Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series (14 page)

He gazed to his left and was horrified that his wife was rolling around on the blanket in a passionate exchange with Chief McCloud. He was groping her aggressively and kissed her bare neck.

There was no doubt she loved it.

“Jennifer?
Jennifer
!” Denver yelled.

Neither of them seemed to notice him and Ellen pulled on his arm with all her lustful might. “C’mon! Let’s show them how it’s really done!”

The harsh wind made forward progress all but impossible as he tried to reach his willingly violated spouse. He called out again. “
Jennifer! What is going on
?”

The storm intensified in dramatic surges as lightning flashed and popped around them. Large drops of cold, intermittent rain drops pummeled his face. He escaped Ellen’s improper advances as a horrific scream from the playground pierced the turbulent air.

“
Daddy! Help me, Daddy
!”

The violent wind tossed Jasmine about in the stinging rain. She struggled to hold on as she flung about, twisting, screaming, and crying out. A bolt of lightning slammed into a large tree nearby, and a huge branch exploded downward as the crashing thunder drowned out all competing sounds.

Denver fought hard to reach his daughter, shielding his face from the driving rain that struck like thousands of liquid bullets within the maelstrom. His leg struck something on the ground.

What’s this?

He nearly tripped over a boy who was rolling around in the wet grass, writhing in horrible pain. The boy screamed, clasping his right side. Denver attempted to lean over to assist him, but another close bolt of lightning flashed, and the distressed child was gone. Denver spun about in every direction, hunting for the boy.

He’s gone!

He caught sight, yet again, of his currently-unfaithful wife in her blatant blanket debauchery. It literally sickened him, but Jasmine’s desperate cry refocused his resolve.

“
Daddy! Help me
!”

He strained to reach her, but the hurricane-force gale made standing a lost cause, let alone forward motion. Another blinding flash of lightning arced all across the sky and instantly Ellen was standing before him. She grabbed him and shouted into his ear, “You'll never get back to your daughter.
Never
!” She roared with laughter.

With a swift motion he heaved her aside, sending her tumbling across the ground. He could hear her laughter echoing above the noise and confusion. He grasped once again for Jasmine as the terrified little girl attempted to reach out to him, but the wind jostled her in a dozen different directions.

“Jasmine! I’m coming! Hold on, I will save you! I promise!”

But he couldn’t, and he didn’t, and he shouldn’t have.

Time slowed all at once. It was as if Denver could trace each individual raindrop as it hurled through the air and splashed into the ground. He looked up in disbelief as a tremendous bolt of lightning branched out from a menacing thundercloud just overhead. Time slowed further, nearly to a standstill as Denver watched the lightning’s erratic, fiery path down, down to the Earth below. The white-hot bolt hammered the swing set, vaporizing the metal and rending the entire playground in a violent explosion of light, heat, and despair.

Denver wailed, but no sound escaped his terrified lips, “
Jasmine! No
!”

They were the last words of Denver Collins’ perfect day.

Friday, March 14, 1947

Just past my one-year anniversary as a Jumper, and time just sent us an anniversary gift: Grant Forrester. And a few days ago, President Truman bequeathed a gift to the whole world: the new Truman Doctrine.

Our exclusive club has now grown to FOUR. Yet another male. Grant is officially the youngest, coming in at 24 years young. He jumped from 1972, and with his thick sideburns and nearly shoulder-length hair, I probably could’ve guessed his era within 3 or 4 years. He kind of reminds me of a young Lee Majors. He is a medical student and apparently from a family of money and power. Enough of both to keep him out of Vietnam.

Grant was a tough one to track down, and we almost didn’t. We have spent many hours discussing the mechanics of time displacement, especially with the more scientific perspective of X when the language barrier allows us. We have concluded that FLaT, our little acronym for Freak Lightning and Thunder doesn’t necessarily have to always bring a new time Jumper.

Yesterday, approximately 10:45 a.m., FLaT came to town. Ken, Larry, and I fanned out. We agreed to meet a few hours later at 12:45 in front of the Normal Theater uptown. (I was just there a few days ago and watched
Angel and the Badman
with John Wayne and Gail Russell. Fifteen cents for a movie, and popcorn for less than a dime!)

Those two hours came and went with no luck. We jumped in the car and hit a wide perimeter, almost into Bloomington to the south and Kerrick Road to the north. We drove back into town about 2:00 p.m. and went over to the college campus area, parking on Locust Street. We walked all over the campus and luckily, Larry spotted him. Grant was inside Milner Library.

Obviously, our greatest concern is the amount of contact and amount of observation,
i.e.
which Locals has a Jumper talked to, and has anyone seen a Jumper in their non-period clothing?

Grant said that he had stopped a small group of college girls and asked them where he was, and what was going on. He said they laughed at him, and kept walking. He reported that he had quite a few stares, but no other worrisome conversations.

He was hungry for both food and answers, and we took him to the house. We filled his stomach quickly, but his appetite for information is still pretty strong. It is fascinating how time displacement affects people differently. I couldn’t stand the sight of food, and he can’t get enough of it. He appears to be fairly self-confident and pretty sharp. A good addition to the family.

I’m worried about the first haircut for this “pretty boy”—time to introduce him to Vitalis Hair Tonic.

Now that we are at 4 men, from diverse backgrounds of knowledge and skill, it is starting to feel a bit contrived. Is our predicament the result of natural accidents, or unnatural selection? Did we jump here, or were we brought here? Are we being studied like a bizarre zoo exhibit? But who, why?

On another note, X seems to be making some real progress. I’ve noticed a lot less obvious fits of profanity and quite a few more “bon’s” and an occasional thumbs up.

The distant look in his eyes suggested that he would rather have been just about anywhere rather than at work. Dr. Ferrel Montgomery slid into his oversized chair and rolled up to his over-cluttered metal desk. The springs in the seat protested, but he wasn’t embarrassed in the slightest. He combed thick fingers through salt and pepper hair (more salt though than pepper) and closed a folder, sizing up the immaculately dressed, eager blonde sitting opposite him.

She seemed almost
too
eager.

They always seemed eager at this stage.

“I've had a final meeting with the hiring committee,” he said. “We have decided to move forward with your employment if you are still interested in the offer, Ms. Beussink.”

He noticed that she was trying to mask her excitement.

It didn’t work.

“Oh, yes, absolutely, Dr. Montgomery. Thank you.“

He leaned back. The chair felt almost at the breaking point. “Now, as we do with all nursing positions, there is a probationary period, usually twelve weeks.”

“I understand.”

He selectively withheld the fact that most new hires didn’t make it one month, let alone three.

He glanced up and removed his glasses, like a gambler contemplating how to play his difficult hand. He wiped the smudged lenses, and then locked eyes with her. “This isn't a job for everyone, Miss Beussink. It can be…more than a little
challenging
.”

The news didn’t seem to concern her, so Dr. Montgomery tipped his cards further. “We've found that most nurses with your type of traditional hospital experience have a little difficulty in...
adapting
to our specialized type of clientele.”

“Oh, I completely understand,” she said.

But he knew she didn’t.

Silently he gave her three weeks.

He peered down at some paperwork, and collected a small folder’s worth. “There are certain rules and policies here at Chicago State Hospital that may be a little unfamiliar to you.”

She nodded. “That’s to be expected.”

He half-stood to hand her the packet. “Such as our prohibition regarding jewelry.” She reached out to accept the information. “That pretty silver ring you are wearing—”

She beamed as she showcased it.

He wasn’t impressed. “That ring could be turned into a deadly weapon by one of our more…
unstable
clients.”

If she heard him, it didn’t show. She caressed the red gemstone. “It was a gift from my mother.”

He raised his eyebrows as he sat back. “Well, Nurse Beussink, I’m sure your sweet mother wouldn’t want her precious daughter injured…or, heaven forbid,
killed
by her own gift.”

Her tone grew more serious as she bit her lip. “I, uh, completely agree. Yes. It won’t be a problem. I just want to thank you for this job. And trust me, I can adapt to just about any situation. I’m so excited to work here.”

Montgomery nodded as a polite gesture and revised his estimate of her employment longevity down a whole week. He signed some required paperwork.

She lowered her voice somewhat. “And, uh, don’t worry about my mother. She died a long time ago.”

He looked up briefly. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Oh, it’s okay. But she would be proud of me, getting this job.” An inappropriate grin spread across her painted face.

“This is something that I’ve trained for my whole life.”

Sunday, May 11, 1947

Not sure what is going on. Grant Forrester, our newest Jumper, is missing, along with his clothes and a few other personal effects.

I’m not sure how to handle this. None of us are.

Monday, August 13
th
, 1956 4:52 p.m.

Ross had always hated Mondays as far back as he cared to remember. He despised them long before he transitioned to the CIA from the OSS nearly ten years ago. Some people hated them because each Monday represented undeniable evidence that the weekend was over. To add insult to injury, Monday was also, statistically, the furthest point possible from the
next
weekend.

But that was not why Howard Ross detested Mondays.

Being a project chief in the most sensitive CIA program ever developed, rendered the concept of a weekend meaningless for all intents and purposes.

Intelligence and espionage did not differentiate or cater to any particular twenty-four hour period, regardless of where it fell on a calendar. In fact, Saturdays and Sundays only varied from the other five days in terms of the sheer volume of meetings. The so-called “weekend” had statistically 18% less of those unpleasant bureaucratic encounters.

But all of this was not why CIA Project SATURN Chief Howard Ross hated Mondays, per se. The first day of the work week represented something far more humiliating and frustrating for the double-decade intelligence veteran. Monday represented his weekly progress update phone call with Allen Dulles, Director of Central Intelligence. Every Monday at 4:30 p.m. Dulles called—in sickness or in health, rain or shine, progress or no progress. And for the last few years, it had been
no progress
.

Recently, after one too many whiskey shots, Ross had confided to his second-in-command that he had personally dubbed them his PLOP Calls. “Pitiful Lack of Progress Calls,” he moaned, and then desensitized his frustration with another shot or two.

In the early days of the program, when he answered to Director Hillenkoetter, he almost looked forward to the calls. But that all seemed like another world and another time.

In many ways, it was another world with the arrival of the Cold War and the emergence of the Red Threat. But in many more ways, it all remained the same. Some within the agency had observed that we merely traded things. We traded symbols of hate: from the Swastika to the Hammer and Sickle; we exchanged the German death camps for the Soviet gulags; Fascism for Communism; and the SS for the KGB. We still fought a relentless enemy. He was just a few time zones further east, and yet in many respects, a lot closer to home.

But Ross wasn’t complaining. He knew that vicious enemies abroad equaled job security in the intelligence business at home. Despite his many personal flaws, including an expanding ego, and his willingness to ignore due process from time to time, Ross’ heart was in the right place…most days.

He harbored no illusions about the threat of nuclear weapons combined with an aggressive, Marxist political ideology willing to use them. He fully intended to use whatever leverage was necessary to gain a strategic advantage for the home team. That driving factor alone made it an easy decision to head up Project SATURN back in 1947, though he had set his sights higher and then been shot down time and time again.

He had witnessed and participated in the meteoric rise and lamentable phasing out of many agency initiatives from Operation Paperclip at the OSS to Project Phoenix to Bluebird and more recently, MKULTRA.

But the time would surely come, he thought on many occasions, when the Western intelligence community would all respect and revere the name of Howard Ross. Project SATURN was his ticket to the big show, and come hell or high water, he was cashing that ticket in.

He stared at the secure phone on his desk. Just minutes ago he was condemning himself by his own admission, confessing apparent incompetency. With phrases consisting of “not at this time, sir,” or “not yet, Mr. Director,” or “still eluding us, sir,” he had reinforced the growing notion that the name of Howard Ross would be relegated to the dustbin of covert history.

The thought was intolerable, that without real progress in the very near future, he would be completely forgotten as the failed director of a failed division that didn’t even officially exist. A nobody within a non-agency that achieved no results. He stored a small bottle of whiskey in his briefcase to help celebrate such joyful predictions.

Today was a day to reach into the briefcase.

He had scarcely finished his first swallow when a rapid knock at his office door forced him to halt his celebration. He hid the flask. “Come.”

The door opened and his right-hand man rushed in toting a small briefcase. Ross had always said that Neal Schaeffer should have been the quintessential poster boy for West Point. Always smartly and immaculately dressed down to the cufflinks, perfectly shaven, with not a hair out of place. Even his movements and overall rhythm were impressive by-products of years of military precision.

Today was no exception.

Schaeffer spun about, shut the door with care, and eased into a chair in front of his boss’ desk. Ross recovered the whiskey, took a quick hit, and locked it away. “I really need some good news, Neal.”

Schaeffer leaned forward. “How was Director Dulles today?”

The Chief leaned back and stared through the dusty window blinds. There wasn’t much to see except for miles of desert, a few buildings, and the dark, sleek form of a U-2 Reconnaissance aircraft in refuel.

To Ross, those planes represented one of his few major accomplishments at Groom Lake. Under the public guise of high-altitude weather research, and the covert cover of Soviet nuclear analysis, the U-2 fleet had, in truth, been primarily commissioned to study the status of Russian time travel research.

The program was a rare if not unique joint effort between the Air Force and the CIA, but Howard still claimed full credit. Ross knew, however, that his limited credit would gradually evaporate over time.

“Well Neal, to be honest, I would say I’ve got less than ten months to produce a living, breathing time traveler, or I might be out on Dreamland tarmac pumping Dragon Lady gas in the balmy 120 degree heat of a delightful Nevada summer. And working for tips.” He paused. “That’s how my call with the Director went.”

Ross glanced over at Neal and studied him. Something was up. “We work in intelligence, Agent Schaeffer. You know that it’s officially a crying shame when a subordinate knows more than their boss. Spill it.”

Neal reached beside his chair and retrieved a compact, black briefcase. He slid the unmarked box across the Chief’s desk. He stared at Ross like a boy on Christmas morning waiting for his parent to open his gift.

Ross squinted and examined it from all sides. “I’m not sure I like the expression on your face, Schaeffer.” He even looked at the bottom of it. “This case could contain a directed explosive device.” Ross grinned at Neal. “You would stand a lot to gain if I were to have an unfortunate accident.”

Neal’s grin transformed into a poker face. Ross started to slide the briefcase back. “I could make
you
open it,” he said.

Schaeffer didn’t flinch, and Ross pulled it towards himself once again. “But…where’s the fun in that?” The CIA Chief looked up at him a final time. “What is it?”

“FBI field office in Chicago picked this up less than forty-eight hours ago,” Neal announced. Ross wasn’t impressed. He had always considered the FBI as a nuisance to be tolerated rather than a valuable agency to exchange information with.

Neal released the tiniest of grins. “Trust me, when you see what’s inside, you just might want to call Dulles back.”

“That’ll be the day.”

“Today
will be
that day. Trust me. You and I both know that Director Dulles favors tangible, human intelligence over technology any given day.”

Ross grumbled. “It’s a constant battle.”

“Well, that briefcase is right up his alley. It’s a game changer.”

Ross peered up at him. Neal had never been prone to fish stories, but for a bureaucrat like Ross, exaggeration and hype were the regular currency of the agency. Cold War intelligence briefings were usually long on sizzle and short on steak.

Ross popped the double releases and lifted the lid. Inside was a small, brown leather wallet. He glanced at Neal who was nodding subtly, hands on his chin.

“So, has Project SATURN stooped to pick-pocketing now, Agent Schaeffer?”

Neal didn’t respond to the dig.

Ross opened his desk drawer and started to don a thin pair of gloves. “No need, Chief,” Neal observed, “it’s already been dusted.”

Ross reached in delicately and grabbed the supposed game changer. He spread it open, and slid out an unusual, thick plastic card. He turned his desk lamp on and tilted it under the light. His eyes grew wider as he scanned the surface. Ross flipped the card over and then back to the front again.

Neal circled around behind his excited superior and pointed at the wallet. “There’s more.”

Ross looked up at him, speechless, and then picked through the wallet again. He pulled out a few ten dollar notes and a twenty. He snatched a magnifying glass out of his top drawer and trained it on the bills.

“2011, 2014, 2011, and 2013. Incredible.”

Neal moved the briefcase out of the way as Ross spread out the contents of the billfold in an orderly fashion.

Neal leaned forward. “Money, an insurance card, military ID, some other financial cards and a New York driver’s license dated 2012.”

Ross studied the items, and then scooted back. “Where did you say this was discovered?”

“Chicago. FBI.”

Ross gazed up at the ceiling. Everyone at SATURN knew that look very well. It was always followed by work, and usually lots of it.

“I need a list of every agent that came within fifty feet of this wallet,” Ross demanded. “Contact the Chicago field office, quarantine everyone on that list until we arrive.”

Neal walked back to the front of the desk. “We’re still trying to ascertain exactly who initially turned the wallet in.”

Ross was irritated. “Why don’t we know that already?”

Neal held his hands up. “Hey, Boss, don’t flip your wig—it was given to the Feds by one of the local police precincts.”

Ross jumped up. “I don’t want to hear about one of the local precincts, I want to hear about
which one
of the local precincts, and then about the actual person who turned it in. We need to debrief every single person in the chain of custody.”

Neal smiled. “Trust me, Chief, I’m on top of it. Have a little confidence in me, please. We’ll have that information by the time our wheels touch down at Glenview Naval Air Station.”

There was a pause as Ross, like a chess master, calculated and coordinated his next half-dozen moves.

Neal started for the door. “I’ll notify the team, and call the hangar to get your plane ready.” He was almost out the door when Ross stopped him.

“Wait.”

Neal grabbed the edge of the heavy door and swiveled back in.

Ross may have been an arrogant, impatient dictator at times, but he was good at what he did. There were several reasons why Hillenkoetter handed him Project SATURN, almost on a silver platter. It was during times like these that subordinates learned much by sitting at the feet of the master.

Ross leaned onto his desk and rubbed his face. “Call Washington. I need to collect a probable family list, in New York state, and Illinois, and in that order.” He picked up the driver’s license. “Get a copy of this signature over to Graphology for analysis. They might be able to give us a general geographic background for our suspect here.”

Neal nodded. “Anything else?”

Ross sat down on the edge of his desk. “Consult with our psyche team in Building C. Let them analyze everything; the wallet, the military ID, his photo, signature, even the money. They should be able to give us a probable baseline personality profile.”

Neal stepped back up to the desk to collect the evidence. “As you wish, Chief.”

Ross paused. “Listen, I know you weren’t there at Roswell, Neal.”

Schaeffer finished putting everything back into the briefcase, and eyed the Chief. “Sir?”

Howard stood and walked around to the front of the desk. “We made a lot of mistakes. Granted, the department was young. Days old actually. But, that’s no excuse. We should have located them.”

Neal picked up the briefcase. “Intelligence is an imperfect science, Chief.”

Ross snatched the phone handset and glared at Neal. “I won’t repeat the lapses in judgment we made with Phillip Nelson. I can guarandamntee you that. Dismissed.”

Neal exited and shut the door behind him while his boss dialed. Ross glanced out the window as his face grew a calculated smile that it hadn’t worn in several months.

“Linda, get me Director Dulles.”