Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 73

Five Days, Eight Hours, Twenty Minutes

Before Frank Parker knew what was happened, the Conference Room was alive with activity. He sat perfectly still, under the weight of the containment suit, and watched as the drama unfolded.

"Mr. President, we have the U.S. Embassy in Italy on the line!"

"We're going to have to lock down the entire White House in order to keep the press out!"

"We can't do that! They'll have a field day that this administration can afford!"

"Mr. President, we have the Prime Minister holding for you!"

He lowered his eyes from all of the diversions and tried to concentrate on … on … what was there? All he could think about was the chaos. He knew that, if what Larnord had told him were true, then this timeline was destined to be destroyed. These events – one after the other – would lead to total annihilation, and it was for the expressed purposes of teaching him – a solitary man, a lowly chrononaut – a lesson about time travel. Good? Bad? He didn't know. He couldn't even guess any more. What was there to focus on? How could he stop it? Could it be stopped by anyone? His head hurt as he tried to force the alternatives into focus.

"Mr. President, the White House switchboard just lit up like a Christmas tree!"

"Director Talmadge, is there any possibility that another backstep could be used to put this right?"

"Shouldn't we get Channing Michelson on the next flight to Nevada?"

No, he told himself. There had to be something … there had to be some piece of information … some shred of truth … that he could cling to … that he could find … once he had it, he knew that he would be able to force these events into some recognizable fashion … into some possible strategy … but how? Larnord had re-ordered the events, meaning that there was no possible way for him to make any sense out of the timeline. In a linear sense, C should follow B which comes after A … but Parker couldn't even begin to assume that C was in its proper perspective, and he refused to begin placing events into any kind of temporal continuum. He wasn't smart enough for that. All he knew was that these events – in an odd kind of cause and effect – were his responsibility. If he hadn't caused them, then he felt responsible for stopping them. But how?

"I don't think a backstep is a viable option at this point."

"Would it be more prudent to issue some kind of statement to the press?"

"Mr. President, I have the Chinese government holding for you on Line 2."

Stop it, he ordered himself. You have to stop all of this, and the only thing you know is why you were taking the original backstep in the first place. Don't deal with things you can't control, you can't change, you can't predict. Deal with what you know.

Parker lifted his eyes slightly. He saw Olga Vukavitch's uneven stack of intelligence – the pictures, the dossiers, the fact sheets – and he imagined that this world's timeline was much the same: a lazy, disorderly, unattended mass of happenings – all related – but none in the correct sequence. He scanned them, reading the blips and blurbs of information that he could make out, admiring the vast colors populating intelligence reports, studying the faces of the various men, women, and children frozen in expression on the dozens of photographs …

There.

He saw it.

Rising slowly, he leaned forward and shuffled the materials aside, leaving one photograph in the center of the chaotic mess.

"Mr. Parker?" Olga tried. "What is it?"

He stared down at the photo, his eyes locked onto it as though the puzzle had seemingly come into perfect focus.

"This isn't about order," Parker mumbled over the chorus of voices all posturing for a strategy. "This is about disorder."

"What?" Talmadge asked, rising. "Frank … what is it?"

The chrononaut stared into the eyes of the man in the photograph staring back at him.

It was only a picture, but Parker guessed that the man was challenging him in that stare, challenging him to make sense of the illogical, to learn the answer to the riddle that no one and everyone was afraid to ask, to bring what sense of order was left to the immeasurable chaos.

Everyone in the room had grown quiet, all of them turning to see what was transpiring at the end of the table.

Carefully, Parker reached out and took the glossy between his fingers. Holding it up, showing it to Campbell, he demanded, "Mr. President … do you know who this man is?"

Slowly, the highest elected official of the United States stepped closer to the picture. As he neared, his expression changed slightly from one of disgust to one of confusion.

"Yes, I do, Frank."

"Mr. President … we need to speak in private."

With studied effort, the man nodded. "Yes, we do."

From the viewscreen, the Vice-President called out, "What is it? What's happened? What's going on?"

Turning to the group, Campbell announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm turning the War Room over the Ethan for the time being as I'll be needed in conference."

"What?"

"Travis," the President continued, unabated by the confusion he had created, "I understand that this conference room has blast shielding. Please have that readied. I'm going to ask that you seal myself, Mr. Parker, Director Talmadge, and Mr. Michelson into a closed conference. Please have armed agents of the Secret Service prepared to stand guard at the doors. They're not to be opened until I give the order."

"Mr. President, what is this?" Stoddard tried weakly. "What's going on?"

Campbell placed a hand on his chief of staff's shoulder. "Ethan, so far as the White House is concerned, you'll be coordinating our efforts with the Press Corps. Please have them assembled. I'll be making a statement to the American people once I've had the chance to confer with Mr. Parker on this matter."

"But, Mr. President …"

"Just get the troops assembled, Ethan," Campbell insisted. "That's all I'm asking you to do for now. Everything else … everything else depends upon what sense Mr. Parker, Mr. Michelson, and Mr. Talmadge and I can make of this entire affair."

"What if the senator calls?"

"You tell me that his President is indisposed," the man argued. "I'll deal with him soon enough, but … right now … there are other matters that need my attention."

"Mr. President," the VP interrupted, "with all due respect …"

"Glory Point will go dark," the President said quickly. "I ask only that you understand the fact that I am issuing you a specific order: you will communicate with no one – outside of Chief Stoddard – until you hear further from me."

"Mr. President, you can't just leave us here."

"Oh, yes, I can," he countered, "and, until I decide otherwise, you will remain there in secrecy in order to guarantee that if Pendley – if this madman – strikes the White House, then there will be surviving members of this Administration to carry on in my absence." He paused, hoping that each man and woman in seclusion understood what he was asking of them. "Is that clear?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

Turning, Campbell walked over to the colonel. "Travis, I need you to go to the Oval Office. In the safe behind my desk, you're going to find several vials of Chroniticin. I've been inoculated, but I need you to bring two vials – one for Mr. Michelson and one for Director Talmadge."

"Sir?"

"Travis, Frank Parker has some information that we're going to need to discuss," he explained. With a smile, he added, "We've already inconvenienced Mr. Parker enough by requiring him to wear that containment suit. For what we're about to discuss … for what we're about to quite possibly prepare to do … I want him to be as comfortable as possible."

Slowly, the colonel agreed. "Yes, Mr. President."

Certain he had said everything necessary, Campbell turned back to the larger group. "That is all, ladies and gentlemen," he announced. "You'll be hearing from me again after I've concluded this chat."

Leaning closer, Bradley Talmadge reached out and took Parker by the arm.

"Frank, what's going on?"

With some assurance, the chrononaut said, "I believe I have an answer to what's happened."

"What do I have to do with any of this?" Michelson asked.

"You?" Parker sat back down in his chair. "Channing … there isn't another person on the face of this planet who understands what I do. You jump backwards in time. So do I." With a smirk, he added, "If there's anyone who can help me make sense of what it is I believe has happened, it's you."

"But …?"

"Just relax, buddy," Parker told him. "You're in this for the long haul."

END of Chapter 73