Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series (25 page)

Mr. Williamson threw his hands up, and shook his head. “No, Sir. I'm sorry. I mean, dozens, sometimes over a hundred people come and go every day. You get kinda numb to it all. Been doing this for over eight years, Sir.”

Neal slid a map over to his boss. Ross walked over and displayed it the driver. “Can you show me, using this map, exactly where you were pulled over?”

He could…and he did.

Friday, October 26, 1951

It’s funny how stereotypes seem to be reinforced by life.

Her name is Ellen Finegan. She came into our community of Jumpers late afternoon yesterday. She was discovered unconscious and laying in the back of a truck by Michael and McCloud.

We revived her at Mrs. Tomlin’s place. Everyone left the room except for Martha as Ellen was starting to come around. We thought it would not be as shocking. Martha’s grace and wisdom once again prevailed nicely.

Ellen is 39 years old, and she jumped from 1968. She is our first actual medical professional, a nurse (RN). I think she might be a good addition to the research team in The Basement. Doc and X could use some help, and her knowledge of the human body and medical science could aid our research efforts.

Yes, she is Irish, yes she is a redhead (an attractive one at that), but I have no idea (yet) if she is a hothead. Speaking of redheads, my all-time favorite sitcom
I Love Lucy
started airing a little over a week ago. Gotta love Lucille Ball.

SECURITY LEVEL: TOP SECRET

FOR:
General Walter Bedell Smith
, Director, Central Intelligence

FROM: Chief Howard D. Ross, Project SATURN

SUBJECT: High Altitude Aerial Reconnaissance Photography

Researchers here at Dreamland have developed a specialized film emulsion (TDS Film) and development process that identifies the presence of temporally displaced materials. When tested on the materials recovered at Roswell, including DP-1 and DP-2, the results were above 94% reliable.

Utilizing high altitude balloon-camera tests, and large format versions of the film, remote detection of Temporal Displacement Signatures through TDS Film techniques has been successfully demonstrated at altitudes up to 80,000 feet. This technology can be leveraged to provide intelligence regarding the locations and progress of suspected Soviet temporal research facilities, and to facilitate the apprehension of domestic targets.

I propose the development of high altitude (>70,000 ft.) surveillance aircraft that could be used to facilitate the imaging of the Soviet Union using TDS Film. Current Pentagon projections indicate that Soviet radar technology is limited to <65,000 feet, and Mig interceptors to <50,000 ft.

To maintain the extreme secrecy of this operation, the overt mission of the program could be Soviet nuclear reconnaissance or even high altitude weather studies. Either of these serves as both a necessary function and plausible cover story. Cameras for both nuclear installation (“weather”) photography and TDS Film could be mounted in the aircraft.

END

DCI/PS

Looks are deceiving.

Especially in 1956.

He surveyed the average dirt shoulder, of this average highway, on this average August day, and tried to imagine the
not-so-average
event that had played out here just a few weeks before. Neal Schaeffer exited the dark sedan and took a prolonged breath before donning his sunglasses.

For a newcomer to the intelligence community, this tiny dusty patch had been solemnly transformed into hallowed ground. Just traveling here was akin to a religious pilgrimage for many Project SATURN operatives.

He peered over at Ross who was still hunkered down inside the car, barking out a litany of orders on the wireless.

Neal recalled his boss’ experiences, indulging in a fair amount of jealousy in the process. Ross had been
there
in 1947. He had trod that sacred stretch of ranchland north of Roswell.

Ross had stood where time travelers had stood.

He had handled, like relics, the equipment that time travelers had handled. Ross had touched the two bodies of the mutated time travelers that were found lying in the wreckage of the holy event.

But that was in 1947, a full two years before Neal was ordained into the order.

Schaeffer had only
seen
these things from a distance in the secure storage units at Dreamland. Neal had never even personally traveled to Roswell yet. On one occasion, though, in July of 1952 he had been privileged to see the recovered time traveler bodies. It was during a five-year audit and review of the status of the items recovered from the Roswell event. Working in special suits at a balmy minus fifty degrees Fahrenheit in a cryogenic chamber, Neal watched a team of doctors and techs examine the horribly disfigured men. Neal had seen dozens of photos of DP-1 and DP-2 over the years, but it wasn’t the temperature that sent a cold chill up his spine that day.

But now, four years later, wearing a much more comfortable suit in a much more comfortable environment Neal was at ground zero of the most significant event since Roswell.

It felt good.

“It’s about time,” Ross complained as two more vehicles pulled onto the dusty expanse. Several agents exited, and less than a minute later, all were huddled around Ross.

“I realize that this site has gone cold, gentlemen,” he began, “but there may be some evidence lingering. Let's scan a fifty yard radius from my location.” He paused for effect. “Nothing, and I mean
not one thing
, should be considered insignificant.” He clapped. “Let's go—meter’s running!”

In a loosely choreographed dance, the team fanned out, donning gloves, retrieving equipment, and documenting every step of the way with cameras and clipboards.

Ross cupped his hands for one last charge. “I want full coverage of the area with TDS Film.”

He walked south along the edge of Route 66 and Neal jogged up to him. A few cars crept by, passengers gawking.

“He said they were headed north and were pulled over by two cops right here,” Ross rehearsed. “Right
here
.” He stopped moving and ripped off his sunglasses, looking up and down the road. Another car passed on the far side. Ross continued to think out loud. “Two
policemen
.” He glanced over at Neal. “Now, what were two boys in blue doing way out here, and why were they after our poor Mr. Collins?”

Neal was pouring over a map he had just unfolded. “The policemen may have been just a cover, Chief. Like we've discussed in the past, there could be...
other
interested parties. Domestic and...
foreign
.”

Ross squinted as Neal elaborated on the international ramifications. “Someone knew a high value target was on the bus. Easiest way to extract him? Impersonate law enforcement. Small footprint operation, remote location, low casualties. Could’ve been a foreign job.”

Ross worked through it verbally. “We must assume they were at odds, or why the big performance? And why
city
cops? Shoulda been state police way out here on the highway.”

“There are so many possibilities, Chief. I don’t know. Did they want him alive or dead? They could’ve killed him here—out in the middle of nowhere—then threw the body in the trunk.” Schaeffer paused, as an idea began percolating. “And then, there’s the wallet.”

Ross frowned and stepped closer. “What? What about the wallet?”

Neal eased into it, his wheels beginning to turn like a steam train gaining traction. “Well, what if, and just hear me out,” he paused. “What if, we were
meant
to find it?”

Ross was incredulous. “A
plant
?”

He nodded.

“But…but
why
? What possible benefit or, or strategic advantage could that offer? And your execution theory—who would kill someone they knew was a time traveler?“

Neal processed for a moment. “Perhaps
another
time traveler?”

Ross motioned for Neal to continue. Neal allowed the scenario to mature in his mind. “It could be time travelers from two different future governments or factions engaging each other across space and time.”

Ross shook his head. “Wait—wait—you got all that from two policemen, a nervous bus driver, and a lost wallet?”

“Just throwing out ideas, Chief,” Neal shrugged. “
Possible
scenarios. It is what I was trained for. You came to me, remember?”

Neal returned to studying the map, but out of the corner of his eye he saw Ross continuing to study him. The CIA Chief looked away and took a few steps. “Do you miss the old days at the White House, the days before I...
rescued
you?”

Neal chuckled as he folded the map, and they began walking. “By the
old days
I assume you mean the endless hours of assault scenario preparation and simulation at the PRS?” He grinned like a school boy. “No, no, I don’t miss that part of the Secret Service, trust me.”

He paused for a moment. “I used to literally dream about every possible way to kill a president. Weapons, explosives, vehicles, food, sound waves, diseases, moles, airborne toxins, accidental electrocution, drowning, even insect stings and, and...
suicide
.”

Ross spun on his heels, eyebrows raised. “Suicide?
Seriously
?”

Neal waved his hand. “Oh, yeah, absolutely. It's a bit of a long term strategy, I'll give you that, involving psychological manipulation and negative reinforcement across multiple stimuli, but, yeah...suicide, it was considered. I mean, as a remote but possible potential threat.” He paused again and lowered his voice as another agent walked by.

“We were concerned that the, uh, emotional complications from Hiroshima and Nagasaki could, you know, take their toll on Truman.”

Ross shook his head. “He did what had to be done, plain and simple.”

“Says the man who didn’t kill over two hundred thousand people by simply writing the words:
release when ready
.”

Ross began walking again, signaling to Neal that he was not currently interested in a debate concerning morally justifiable atrocities. “You know, with your extensive knowledge of presidential assassination techniques,” Ross said, “the boys in D.C. better be glad you’re one of the good guys.”

Neal stayed in place, lost in thought. He glanced up. “Oh, and I almost forgot...my
personal
favorite.”

“Wait—don’t tell me you actually had a
favorite
way to kill the president? Really?”

Neal stepped up to him with a wicked smile. “Jealous first ladies.”

A little excitement erupted about fifteen yards due south of their position. Ross rolled his eyes as they both hurried over. “Like they say, hell hath no fury.”

Three SATURN agents were huddled around some
Object of Interest
in the dirt. Ross broke into the tight group. “Whaccha got, boys?”

One of the operatives bent down and pointed at a piece of yellowish metal pushed into the rocky soil. Another agent squeezed in and snapped several photos. Neal retrieved some tweezers and knelt to extract it. He rose slowly and held up the squashed piece of brass. “Two-seventy Winchester bullet casing.”

Ross studied it for a few moments then spread his arms out.

“Alright boys, let’s scan the immediate area and look for blood, or the bullet, or both. Let’s go.”

Thursday, May 8, 1952

Earlier today, Mayor Vorhees officially appointed James McCloud as the new police chief, replacing Chief Brandenburg. I think that this will gain us a huge advantage in having a Jumper in a position of power. Especially when new Jumpers arrive, we have already seen that disoriented people tend to look for law enforcement.

To celebrate this important milestone, we headed over to the corner of Main and West Virginia (as usual). I drank two shakes. I need to be careful about my weight. Whenever I get “back home” it would be strange if I suddenly weighed 20lbs more!

On another note, I am a little concerned with McCloud’s growing friendship with Robert Sheppard. If there is a problem in the Jumper community, Shep is always somewhere near the center of the issue. I encouraged Shep to be plant manager—thinking that the workload would help to corral some of his negative energy. I was hoping the amount of managerial responsibility would keep him too busy to cause problems.

I greatly underestimated his capacity for conflict.

It had been over two years since Howard Ross had endured this circus lifestyle: in and out of cities, in and out of hotels, and in and out of relationships.

He flipped on the light switch and deposited his dark suit coat onto a chair in his plush, twelfth story, Chicago accommodations. As he loosened his collar, he stared across the spacious bedroom of his temporary hotel home. He couldn’t deny that even though it was much, much smaller, it was still a cut or two above his home at Dreamland back in Nevada.

Nice hotels are nice for vacations or road trips, he had always said. But Ross maintained an assertion that even the poshest of accommodations rarely retained their charm much beyond ten days.

And he knew that this gig in Chicago could conceivably transform weeks into months, and all too easily.

In the early days of his appointment with Project SATURN, Ross was an intelligence gypsy—traveling from town to town, exploiting what opportunities it afforded and then moving on to the next target. The relentless pursuit of Phillip Nelson consumed Ross and the new division within the agency. It was an elaborate and exhausting juggling act at times.

Ross was tasked, not only with the primary objective of apprehending a time traveler, but also with the managerial responsibilities of overseeing the construction of the Dreamland facility adjacent to Groom Lake.

Adding to that crushing load, the Director of Central Intelligence had even charged Ross with oversight on temporal counter-intelligence. The workload and resources necessary to fulfill this aspect of his commission had remained fairly manageable for the first few years. Stalin’s tentacles may have penetrated deep into the Manhattan Project, but, as far as the CIA knew, to the KGB and GRU, SATURN was still just a large planet with rings.

Then…
everything
changed.

Ross remembered well how the Venona Project analysts at Arlington Hall had cracked several Russian communiques mentioning Project SATURN in the spring of 1949. The sad irony was that the agency had been so successful concealing its own existence that even the government analysts cracking the Soviet codes didn’t know what SATURN was.

The Venona revelation led to the first great purge in the young division, and few had escaped the heartless scalpel of suspicion. In the ensuing vacuum of a painful departmental recovery, Ross chanced upon Secret Service SAIC, Neal Schaeffer, at the president’s winter retreat in Key West, Florida.

Truman favored both the warmer coastal climate and the warmer political climate at the Little White House, and Christmas 1949 was no exception. Ross, who was aiding DCI Hillenkoetter for a series of briefings with the president, was instantly impressed with Schaeffer’s West Point discipline and formidable skill set.

Ross, toting a martini, drew alongside Neal while he was watching a particularly fierce beach volleyball game. Ross took a sip and made a presumptuous offer. “How would you like to go to work for a man with
real
power?”

Now seven years, two CIA Directors, and one president later, Ross may have shed some of his arrogance, but none of his persistence.

He sauntered across the Chicago hotel room while firing up a smoke, and pulled back the double curtains a bit. Ross leaned into the spotless window, as a police car with lights flashing went screaming by, far, far, below in the night. He took a prolonged, deep drag on his cigarette and its glowing embers painted his crimson reflection in the glass before him. The past decade had etched visible reminders of not enough sleep and more than enough booze upon his chiseled face.

But appearances didn’t matter much to Howard Ross.

He wore his wrinkles like marks of seniority, like proud stripes on a well-worn uniform. He wasn’t intimidated in the slightest by youth or youthful ambition. He was an older, wiser man at the helm of an older, wiser intelligence apparatus.

Phil Nelson may have evaded a younger, less experienced iteration of Project SATURN, but Denver Wayne Collins was now facing a fully mature and ruthlessly efficient covert machine.

Ross’ introspection was put on hold as his hotel room phone began ringing. He released the drapes, blew out a lungful of smoke, and detoured around the bed.

“Hello?”

A deep and modified voice made him nearly drop his cigarette, or what was left of it.

“Hello, Howard.
Miss me
?”

It can’t be. But how? How did they find me here?

Ross’ eyes darted about as he yanked on the phone cord, desperate to create slack in the line. “How can I miss you?” He snatched up the base and turned out the lights, hustling back over toward the window. He peered out through the gap in the curtains, fishing for clues. “We've never met, or have we?”

Howard frantically scanned up and down the street, scouting payphones, lighted windows across the street, anything, anyone. There was no sign of the caller as the voice continued. “It's almost the first of the month, Howard. It's time for another...
installment
.”

He jumped to the other side of the window in a frenzied attempt to isolate even a hint of a lead.

“An installment?” Ross said. “Oh, so that's what they call
blackmail
these days?”

The voice was unrelenting. “Go to the corner of Clark and Madison at exactly two a.m.”

Ross scrambled for his pocket watch:
12:38 a.m.

“There is a phone booth there. Bring the money, and I will call you and give you payment instructions.”

Stalling had never worked before, but Ross still vied for more time while he put the watch away. “But, I can’t, I have to be—”

The line went dead.

He pulled the handset away from his face and glared at it for a few moments. Despite his blindsided rage, he wasn’t all that surprised.

Ross hung up the phone and hit the lights as he rushed over to his half-opened closet. He bent down and retrieved a small briefcase buried deep within. He tossed the black box onto the bed and used a small key to unlock it, popping the latches. He raised the lid and glanced down at rows and rows of fresh, flat, and banded ten dollar bills. He slid a large envelope out of the top flap, and reluctantly began shoving bundles in.

They were forcing him to pay, time and time again.

One day he would return the favor.