Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series (30 page)

Simmons stared at Billy, and the remaining color fled from the young man’s panicking face. The FBI agent assented, and O’Connell grinned and exited in a rush.

Denver coughed, and one of his hands moved up and vigorously rubbed his head. McCloud did his level best to distract them. “So, uh, did you guys hear that the Yankees just got Enos Slaughter, you know, the outfielder from Kansas City?”

It was doubtful they even heard him.

“Good ol’ Country, he, uh, he was really something back in, what was it?” He rubbed his chin. “The forty-six World Series? Or was it forty-seven?”

There was no response, because the Chief figured that he—just like sports trivia—had ceased to be relevant.

The agents traded glances but then settled sights on Denver. Simmons motioned for the Chief to join them as he pointed through the bars. “What’s his story?”

McCloud took the deepest breath of his life.

So, after all these years—has it finally come to this? Heaven help us all.
The police chief took a few reluctant steps up behind the federal agents.

He looked down at his gun.

The End of Book One: Paradigm Rift

The late night air was breezy and cool, but for mid-October it could have been downright cold, especially for this rural stretch of upstate New York. The crimson leaves of the sugar maples released their trademarked fragrance with each fresh gust of wind. For the lone female staring out across the moonlit ripples of the Black River, though, the weather was warm—at least warmer than her childhood home.

“Not quite as wide, nor as deep as the great Dnieper,” an accented voice called out, interrupting her silent meditation. She turned and acknowledged the older gentleman navigating the rocky slope down towards her.

“No, no, the Dnieper it is not,” she said. “But greatness is not merely assessed in terms of scale or strength, comrade.”

He removed his gloves, one finger at a time, and hid them away in his gray trench coat. “Your sentiment, Darkstar, is not always shared by those—who make the decisions.”

She pivoted back towards the quiet waters. “Even a tiny stream can carve an enormous canyon.”

It was his turn to nod. “Yes, indeed. Given enough time. But, as you know,” he hesitated, “one does not always have the
luxury
of time.”

She tensed up. “Are you expressing concern about my progress, Commander?”

“What can one say about such things?”

“One can speak the truth.”

He appeared to be caught off guard by her sharp reply, but grinned while he adjusted his thin-rimmed spectacles. “The truth? The truth is that the Americans have a strong lead in Chicago. Project SATURN is awakening from her slumber.” He paused. “Time is no longer a luxury…it is now a
liability
.” He stared into the distance, awaiting her response. The silence grew uncomfortable.

“They may have a lead,” she finally asserted, “but I have developed a source.”

His eyebrows raised. “Ah, yes, the…
mental
patient. The Directorate is not as enthusiastic about your…
source
at the hospital as you have become.”

She was stoic. “Results are not merely influenced by
enthusiasm
, Commander.”

He shrugged more or less and fished a folded document out of his inner pocket. He held it up just below her offended face.

“New orders?” she asked as she took it with some hesitancy.

“New
help
,” he said. “Perhaps.”

Intrigued, she faced him and opened the letter.

He glanced over at her. “Our New York office received this request several days ago. It is from a troubled young man in Texas.” The commander searched her eyes. “I thought that, perhaps he could be
groomed
.”

She spoke without bothering to look up. “It could be fake.”

“If it were, I wouldn’t be wasting our time this evening. Our research indicates that he has been in the Civilian Air Patrol. But more importantly…he has plans to enlist with the US Marines.”

She finished studying the letter and folded it with care. The older gentleman rubbed his hands together, and picked his way back up the hill. She faced the river once more and gazed across it.

“Are you ordering me, or
advising
me, Commander?” she asked point-blank.

He continued making his way up the rocky incline. “I forget that we are in America, Darkstar. In Russia, there is no difference, wouldn’t you agree?”

Within seconds he melted away into the gathering fog, and she was a lone figure once more.

She didn’t agree with this unwarranted intrusion on her investigation. In fact, she resented it as a humiliating vote of no confidence. Two people may have been optimum for dancing, love play, and fencing, but assassins of the First Chief Directorate’s 13
th
Department had always worked in groups of one.

One.

She knew that she was on the edge of a real breakthrough in Chicago, but now all of that would have to be put on hold as she traveled to Fort Worth to pacify her short-sighted chain of command.

She checked the bottom of the letter one more time. Her eyes traveled down to his signature. It was simple, unassuming, and only two words.

Lee Oswald.

TRADECRAFT

Book Two of the Back to Normal Series

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As a science fiction movie fan and insatiable reader from his earliest memories in his birth state of California, Randy McWilson draws inspiration from a wide spectrum of interests and influences.

The reverberating echoes of Cold War espionage, explosions in scientific advancement, and strong, complex themes permeate his literary offerings. The historically-inclined reader finds a thrilling tale founded upon the rich fabric of both actual and alleged events.

He occupies his non-writing hours with a diverse range of hobbies: geology, theology, philosophy, history, and art.

McWilson currently lives in Jackson, Missouri, with his wife, Amanda, three children, and several pets.