Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 39
Five Days, Fourteen Hours, Fifty-One Minutes
"Easy there, Isaac."
Turning away from the small bank of flat panel monitors projecting thermal imaging of the scene that took place many hours earlier in northern Alaska, Mentnor glanced up into the eyes of Nathan Ramsey. They were fixed determinedly but not on the scientist's work. Instead, Ramsey was flashed them around the room, taking in a quick view of every uniformed technician, tactical advisor, and military attaché assigned to the White House War Room. These people were consummate professionals. They were dedicated, in principle and oath, to serving the current Administration, but, over the last few minutes, Ramsey had been formulating a theory – the foundation of a truly calculated idea – and he was no longer at each and every person down here as a tailored suit patriot: instead, he entertained other notions – secret notions – that drove him to dark conclusions.
"What is it?"
"Your backups," Ramsey whispered. "Don't save anything to the White House mainframe."
"What?"
"Just ... please, Isaac. I need your help on this. Save all of your work on the BackStep mainframe you've tapped into. I think it's a more prudent plan of action."
Mentnor pursed his lips. "Why is that?"
"Humor me."
The scientist shook his head. "Nathan, I honestly don't understand what good that will serve ..."
"Just ... humor me, Isaac."
The older man stared up into the director's face. He found enough of an answer in that firm expression, and he agreed. "As you wish, Nathan."
"What do you have?"
Mentnor closed several file sharing windows and maximized a single satellite photograph with an overlaid section of gridwork. Pointing and clicking at the screen, the scientist explained, "You have to understand what we're looking at." He centered the pointed cursor on a gaping black and red whole offset from the photo's center. "Here, I believe this is where the temporal weapon struck the Alaskan surface." With his free hand, he tapped a few buttons, and the coloring changed dramatically. Parts of the picture's hole were suddenly transformed into a grayscale, an obvious measure of ... of ... Ramsey didn't know what. "What you're seeing here is the measurement of a heat signature from ground zero, the chief point of impact with the temporal beam." Using his cursor, Mentnor highlighted several areas where the gray color decreased in intensity. "Like most blasts, the absolute center suffered the greatest level of heat. This is where the temporal beam – for lack of a better phrase – struck the ground, but you can see from the trailing edges of gray spiraling out from the blast's epicenter that this explosion lanced outward with tremendous arms of heat, tremendous shocks of intense temperature. If I didn't know better, I'd say that I'm looking at an overview of the Milky Way galaxy with a single bright light at its center and the spiraling arms glowing just as significantly. That means ... well ... from what I can superficially determine from this photograph that the temporal beam uses – much like a particle beam – a highly focused blast of energy, directly at a surgically precise target. The resulting blast, however, throws arms – tentacles, if you will – of temporal radiation out from the center in almost perfect alignment from the host."
"The host?"
"The center of the blast," Mentnor continued. "Think of it as a work of precise mathematical calculation, Nathan. The blast is the brain of this great octopus, and it grows arms almost instantly in geometically exact proportion all around it ... much like the fact of a clock. These arms are perfectly equidistant from one another. Mathematically, this is a perfect a blast as would be possible. It doesn't seem to suffer the effects of nature. Wind would not alter its precision. Matter – of any kind – would not alter the trajectory of its arms. Those facts – while they may be cursory determinations – would make me believe that there is no defense against such a weapon. It can strike through anything, as temporal energy takes precedence over physical matter in any equation I can figure."
Ramsey stood, his eyes fixed to the picture. "And this is what was unleashed on Trace Hightower?"
Mentnor paused, staring up at the director.
"What is it, Isaac?"
The older man glanced around briefly. "You implied that we were not safe to discuss this out in the open."
The director leaned down. "Well, my friend, it doesn't look like we have much of a choice. Stoddard is busy handling to the affairs on this end that the President needs to have handled, and McGinty isn't about to leave his side." He craned his head a bit closer to the man. "Why don't you tell me ... but keep your voice low."
The man nodded. "Very well."
Turning back to the screen, he tapped a button, releasing the cursor from its lock. Taking the mouse in his hand, he moved it, and the arrow on the screen circled about, finally closing in on several misshapen masses – were those rocks? – near the top left-hand corner of the screen. Mentnor tapped the mouse, and, suddenly, the area became magnified.
"What am I looking at?" Ramsey asked.
"Rocks," Mentnor explained. "As you may know, the Alaskan frontier occasionally spouts a series of outcroppings due to volcanic activity from several thousand years ago. These foundations of nature are sparse across the frozen tundra, but there are there, nonetheless. This outcropping happens to be in a very close proximity to the terrorist's blast. Now, if you look closely, enhancing the satellite photo through the greater use of thermal filters ..."
Mentnor tapped a few buttons, and, suddenly, two orange forms appeared. They were distinct, and they were nestled between several of the rocky mounds ... however, after staring at the shapes for a few moments, Ramsey was certain that the once thermal globs began to take on greater distinction ... with an arm here and a leg there.
"People," he announced.
"Yes," Mentnor agreed.
"Someone survived the blast."
"Nathan, take it easy," Mentnor offered. "These photographs are several hours old, at this point, and, from what we know, we haven't been able to establish contact with anyone up there. Temporal energy, as you know, when released into uncontained environment has properties very similar to that of an electromagnetic pulse. So, if these two survivors were equipped with any kind of radio equipment whatsoever, this blast – this terrorist attack – would've rendered much of it useless." Glancing around, Mentnor cleared his throat before adding, "However, I am completely certain that this is the path that Mr. Hightower and his Secret Service entourage were heading, after comparing the last known tactical data from their contact with Zulu Base." The man sniffed, studying the image on the screen. "There's no way to know whether or not either of these figures is Trace Hightower. As a matter of fact, with the reality that these photographs are several hours old, there's no way for us to even know that whoever these two men are even survived the end result of that explosion."
Ramsey stood. "But they're alive ... in this picture?"
The scientist nodded. "The heat signatures are very pronounced, leading me to conclude that, yes, they were probably in good health when these photos were taken."
Quickly, the director nodded.
"That's good enough for me ... and it's more than enough for the both of us. Come on. We've should tell the others."
Ethan Stoddard glanced up from his brief as the door to the Conference Room swung open. Chloe Vandemark, startled, dropped her coffee on the table and swore. Quickly, she started dabbing at the growing puddle with some scratch paper. Colonel McGinty swung in his chair and barked, "Nathan, just what the hell do you think you're doing?"
"You're going to need to hear this, colonel."
Ramsey dragged Mentnor in through the open door and closed it behind him.
"Mr. Ramsey," Stoddard announced, reaching out and shuffling his papers away from the spilled coffee, "we're in the middle of formulating the President's response to this whole affair."
"I know that, sir, and that's why you need to hear this."
"With all due respect," the chief of staff continued, "you know the President's policy on terrorism. It isn't as if it's his own. It's simply ... the nature of the beast. To be honest, it's a position that's been passed down from Administration to Administration. We don't negotiate with terrorists. Now, this man ... this organization ... these men ... they've attacked a member of the President's family, and we're not going to stand for that. We're going to formulate a military response ... if we only knew where to strike. In the meantime, I'd appreciate it if you and Dr. Mentnor could continue to gather ..."
"Sir," Ramsey interrupted, holding up his hands. "Like you, I'm not going to dance around any fancy issues. I'm going to be plain and simple. I won't take but a moment of your time."
Sitting back in his brown leather chair, Stoddard nodded with resignation. "All right, Nathan. All right. What is it you believe I should know?"
"Sir, there's a good chance ... an astounding chance ... that Trace Hightower is, quite possibly, still alive."
Stoddard, McGinty, and Vandemark all turned their undivided attention to Director Ramsey.
"There's no way I can give you an answer of absolute certainly, sir," he began, "and, for that, I am truly sorry. However, Isaac has completed a cursory review of several photos provided by my contact in what remains of the Soviet Defense Ministry, and we can say that – with conviction – that two people within Mr. Hightower's party did not, in fact, did in the temporal blast."
Quickly, Mentnor began rushing around the conference room table, and he passed out the recently printed photographs he had reviewed. As luck would have it, he found two more satellite images that not only confirmed two survivors; one of them very specifically showed that these two images – these two people – had risen to their feet and were moving off in a direction southward, decidedly away from the blast.
"What?" Chloe asked. "You've got to be kidding? How could that be? How could someone survive ... such an attack by a weapon we know so little about?"
"That isn't entirely accurate, Ms. Vandemark," Mentnor offered. "You have to keep in mind that those of us in the BackStep Program are, in fact, uniquely familiar with recording, evaluating, and mapping the use and misuse of temporal energy, the very fuel that powers our Sphere." He tapped at one picture he held in his hand. "As I've said, this energy signature was very familiar to me when I saw it for the first time. Of course, it was! I've been working for it with several years out in Nevada! Now, that doesn't mean I can tell you all of the pros and cons of releasing it outside of containment – you've already heard my theory on that – but I can tell you that, with no hesitation, it is temporal energy. The markings are identical to those that I've catalogued inside the Sphere. These photographs required some getting used to, but, once I was comfortable, I was able to decide which of these needed to be viewed through several tactical software interfaces I've operated out of the BackStep Program." Triumphant, he dropped the last few photographs to the table. "In short, I can understand why your terrorist would want to avoid any involvement by the BackStep Team. We've dealt with these sort of energies. We're the best schooled to detect their use – or misuse, as is the case here – and we're quite possibly uniquely equipped to tell you what to make of all of this science."
Glancing up from the photographs, Stoddard smiled. "Doctor, I believe you're a genius."
"No, sir," Mentnor declined to accept full responsibility. "I'm just an expert at ... well ... this."
"I don't understand," Chloe tried. She placed one photograph – the one showed the two heat signatures of people sheltered by some errant rock formations – and pointed at the image. "You're saying that there two blips ... these are people?"
"That's correct, ma'am," Ramsey interjected.
"But how do we know that either of the survivors is Trace Hightower?"
Nodding, the director stepped forward. He pulled out a heavy chair and sat down, gesturing for Mentnor to do the same.
"Well, I hope you don't think this inappropriate of me," he began with a bit of trepidation, "but I used the telephone to call in another favor."
Chloe's eyes widened. "Director Ramsey, please don't tell me that you leaked politically sensitive information to another third world country?"
Diplomatically, Ramsey held up a hand. "No, ma'am. I would never jeopardize the great United States of ours. But ... see ... I started to ask myself some questions that I hadn't taken the time to ask myself earlier. There's been so much information that – to be perfectly honest – I haven't taken time to absorb it all." He relaxed his arms on the tabletop. "Now, we know that your terrorist – and I'm calling him that because I truly believe that's what he is – he isn't your ordinary garden-variety terrorist, sirs ... and ma'am ... if you don't mind my saying."
"What do you mean?" Stoddard tried. "He's made an attack. He's listed his demands. I'm not following."
"Nathan?" Mentnor interrupted. "Please? Allow me." The scientist turned to the table. "Gentlemen and lady, I'm a scientist. Through and through. I'm not ashamed to say that I don't have a political interest any where in my blood. Ultimately, my apathy towards policy brought me into the BackStep Program, just as my apathy for policy forced me to re-evaluate personal needs, and these needs brought me to conclude that my time with Bradley Talmade, Mr. Ramsey, and the others was over. I left the program a few years ago ... not long after Frank Parker's death ... because I felt that the current technology held little more to offer me. Yes, there were other ... far more personal reasons that caused me to abandon the project ... but my central concern was that – as I'm no politician bent on funding a project whose science appears to be set in stone, I decided to go elsewhere. BackStep offered me nothing in the way of new challenges.
"Now, terrorists," he continued, "generally function from a similar mindset, as I'm sure the colonel or any member of Homeland Security can attest to. Terrorists want something new, something cutting edge, something a free society has no means with which to defend itself against. However, as terrorists generally cannot achieve the level of funding necessary to pursue these new technologies, they're left with taking what's currently available to them in the marketplace – nuclear materials, biochemical hazards – and they modify them in such a way that they believe they've come up with a new weapon. In reality, today's terrorist is using the same weapons that have been available to much of mankind for the last twenty, thirty, forty years. However, this attack ... this attack found a weapon outside of the box. Don't allow me to mislead you; his ends were the same as any other terrorist, but he found a super secret weapon that the world had yet design any countermeasure to thwart ... and that, my friends, means that you're not dealing with the ordinary terrorist mindset. What he wants, I would say, is far from what he's told you he wants. He could have that by simply using the weapon again and forcing you to acquiesce to his every wish. He wasn't. Nor will he. In fact, I would argue that he won't tell you what he truly desires because he already knows it's beyond your abilities to provide."
"Dr. Mentnor," Chloe interrupted, "that sounds like a very prolific analysis. Do you have any evidence to support your contention?"
"I believe I do," the man replied with some confidence. "Why did this man deny you access to your satellite defense grid? It was so you couldn't learn the truth behind what he was doing."
"What does that mean?" McGinty tried. "With all due respect, doctor, dealing with terrorism isn't an area I'm comfortable leaving to the venue of science. This is global extortion. He's listed his demands. Yes, he's crippled our ability to investigate what he's doing ..."
"... and that's because he knows that someone – it may be you, colonel; it may be me; it may be someone we've yet to conclude – has the ability to recognize what he's doing and to stop it," Mentnor concluded.
"Doctor," Chloe tried again, "what you're saying makes absolutely perfect sense, but what proof can you provide to support your opinion?"
"He's crippled your satellite network," Ramsey stated emphatically. "He doesn't want you to see this. He doesn't want you to know that he's struck you with a temporal weapon. We know that he's demanded that all personell and materials associated to BackStep be turned over to him, and why do you think that is? It's because this team – more than any other – would have the ability to detect what it is he's doing and, with a little luck, find a way to stop it." The director shifted in his chair. "Don't you get it? He didn't want you to see these satellite photos? He didn't want you to have the ability to evaluate what you were dealing with? On that ground, Isaac's theory makes perfect sense."
Placing a hand on the table near her, Mentnor smiled. "I understand your concerns, Ms. Vandemark. Please. I'm not questioning your ability to do your job, and I'm certainly not questioning your loyalty to our President. I think I know what you want, and I do have another suggestion that might present another fact that will make you more inclined to believe what I'm saying."
"What is it, doctor?"
Mentnor smiled weakly. "I don't want to alarm anyone, but I would be remiss in my duties here if I didn't point out that two men – their identities are unknown – did survive that temporal blast in Alaska. We do not know if they're still alive, but I would be willing to guess that, if they are, they're on foot headin back toward Alaska's mythical Zulu Base."
"Yes," Stoddard agreed, "so?"
With a fixed expression, the scientist added, "If we know that, then your terrorist knows that. And, if your terrorist knows that two men survived, then he might be making the same conclusion that we've made: one of those survivors is, indeed, Trace Hightower. If it is, then your terrorist cannot allow Mr. Hightower to get out of that blast zone alive, much less the state. If he is alive, Mr. Hightower would be heading for Zulu Base, a conclusion your terrorist will also reach."
"Get on the horn," Ramsey announced. "Check every tactical military air response base between here and Alaska. Any base with the ability to launch a long-flight aircraft into Alaska could very well be a team under orders by your terrorist to finish the job – the kill Trace Hightower – before the rest of us find out that he's still alive."
The blood drained from Stoddard's face.
"Oh my God," he muttered.
"That's right," Ramsey said. "If the President's son-in-law is still alive, then we have to get someone airborne to rescue him before your terrorist completes his mission."
END of Chapter 39
