Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 55
Five Days, Eleven Hours, Forty Minutes
"Dr. Mentnor," Chloe Vandemark said flatly, "somehow I just knew that I'd find you here."
Mentnor stopped in mid-climb down the service ladder. He glanced back up in the direction of the voice, and he immediately recognized the face of the Chief of Staff's aide. Silently cursing himself, he swore he had closed the door tightly behind him so as to avoid being caught. Given the fact that she had spoken with him not thirty minutes ago, he guessed she was keeping a watchful eye on him at Stoddard's request.
"Yes," he said, smiling up at her. "Hello, Ms. Vandemark."
She smiled down, the corner of her mouth tugging away to show her pearly white teeth. "Doctor, if you're going to condescend by insisting on using my surname, do me a favor? Please drop the 'Ms' nonsense. It's 'miss.' I never much cared for that 'Ms' qualifier. I'm happily single."
"You'll have to forgive this old dog."
"And a wiley old dog, at that," she commented. Placing one hand on the top rung, she asked, "You wouldn't mind telling me what you're up to?"
He grimaced, glancing down the long shaft before explaining, "I would think that it would be obvious to you ... Chloe, is it?"
"Yes, it is," she answered, "and, yes, it's also very obvious."
"I apologize."
"No need." She took her hand off the rung and crossed her arms over her chest. "However, you have to understand that I'm only doing my job when I remind you that Chief Stoddard did give you an order to evacuate the White House. Would you like me to inform him that you've brazenly disobeyed his order with the intention of climbing down this maintenance corridor, risking life and limb, in a pursuit of only Heaven knows what?"
He gripped tighter, holding his position on the ladder, hoping that he was showing no disrespect but an unflinching desire to continue. "Chloe, I have to do this."
"You have to do what, sir? Disobey the chief, or risk life and limb?"
"You're exaggerating."
"I don't think I am," she countered. "If we were to consult with the White House's staff physician, I'm quite certain that she would confirm that a man your age should not be spending his spare time crawling 75 yards beneath the surface of the White House in an un-monitored ladder shaft."
He thought about protesting vehemently, but, considering his position, he softened his blow. "I'm in reasonably good shape for a man my age, thank you, Chloe ... and this isn't about age. This is about survival. I'm not talking about my own survival. I'm talking about the survival of mankind ... of life, as we know it." With a fixed stare, he added, "I'm afraid you'll not talk me about of this, not matter how persistent you prove to be."
Her eyes locked on him, she released a heavy breath of air through her nostrils. Pursing her lips for several long moments, she finally nodded.
"Very good," she announced. "Then ... I'll have to ask you to be a gentleman, to refrain from looking up my skirt, and to move down."
"I beg your pardon?"
As he studied her, he felt some confusion as she uncrossed her arms, crouched on the floor, and slid one leg over the edge.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"I'm coming with you."
"That won't be necessary," he tried to argue.
"Look down," she ordered.
"What?"
Her sour expression poked over the edge and down at him. "I asked you to be a gentleman, doctor. Now, please look down or you're about to find yourself looking at something that will – without the counsel of the White House physician – undoubtedly prove to be too much for you."
"There."
Dr. Eli Watanabe had been waiting for some time to use his Superweapon – the Temporal Ray – one more time. His adrenaline pumping heavily since the first blast, he had toyed with the notion of what could be destroyed next. Unconcerned with being branded a traitor against his country, he focused on what he trusted was the pursuit of the last pure science. The control of a temporal ray – the ultimate application of temporal science – was the zenith of his career. It paled to nothing. As he imagined, these efforts were unprecedented. They were perfection, regardless of what goal, what country, what ideology they served. He wouldn't allow himself the momentary distractions of mercy, the platitudes of diplomacy. He would continue tested and retesting, calibrating and recalibrating, this very device ... until it served his own goal. He learned long ago – he accepted the notion when he was still a young man with an undoubtedly illustrious career ahead of him – that only brute strength would allow science to triumph over human reason. He knew that what Pendley wanted surpassed any plea for patience, calm, or reservation. This was to be his greatest endeavor, his lasting contribution to the field of what he believed was 'the final frontier.'
Now, they were going to strike again, and he was convinced he would be helping to bring the United States – the world's last superpower – to its knees ... but he knew there were any number of uncounted ways to temper this beast. Would they strike at the heart of the nation, destroying the White House, the Congress, or the Pentagon? That would certainly bring the world back on its heels, and he could only imagine what the talking heads on CVN would be saying, could be saying, should be saying. Would they destroy, say, another country's landmark? The Great Wall – that massive structure visible from high Earth orbit – would be a perfect target for destruction, though it would take more than a single blast from their Temporal Converter. The Eiffel Tower – tall crisscrossing metal girders – would be gone in the blink of an eye. Buckingham Palace? The Great Pyramids? The United Nations Building?
"There," Pendley repeated, poking a finger at the slip of paper he had placed in front of the scientist.
Quickly, Watanabe pulled up his targeting screen on the left side of the Crypt's command chair, punching in the precise coordinates, and ...
He stared at the senator's intended target.
"There?" he asked, sounding incredulous.
"Yes," the man agreed.
Wiping his eyes, Watanabe glanced again at the monitor.
"But ... what's the possible significance of destroying ...?"
"That isn't your concern."
"Senator, I really think that a burst at a government building – perhaps even Langley – would be of greater use than ..."
"I'm not paying you for your advice, Eli," the elder statesman said flatly. "I'm paying you to do as I order. Were I you, I'd keep that in mind before offering your opinion."
"Senator, really ..."
"You'll know soon enough."
"Senator ..."
"Target the Converter," Pendley stated, ignoring the protest. "Hold the blast until I give you the word."
"Mr. President," Stoddard tried, trying to remove any hint of frustration from his voice, "I can certainly understand your desire to evacuate any city that you believe poses a target of interest for Senator Pendley ... I'm only trying to play the devil's advocate when I point out that we're about to unleash a level of civil unrest unlike like any in living history. I'm not second guessing anyone. I'm only asking that, when we issue this national alert, that we're as specific as possible as to the reasons behind it."
On the viewscreen, the President shook his head. "No, Ethan. We're in no position to release any more information to the general public. This attack on our freedom is precisely the kind of event that'll generate a possible military response, if needed, from our allies. Consequently, we don't want to share more than what I've outlined until we know for certain whether or not this time weapon Pendley has built is on our soil. Then, if need be, we can call in whatever favors are owed, and our allies can join us on our own soil ..."
The door to the conference room swung open, and one of the War Room aides stormed through, interrupted the conversation.
"Mr. Stoddard," he announced, "you have a call on the Red Phone, sir. It's Senator Pendley."
Turning, the chief held up his hand to silence the President.
"Where is Chloe?" he asked.
Quickly, the aide shrugged his shoulders. "Sir, the last I knew, I believe she was coordinating the first leg of the evacuation. I haven't her since she informed us that we'd be following the first helicopter out in about sixty minutes."
He nodded. "The first copter is away, then?"
"I don't know, sir," the man explained. "Let me check above-ground, sir, and I'll let you know."
"Thank you."
As abruptly as he appeared, the man left the room.
"You don't suppose he's calling to gloat?" the President asked.
Stoddard shook his head. "That isn't Pendley's style. He's had more than equal time to rub his superiority in our faces, and he's shown remarkable restraint. At this point, I would imagine he's checking to see if you're reconsidered."
"Put him on."
Reaching out to the communications relay, the chief tapped the 'live' button. The line clicked on the ceiling speaker, and he said, "I'm here, senator."
"Is the President with you?"
"He is."
"Very well," the man announced over the open line. "If you would be so kind, Mr. Stoddard, I would ask you to contact the Basilisk via a secure White House communications line."
"The Basilisk?" the President asked.
"Yes, Mr. President," Pendley replied. "I would like you to hear what her commanding officer has to report in the moments ahead."
"Arthur, how do you know about the Basilisk?"
Stoddard closed his eyes in disgust as he heard the creeping laughter whisper from the speaker over his head. "Mr. President, if my memory serves me," the chief offered, "I believe it was the senator who actually provided the name for the Basilisk. It was, after all, one of the principle projects of the Senate Intelligence Committee. If I recall, senator, you initially opposed development of the submarine, didn't you?"
"I did, Ethan," the statesman answered. "You have a very good memory, as usual."
"Arthur," the President interrupted, "what is this about?"
"Mr. President, I think her captain will be able to provide you a far more definitive answer once the events unfold."
Suddenly, Stoddard raised his hand to his flushed cheeks. "Senator ... you can't."
"I haven't a choice in the matter," he replied. "In fact, your refusal to meet my demands will cause this."
The chief sank into the nearest chair. "Senator ... with all due respect to you ... you can't do this."
"Ethan, what is it?"
He leaned forward, firmly pressing his elbow onto the table. The room had grown very warm, and he suppressed a desire to lower the air conditioning for a momentary reprieve. "Mr. President ... as you know, we've developed an entirely new class of stealth nuclear submarines ... the Chimera Class ... and the Basilisk is the operational prototype. Last month, it was dispatched to begin maneuvers ... war games, mostly, to better evaluate the operational readiness of its class and crew. It's currently on a training patrol ... and I believe that Senator Pendley intends to destroy it."
"Where is it?"
"Sir ..."
"Where is it, Ethan?"
Stoddard tapped a button on the comm relay. An aide responded, and he ordered the man to raise the Basilisk on sat phone.
"It's in the Persian Gulf, sir."
Finally, Mentnor stepped down, planting his feet on the solid steel platform and letting go of the ladder. Turning, he looked past the endless series of fiber optic cables, noticed the nearby control junction, and wiped the sweat from his wrinkled brow. The climb took more out of him than he had expected. Leaning back into the wall, he took a deep breath, feeling the pound, pound, pound of his stressed heart in his chest, neck, and ears. Tugging at his sleeves, he quickly removed the White House sweater one of the War Room aides had provided him, and he rolled up the cuffs, pushing the fabric past his elbows. Concentrating, he slowed his breathing down to a weak pant.
"Doctor, are you all right?"
Chloe stepped away from the ladder, quickly moving to where he rest. She placed two fingers on his neck, checking his pulse.
"Take it easy for a few seconds," she warned him. "Sir, I told you not to do this! Your heart ... it's racing."
"I'll be all right in a moment," he replied.
"You shouldn't even be down here."
"I know ... I know."
Dismayed somewhat, she clapped her hands together, rubbing a fine layer of grit she had picked up from the rungs more deeply into the skin. Trying to brush it off herself, she added, "I told you, sir, and now ... here we are."
"I know you did, Chloe."
"We'll rest long enough for you to catch your breath," she argued, "and, then, we're starting back up."
With a smirk, the doctor tried, "Come now ... I've climbed this far down that I may as well have a look around. I would guess that this spot ... this location ... isn't on any of the official White House tours ... so let an old man have a bit of fun, eh?"
"Doctor," she said, sounding as if his title were akin to swearing.
Righting himself from the wall, Mentnor paced over to the comm panel. He found the snap-catch on the right side. Flipping it, he opened the unit and examined the switches underneath.
"This is quite the technology," he marveled.
"And, yes, you're right," she agreed, "it isn't part of the official tour."
He chuckled softly. Pointing down a side corridor, he said, "I'd like to go this way."
"Senator, you can't do this!" Stoddard argued. "What you're contemplating ... it would be disastrous ... a monumental setback to any effort this administration or any administration has made for a lasting peace in the Middle East!"
"The President's refusal to meet a few simple requests compels me to believe that I can do this, Ethan," Pendley offered, "and I must."
"Arthur," President Campbell tried, "you're a United States senator. You – of all people – should know what repercussions a terrorist attack will have against your own country in the Persian Gulf. You know that you'll be inciting a whole new wave of terror on behalf of any extremist group that operates out of that corner of the world. They'll see pictures ... they'll see photographs ... of the destruction of the Basilisk in their local press, on their local televisions ... and they'll see it as the ultimate sign of vulnerability. You can't do this, Arthur! You simply can't!"
"I don't have much of a choice, Mr. President."
"Arthur, be reasonable."
"I have been reasonable, sir," the senator countered. "I would state that I firmly believe that it is you who is behaving unreasonably with your resolve." He paused, anticipating a reply. When none came, he lashed out with, "If only you had been willing to meet my demands, we wouldn't be where we are now ... yelling at one another ... debating the merits or the faults of your failed diplomacy!"
"This has nothing to do with diplomacy," Campbell shot, "but it has everything to do with your own personal desire to – can I say it – rule the world!"
"I cling to no such desire, sir," he argued. "Rather, it is you who refuses to heed my request."
The comm relay pinged before Stoddard.
"Mr. President," he announced, "I have the Basilisk on sat phone."
"Arthur ... don't do this."
"You shouldn't keep her captain waiting, Mr. President."
Tugging on a handful of cables, Mentnor revealed the fist-sized oval – its face was a mix of blinking lights – and he said, "I believe this is what we're looking for, Chloe."
The device banged heavily against the metal girder he had lowered in order to gain access to the wiring. Reaching down, he cupped the device in his palm, and he brought it up – still attached – to his eyes in order to examine it more closely. He saw that the device separated down the middle, and he could vaguely make out in the poor light the oval's teeth that latched its jaws around the thick line of cable. He guessed that – somewhere beneath its top half – there was a small mountain of circuits that fused into the communications wiring, diverting its control, and re-directed the functions for whoever controlled it. There, on the bottom half of the device, was obviously a release catch.
"I think this, however, is an even more important find."
"Doctor?"
"Yes?"
Stopped, he turned to her ... only to find the muzzle of a small firearm pointed at his head.
"If you would be so kind, doctor, please step away from there."
Craig Donovan couldn't believe it.
"A temporal weapon?" he asked. He tried to imagine anyone – any American – wanted to usurp the technology that gave Channing Michelson or Frank Parker the ability to travel through time for the good of the entire planet. In fact, he always find it ironic that one of the driving core principles of any BackStep Program was that evil was an absolute. Certainly, as his training had taught him, people did evil things, but he always refuted the existence of pure evil ... but how could he believe otherwise when such obvious evidence stared him in the face so routinely? It was one of the reasons he eventually left the program – that, and Talmadge's unfortunate unwillingness to have Donovan actually travel through time. "How is that even possible? Who would ... Bradley, who would do such a thing?"
In thought, the director lowered his gaze. "Craig, I realized – several years back – that trying to answer that question was nothing but a waste of time. I remember ... I remember telling you so much not long before you left, and I think ... well, I've told myself that the reality was one of the reasons why you left."
"It was."
"And, as a chrononaut, that would always hold you back."
"Bradley, I would've done my job."
"Doing your job was never a concern, Craig," the director tried, lifting his head and staring the younger man in the eyes. "You were one of the greatest assets to the Program. However, I couldn't gamble the fate of humanity on someone who refused to believe that true evil – true, purposeful, unadulterated evil – was part of each and every mission you'd encounter." Waving a single finger at him, Talmadge added, "It had nothing to do with you, Craig. It was me. I couldn't convince myself that it was a risk I was willing to take." He shrugged. "Eventually, I think – had I chose different, had I put you in the capsule – we would've agreed. You would've seen the world the way I have to see it on each occasion that I take an order from Washington to organize a BackStep. There's a part of me that knows we would've agreed ... but I wouldn't have cared for the man I would've turned you into."
Donovan stood there as understanding came to him in the same way the sun rose every morning – slowly, surely, without hesitation.
"So," he tried, "you didn't grant me a chance for the capsule because of me ... but because of yourself?"
"That's right, Craig," the director said, "and I'm asking for your forgiveness. It was the wrong decision. It was the absolute worst decision I've made in my entire career. I only want you to understand that – after all this time – it had nothing to do with you." He bit his lower lip before he added, "I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me."
Gently, Donovan reached out and placed his hand on his old superior's shoulder. "Bradley ... of course, I forgive you. How can I not forgive you? You've been like ... well, you've been a caretaker to all of us ... Ramsey included, though I'm sure he won't admit it with that stubbornness of his ... and we all owe you a debt of thanks for recruiting us to BackStep ... that's a debt none of us can ever repay."
Talmadge placed his hand on Donovan's elbow. "No thanks needed, Craig ... but I want you back on the project once this is all over with."
Simply, he replied, "I'm there."
"Thank you."
Turning, Donovan stepped out into the corridor. He knew he had to get out of here. He knew he had to get Indiri Farris away from here. He knew that – out there – there was a terrorist – the same kind of pure unadulterated evil Bradley had just told him about. Donovan knew he had to capture the man. It was no longer 'the right thing to do.' It had to be done.
Reaching to his belt, he tugged out his Blackberry and scrolled down to Chloe Vandemark's number. If he was going to defeat Richard DeMarco, he'd want to be on the fast track to whatever the White House had found out about the villain, and he tapped the 'send' button ...
To her surprise, Chloe took her eyes off the doctor when she heard her cell phone ringing.
"What the ...?"
Before she knew it, the old man was on her, his heavy hand wrapped firmly about her wrist, forcing her gun arm down, and she felt his other arm on her chin.
All she could do was pull the trigger ...
END of Chapter 55
