Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 81

Five Days, Six Hours, Thirty-Five Minutes

Thankfully, President Campbell wasn't lacking computer skills. While Parker, Michelson, and Talmadge reviewed the classified documents surrounding Emile Luga, Richard DeMarco, and their possible links to terrorist cells both within and beyond US borders, the commander-in-chief cued into the Executive Server via an available computer socket and began perusing the flood of correspondence from his entire staff. Early casualty reports from the Mid-East tsunami – the result of Pendley's destruction of the Basilisk – projected over two thousand people dead or injured; the data, unfortunately, was not more specific. There were no loss-of-life estimates out of Vatican City, but a CVN anchor guessed that the number would probably continue to grow as more and more rubble from the buildings collapsing from the Vatican's destruction was cleared. Curiously, the President scrolled through some media files, hoping to decipher what the press was making of all this. All major media outlets were suggesting links to terrorist groups with agendas to disrupt any attempts for peace between the world governments and Islamic fundamentalists – couldn't they ever get off that story? Of greater concern was the blatant attack on the Pope. Many speculated that the 'War on Terror' was historically entering a new phase, where some opposing religious doctrine sought to wipe Catholicism from the face of the Earth.

In his chair, the President chuckled.

"Sir?" Talmadge asked.

"Nothing," he replied. "I'm sorry for disturbing you. I'm … I'm reading some of the press speculation on the events."

"What are they saying?" Michelson tried.

Closing down his cache, Campbell stated, "Much of the obvious. It's terrorism. Clear and simple. Though they lack any proof or any substantive material or a group claiming responsibility for the events, the pundits are already out in full force trying to tie all of this into a comfortable little package to indict the United States."

"Why shouldn't they?"

Everyone in the room glared at Frank Parker.

Not looking up from the files he was thumbing through, he explained, "It is our weapon, after all."

"But they don't know that?"

Smirking, the chrononaut added, "Mr. President, you don't really believe that there is a single government that isn't going to reach the same conclusion as the press, do you? I mean … I know I come from a different world … but from what I can see the United States is still the only remaining superpower on the block. If that's the case, you know where the blame is going to go. It's going where it always goes. To the biggest bully. To the guys with the best weapons, the most efficient technology. When you're sitting on the other side of our borders, it's always easy to point the finger."

"Frank," Campbell tried, leaning forward, "officially the United States had nothing to do with this."

"Officially or not, your Administration is going to capture the lion's share of the blame, sir," Parker added. "That's the nature of the beast. Isn't it?"

Frowning, Campbell agreed, "It always has been. I guess it always will be."

"I don't like it any more than you do, sir."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

The chief sat back. He thought about picking up the phone, dialing Stoddard, and organizing a quick press conference in order to go on the defense. Parker was right. The longer the President remained silent, the more complicit his country was going to appear. He had learned early in his career as a statesman to always speak up when things go wrong. People needed to be assured of their safety. They needed to hear words of uncompromising optimism from a leader. That's part of the process. Examining an event, and, rather than dissecting it, having something relevant to say about its place against the broader backdrop of history. Something had happened. Something dire. Nefarious. Campbell trusted that ordinary folks would want to know what their government was going to do about it, and he had better say something.

Soon.

"I think you're right, Frank," he finally announced. "I know that Stoddard wants to coordinate a major press event. It's time that I do so."

"From where?" the man asked.

"Where else?" He tapped his fingers on the table. "The Oval Office."

Glancing up from the document he studied, Talmadge showed a stern expression. "Mr. President, I'm not so sure that's a good idea. As it stands, Senator Pendley can't be absolutely certain of your whereabout. Granted, he's called here, but for all he knows you've been sequestered into some remote location, a precaution against a probable strike of the White House."

Campbell held up a hand. "I appreciate your concern, director, but the people of this country need to hear from the President. It's been my experience that they prefer to see him from the desk he occupies in the event of such catastrophes."

"Sir," Michelson joined the conversation, "I don't mean you any disrespect, but I think what Director Talmadge is saying should be seriously considered. We don't know the extent of the senator's capabilities, and he might take the opportunity of a White House press conference as a bold attempt to make a statement to the other governments of the world. Could you imagine what that would do? I know things are out of control in Italy and the Middle East right now, but realize that the chaos could be far worse."

The President shook his head. "Absolutely not, gentlemen. If I'm going to speak to the nation, I'm going to do it from the Oval Office. I'm not afraid of the senator. I'm not show him an ounce of hesitation. That would give him a greater advantage to exploit."

Lifting his head from the stack of photographs before him, Parker looked confused. He brought a hand up to his chin and leaned on it.

"Besides," he muttered, "where would you go?"

"What's that, son?"

The chrononaut blinked. It didn't make sense. Of course, the President would speak from the Oval Office. Of that, the senator was probably as certain as they were. But … if not the Oval Office … then where?

"Mr. President," Parker began, "let's say that some circumstances arose that specifically prohibited you from using your office. Wouldn't you use an … I don't know … alternate location?"

The commander-in-chief considered the question for a few moments. "There have been occasions where I've used the White House lawn. During the Korean kidnapping affair, I was in transit, so I issued my statement from Air Force One. Why do you ask?"

"Heston Tower," he said.

"What?"

"Heston Tower," Parker repeated.

"What about it?"

He cleared his throat. "Do we have any building schematics of Heston Tower?"

"We wouldn't have them here," Campbell explained. "I can have some brought in."

Dreamily, as if losing focus, Parker said, "That would be good. Thank you."

"Frank," Michelson interjected. "What is it?"

Pushing his chair back from the table, the chrononaut rose and began pacing again. "Sorry, folks, but I like to pace when I think."

"Whatever helps," Campbell agreed.

"Frank," Talmadge tried, "why don't you tell us what you're thinking?"

The man took a few steps and placed his hands on his waist. He glanced around the room, looked at the walls, the floor, the ceiling.

"In my timeline," he explained slowly, "I was sent back in time to save the life of a man who died in an explosion of the Heston Tower." He gripped his fingers tightly to his beltline, and he bit his lower lip. "The operational strategy was to save his life because the President was going to use him as an envoy toward a peace process in the Middle East." He dropped his hands and walked back toward the table. "All I had to do was show up, find out what caused the blast, and stop it."

"Wait a minute," Talmadge interrupted. "Do you mean to tell me that you were sent back in time without knowing what caused the blast?"

"That's right," Parker replied. "It was … it was a pretty large explosion. It damaged buildings more than three blocks away. They were still sifting through the rubble … they were still involved in the business of removing the bodies … the experts on the scene were leaning very strongly in the direction of it being an act of terrorism, and they reached that conclusion because of what the President told us about Zamal … or Luga … or whatever you want to call him. But suppose … suppose …"

"Suppose what, Frank?" Michelson tried, growing impatient.

"Suppose for a second that Luga was not the victim of a terrorist attack," he postulated. "Suppose he was there for a reason, but that the explosion itself was not specifically directed at him." He shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe it was completely random. Maybe it was … I don't know … the result of some structural defect to the building."

"I'm not expert in matters of civil engineering, Frank," the President offered, "but I think I know enough about general masonry, carpentry, and construction to know that a building the size of Heston Tower doesn't just blow up."

"Yeah," Parker agreed. "That's what I was thinking, too."

They grew quiet, each of them pondering what the development possibly meant.

"Let's suppose … let's just suppose for a moment that the blast was intentional," the chrononaut agreed.

"Who caused it?" Michelson asked.

"That's a good question, but it's not important," Parker argued. "At least, it's not important to where I'm going with this. Save it."

"Why would someone blow up a building the size of Heston Tower?" Talmadge offered. "Terrorism, but, as you've said, we're ruling that out for the time being." He sat back in his black leather chair. "To make some kind of political statement … that isn't very far removed from terrorism. General demolition, but I've been to the Heston. Structurally, it's one of the best built towers in the country. It's been featured in several architectural reviews, not that I read the stuff. I know that from staying there. It's been posted in their lobby." He grimaced. "It's one of Washington's oldest buildings. It's very solid. And, yes, I can understand from what you've said, Frank, that it would take rescue teams quite some time to dig through …"

Inspired, Parker stuck a finger at the director.

"That's it!"

"Are you saying … they wanted to bury something?"

He nodded. "I think so."

"To what end?" the President asked.

"To keep it from being found for a reasonably long time."

"I still have to ask … to what end?"

"That, I don't know," Parker admitted. "Who knows? Maybe it was to cause a delay in finding something."

"Or someone," Michelson added, "like Zamal. The President has explained that he didn't know that the man was in the country. Maybe whomever he met with – assuming he met with someone – wanted him out of the way because of the possibility of bringing peace to a region of the world that's never known it!" He shook his head. "No, terrorism still makes the most logical sense. Everything else is just conjecture."

"That's all we have to deal with, Channing," Parker told him. "Conjecture. But I think that someone brought the Heston down for a reason. Yes, Luga may've been a part of that reason. There's no way for me or you or anyone to know because, right now, I'm stuck in your timeline. What I do know is that, in mine, I left without all of the information. That's why I'd like to take a look at the Heston's blueprints."

"I think it's a waste of time," his counterpart argued. "At this point, we can't afford to be misdirected."

"Isn't that conjecture?"

Frowning, Michelson agreed, "All right. I get your point." Raising an eyebrow at the man, he added, "What if you're wrong?"

"It won't be the first time," Parker said. "Let's just hope it's the last."

END of Chapter 81