to the table. "Nathan, what can we do here?" He held up his hands. "There's a madman running on the loose out there, and ... here we sit ... unable to do anything about it."
Ramsey smiled. "Relax, Isaac," he cautioned the older man. "Each of us has a role to play in this game of DeMarco's, and this is the role Bradley chose for you and me." He nodded. "The Chief of Staff just wants a briefing ... a rundown of the facts we know. We'll be out of here soon enough."
The doors opened, and Secret Service Agent Leonard Thomkins entered the room.
Glancing up from the pile of photos, Ramsey exclaimed, "Well, I'll be! If it isn't Match Thomkins!" Rising, he extended his hand, and the two men, smiling at one another, shook hands vigorously. "I had heard that you were awarded Castle Detail," the man continued, "but I never imagined I'd see you out and about on a day like today, Match."
The agent shrugged. "What's a boy to do, Nate?"
"In the Castle?" Ramsey glanced around, ensuring their privacy. "I would think that there would be plenty more on your plate than chatting it up with a couple of Black Budget lowlifes like myself and Isaac." Remembering his manners, the man gestured at his colleague. "Match, this is Dr. Isaac Mentnor. He's here to brief Stoddard on this Parallelogram Theory of his."
Courteously, the agent rounded the table and shook hands with Mentnor.
"It's a pleasure to meet you ... Match?"
Chuckling, the agent said, "Don't let it alarm you, Dr. Mentnor. It's a nickname that's been with me for far too many years."
Pointing, Ramsey countered, "Don't let him fool you, Isaac. This guy is dynamite. He's one of the best men to work the Secret Service. You tick him off, and you've lit a fire ... hence the name 'Match.'"
Frowning, Thomkins tried, "I really hoped I would – one day – outgrow that reputation, Nate."
"Not in a million years," the director of BackStep Security argued. "As a matter of fact, I'd put up two hundred dollars on a bet that – before this whole sad affair is done and over – you'll have the chance to prove the reputation is right as rain."
The agent considered the wager for a long moment. "Two hundred dollars?"
Ramsey nodded.
"On your salary, that's the best you can do?"
Belligerent, the director crossed his arms. "Can you do better?"
Fishing into his pant pocket, the agent pulled out a wad of bills held together by a thick silver money clip christened with an American bald eagle. "I can do five hundred ... if that's not too steep for your budget."
The director smiled. "Done!"
The doors opened again, and Thomkins shoved the money back into his pocket as Chief of State Ethan Stoddard and his assistant, Chloe Vandemark, entered the room. Stoddard, still wearing his suit coat, had removed his tie, the top collar of his shirt opened. Vandemark wore a flattering black dress suit with a flaming red blouse. The two approached the table, and they both were expressions of seriousness.
"Dr. Mentnor?" Stoddard asked.
Quickly, the scientist stepped around the secret service agent and met the man. "I'm Isaac Mentnor, Mr. Stoddard." Immediately, they shook hands. "Bradley Talmadge, director of the BackStep Program, asked me to meet with you."
"Yes, thank you," the man replied. Gesturing across the table at the young lady, he explained, "This is Chloe Vandemark. She works for me. She'll be sitting in for this meeting." Holding his hands out to his side, he concluded, "Shall we get started?"
"... so you see, Mr. Stoddard," Mentnor said, now somewhat weary of explaining the complexities of time travel to those who weren't inclined to understand the science, "I can only offer you speculation as to what could possibly happen to our world – this timeline – if the parallelogram were to collapse – were to temporally implode, if you will. One version of reality would cease to exist, literally merging with the other. Quite possibly, everything we've come to know in our existence – the people we know, the events that have shaped our world – may completely disappear in favor of a stronger history ... one in which even you may not exist." He shrugged. "There's ... well, there's simply no way to know."
The group gathered at the conference room table had listened to the man's impassioned speech for several minutes.
"Doctor?" Chloe tried, leaning forward. "May I ask you a few questions?"
Professionally, Mentnor nodded. "Of course, Miss Vandemark."
"You said that Frank Parker – or should I say this alternate Frank Parker – was never intended to exist in our timeline, and that is the reason he poses the risk of temporal contamination – the risk of a violent death – to anyone he meets?"
"Without the protection of his containment suit," the scientist began, "the answer is yes. If Frank were allowed to roam freely about – without the protection of the suit provided by the Centers for Disease Control – then the results would be ... well ... catastrophic."
"I know this can only be answered by speculation on your part, doctor," she continued, relaxing in her chair next to the Chief of Staff, "but can the same be said of any person from our timeline were he to cross into the timeline normally occupied by Frank Parker?"
"I'm not certain I understand," Mentnor answered.
"Does it work both ways?" she tried again. "This Frank Parker poses a great risk to our people. Could one of our people pose as great a risk were he to enter Frank Parker's timeline?"
Chewing his lower lip, the scientist considered the idea for a few seconds. He hadn't thought about such a possibility. He didn't know how it would be possible for anyone from this world – from his world – to cross temporally over into Parker's.
"My best educated guess would be yes," he concluded. "Keep in mind, Miss Vandemark, that we don't know all there is to know about temporal contamination. We can only make assumptions based upon our exposure to crossover chrononauts, and those events have unfortunately not been given ample study. However, whatever contaminant that exists ... it would stand to reason that, yes, it would affect both worlds."
"So," she continued, clearly fascinated with the subject, "were we unable to stop the collapse of this parallelogram – as you call it – a situation would exist that could possibly result in the total extinction of mankind?"
Mentnor raised an eyebrow. "Again, Miss Vandemark, I'm not certain that I understand what you're saying."
"The other timeline," she tried. "Those people – like Frank Parker – can infect us. If our people could infect them, then there are two possibilities: either – due to the unique nature of exposure of these temporal elements – the infection cancels itself out completely ... or both universes – rather, the people in both universes – would suffer contamination and, as a result, extinction of the human race as we know it results."
The scientist brought a finger to his lips as he considered the possibility. "Well ... yes ... but, keep in mind, there exists no data for any of us to offer any other alternative conclusion. You and I – we can only offer speculation." With a smile, he added, "Let's just hope that the evidence never presents itself for fast study."
Stoddard sighed heavily. "And is that why Director Talmadge countermanded the President's call for an immediate BackStep to end this series of events?"
The room was ominously quiet during the pause. Eventually, Mentnor explained: "I believe that what Bradley's chief concern is centers on the unknown. You see, with one Sphere traveling through time to alter the course of events, we've come to accept the risks. We know, to a certain degree, what possibilities we will be facing once the Sphere leaves the present and travels into the past. However, the fabric of our existence could still be very fragile. There is – as we've been discussing – no means to know what a second BackStep in under seven days could do to our universe. It may cause it to collapse. The Sphere may not make the jump. Or ... another possibility is that, as Frank Parker's Sphere crossed into our continuum, it could very well be that our Sphere might cross into Frank Parker's timeline, serving us no possible good." He shrugged. "I'm sorry that I can't provide a more definitive answer, but I have to concur with Bradley. The risks far outweigh any theoretical advantage."
"But ... it's only theoretical?" Chloe asked.
"Yes."
Curiously, she glanced over at her boss. His expression was grim.
"Gentlemen," he announced, clearing his throat, "the President is demanding this second BackStep."
Mentnor couldn't believe what he was hearing. "But, Mr. Stoddard, we've discussed this ..."
"And you've concluded, Dr. Mentnor," the chief interrupted, "that everything here is only speculation." He held up his hands. "Don't get me wrong, sir. If you could provide me with a single piece of evidence – one scrap of hard fact or definitive proof – that this second BackStep would, without question, cause any of the possible outcomes you've described, I give you my word that I would personally go to the President and refuse to comply with the orders." He fixed his stare on the scientist. "Do you understand what I'm saying, doctor? I'd risk being branded a traitor to my President – my friend – in order to save our race from extinction if I knew – with absolute certainty – that the annihilation of all we hold dear and sacred in this world would result. You can't give me that assurance, and, as a result, I only have theories to consider. Theories – while they have tremendous merit in the scientific community – unfortunately don't mean a damn in the world of politics."
"Mr. Stoddard, I assure you that there will be some result," the scientist offered.
"And that's a risk the President is willing to take."
"Now, wait just a minute."
Everyone at the table turned to glance at Nathan Ramsey.
The man pointed at his colleague. "With all due respect, Mr. Stoddard, Isaac Mentnor is the man most qualified to make that decision ... not our commander-in-chief. I understand the hierarchy probably just as well as any man or woman at this table. I know what you're facing. Were I in your shoes, I'd probably be reaching the same conclusion. The luxury that I have is that I'm not in your shoes, and I think – as a result – my opinion might be a little more impartial than yours." He shrugged. "Hell, chief, we don't even know what's happened to the President's son-in-law!"
"That information is classified," Stoddard replied.
"Classified?" Ramsey squinted at the man. "If what you said is true, then Trace Hightower is dead. Why should that information be classified?"
The chief of staff grimaced. "The circumstances ... well, all I'm at liberty to say is that the circumstances surrounding the death of Mr. Hightower are tenuous. I'm not at liberty to share any of the specifics."
Frustrated, Ramsey held up his hands. "Chief, do we even know he's dead?"
Stoddard closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, a single finger tapping rhythmically on the polished tabletop. When he opened his eyes, he stared at the BackStep personnel.
"Gentlemen," he began, "what I'm about to tell you cannot leave this room. I'm not going to ask you for any further oath of celibacy. Both of you have served the BackStep Program – with distinction, I might add – and I'll trust that you'll listen to what I have to say and keep it to yourselves." He pursed his lips. "Approximately seven hours ago, we lost all tracking and real-time imaging capability of our satellite surveillance system."
"What?" Ramsey barked.
"Mr. Hightower was trekking – on foot – with his company of secret service agents across the Alaskan frontier," Stoddard continued, ignoring Ramsey's interrupted. "The Soviets assured us that they registered – via their satellite systems – what appeared to be a thermonuclear blast. However, subsequent satellite imagery has confirmed no nuclear radioactivity. We've had the data analyzed – that is, what little data we've been provided – and it would appear to be that the NSA is the only agency with the ability to offer us any explanation for the blast." He paused before he added, "It appeared to be – somehow – a controlled burst of temporal energy ... temporal energy not unlike the reaction to the BackStep Sphere reactor core."
Mentnor leaned forward, laying his arms on the table. "But, Mr. Stoddard, that's impossible. The fuel used to generate a BackStep is highly volatile, and it requires containment between the Sphere and our operations center. A single combustion is necessary to send a chrononaut back in time seven days. There is ... well, there is no possible way for the temporal energy to be released without any manner of containment. It just isn't possible."
"Dr. Mentnor," Chloe interrupted, "seven hours ago someone made the impossible into a reality."
"You're saying a blast of temporal energy is what took the life of Trace Hightower?" Ramsey asked.
Stoddard nodded. "So far as we know."
"So far as you know?"
"Mr. Ramsey, as I thought I had made clear, we've lost all ability to track visually by satellite anywhere in the world right now," the chief remarked rather abruptly, losing control of his poise.
"But what about the Soviets?" Ramsey pressed. "Haven't we asked them for the images?"
"We've asked," Stoddard replied.
"And?"
"And we're still waiting on their reply."
Banging a hand on the table, the man barked, "The damn Russkies! I thought we were allies!"
"From day to day," Stoddard offered, "we think a good many things, Mr. Ramsey. Unfortunately, what we think doesn't necessarily equate with what we know. Right now, it would appear that every country around the world is analyzing satellite photography in an attempt to figure out exactly what happened in that Alaskan blast. Sadly, we're behind the biggest eight ball you could imagine. We have nothing. No photographs. No images. Nothing. Until we do, all we have to go on is the word of the madman who claims to have initiated this attack."
"Richard DeMarco?" Ramsey tried.
"Who?"
Realizing that the White House and the BackStep Team were operating on different frequencies, Ramsey shook his head. "I can't believe this."
"Who is Richard DeMarco?"
"Never mind," Ramsey said.
"But ... who is he?"
Ignoring the question, Ramsey pointed at the telephone positioned in the center of the table before him. Glancing up at Agent Thomkins, he asked, "Match, is this a secure line?"
The agent nodded.
Reaching out, Ramsey pulled the phone closer to him. Quickly, he picked up the telephone and dialed. While he sat there, listening to the telephone ringing on the other end of the line, Stoddard and Vandemark and Mentnor and Thomkins glanced curiously around the table at one another, completely at a loss as to what was presently happening.
Finally, Ramsey said, "Hello, I'd like to speak with Yuri Dorencho."
"Mr. Ramsey?" Stoddard tried.
The BackStep security director held up a finger to his lips, visually telling the White House Chief of Staff to remain silent.
"Hello, Yuri?" the man said into the telephone. "It's Nathan Ramsey." Pause. "Well, I'm very good, sir, and how are you doing?" Pause. "Yes, I did very much. That was a very nice gift of you, Yuri, but please don't think you have to send me a case of your finest Vodka every time we talk shop. Ever since Parker died, I don't have anyone to blame when the bottles disappear!" Pause. Ramsey laughed. "Yes, that's right! But – look here, Yuri – I'm kind of in a rush. I was hoping that you could help me out with a little project." Pause. "Yes, I'm aware of that. We're currently looking into what happened in Alaska ourselves right now, and that's why I wanted to call. Yeah, it seems some of the dunderheads up at NASA lost the feed on our principle satellite over the area at the time. We're having some trouble re-tasking other satellites due to a computer glitch, and I was hoping you wouldn't mind sharing your photography with me? You understand ... I have some pretty important people to answer to, and I'm kind of on a deadline, if you know what I mean." Pause. "You're a scholar and a gentleman, Yuri. You name your price – so long as it isn't good ole American dollars – and I'll send a case of whatever you want your way." Pause. "Jack Daniels?" Pause. "Well, if that's what you have a hankering for, then I'm certainly not going to argue with you. It doesn't have the edge of your finest Vodka, but it serves its own medicinal purposes, I guess." Pause. "Yes. I'm at the White House. I'm with Chief of Staff Stoddard and some of his people. They'd really appreciate your help as well." Pause. "I'm sure a trip to Disneyland can be arranged. You call me with the dates, and it's a done deal." Pause. "That's right. Just upload them to me to my private server, and I'll download them from here." Pause. "You're the greatest, Yuri." Pause. "Say hello to Isabella from me." Pause. "That's right. Hugs and kisses to the kids, too."
Finished, Nathan Ramsey hung up the telephone and was greeted to a table fun of astonished faces.
"We'll have forty-seven images the Soviets have stored from their satellite mainframe docked in my personal server within the hour," he said. "There should be plenty there for us to analyze. Once we've done that, then, Mr. Stoddard, I think you can give the President the best possible advice."
"Mr. Ramsey," Stoddard tried, still amazed at how simple the man managed to get highly classified satellite photography ... from a telephone call ... in exchange for a case of Jack Daniels? "How in the hell did you just do what you did?"
"What?" Ramsey asked innocently. "Hell, Stoddard, you don't spend as many years in the Black Budget as I have and not make a few well-placed friends."
END of Chapter 27
