Chaos Theory: A Feel Good Story About the End of the World

by Colin Robertson

  "What? Why?" asked Charlie.

  Alex had seen enough time travel movies to draw his own conclusion. "Because of the paradox. If we go back in time to change something, then we change the future—including the fact that we went back in time. If my mother didn't die, I wouldn't be here right now."

  "Well, yes and no," said Mrs. MacGuffin. "There's no paradox because it canna happen. If you go back in time to change something then you will fail. Because it did happen, your mother did die, so you moost have failed to stop it. There's no other explanation. It was, because it was, as they say. Unless of course, you buy into the alternate reality stoof, but Rupert always felt that was nonsense."

  "So wait, I go back in time to save my mom, and..."

  "And get hit by a boos."

  "Hit by a boos? Oh, a bus."

  "Or summat else. It dunna matter, either way you'll fail. You canna stop it happening because we know it happened. Paradoxes are just misunderstood cognitive dissonance. There are no true paradoxes, otherwise, they would'na be paradoxes. Which sounds somewhat paradoxical, but isn't."

  Charlie wasn't convinced. His whole being shouted at the prospect of going back in time to save Lisa and Faith and wouldn't be silenced. It deafened him.

  "Anyway," said Mrs. MacGuffin, "It would'na work at all right now. It's on the fritz."

  "It's broken?" said Charlie. "But you just send my shoe back to 1926!"

  "Yes, but living things aren't survivin' the trip. Rupert's supposed to be here to fix it, but he has na coom back. Tha's why he's late. So I've been trying to fix it m'self. I think I've almost got it, but not quite. Come back next week. Or year, y'know, depending."

  "So if we went through today?"

  "You'd arrive, but all jumbled up. Y'know, lak an anagram, but mooch messier."

  "Oh..." Charlie's heart sank. He wasn't at all sure the old woman would ever be able to fix it herself. Neither was he confident that anyone else could. He knew, from the dossier, that Rupert MacGuffin had tried to explain his ideas, only to be mocked or dismissed as a once brilliant mind gone to jelly. He'd told his fellow physicists they were all hobbled by their assumptions and thought only in terms of the universe, when they needed to "think bigger." He wrote in an open letter, "You all still believe physics and metaphysics are separate things. Al told you space is curved. I tell you space is imaginary, having imagined itself to exist." Charlie's cell phone rang. He glanced at the display. It read, 'CIA Director Morely'. "I have to take this," he said as he stepped away.

  Alex tried to fathom everything they'd seen and been told. Mrs. MacGuffin switched off the machine. Inside the steel ring, the suspended field of unreality collapsed to a pin prick, then vanished like the final dot of light on a black and white TV. "So that's where your husband went?" asked Alex. "Back in time?"

  "Yes and no," said Mrs. MacGuffin in what seemed to be her stock contradictory reply. "He did go back in time, tha's true, but Rupert MacGuffin's not ma husband."

  "He's not?"

  "No, his waf, Lucille, died a year a'fore he went. Dr. Rupert MacGuffin is ma father. But I understand your confusion. I never called him Dad, just Rupert. He was never one for titles an' sooch."

  Alex tried to figure this out. "Wait, he was your father in the present, or in the past? And you said it was a one way trip, how will he—?"

  "Alex," said Charlie. "We have to go."

  "What? Why?"

  "They've located Ali Madda and the canister—and they need our help."

  Chapter 19

  "Ceci n'est pas une citation." – R. Magritte

  The President stood in the Oval Office looking scruffy. Jim had been trying to persuade him to shave for days, but the President would have none of it. In the end, the Chief of Staff had decided to spin it. "The President is losing sleep and won't even stop to shave until this crisis is resolved." In truth, the President was distracted, irritable, and had taken to making strange pronouncements he expected to be written down for, what he called, his Gospel. Jim told the staff members that the President was simply working on his memoir. He glanced down nervously at the memo he'd intercepted just that morning before it was released. It was a short verse

  God is a man, not a woman as some say

  which isn't to say a man, like Adam, of clay

  But that he's a he, and not a she nor an it

  He's the Holy Father, as in The Book is writ

  It didn't even sound like the President, at least not the President that Jim knew. Lately, however, the Commander-in-Chief had been more lyrical. At yesterday's finance meeting he'd begun speaking in rhyming couplets, such as 'budget' and 'fudge it', or 'veto' and 'neat-o'. He'd also asked the Secretary of Defence, Frank Holbert, if the United States had iambic pentameter capability. Frank immediately reassured the President that they had "the best damn iambic pentameter capability in the world." Jim decided that the Secretary of Defence didn't have the slightest idea what they were talking about. Beside the oddness of The President writing poetry at all, Jim didn't need a focus group to tell him that the theme of this particular verse might not go down well with women voters. He also didn't need anyone to tell him that Duke Norman's almost constant presence wasn't helping the POTUS either. The problem was, the Reverend had completely usurped Jim as the President's confidant. Jim feared that challenging the preacher, at this point, would only cost him his own job. He dared not make the President unhappy and, right now, the President was frowning. "But this is good news, Mr. President," said Jim. "Very good news!"

  The President gave a "harrumph" and turned to gaze out at the Rose Garden.

  "I understand you're concerned, sir. We all are. After all, it's still a very tenuous situation and something could still go wrong."

  The President brightened somewhat. "Yes, I suppose that's true isn't it? Something could go wrong..." Jim was puzzled by the President's reaction, but nodded. The Commander-in-Chief was under a lot of stress, more than any President since the Cuban Missile Crisis. "So what's the plan then?" asked the President, tugging pensively at his growing whiskers.

  "Robert will brief you properly but, basically, the RCOA is a stealth operation. We go in, get it and get out."

  "RCOA?"

  "Recommended Course of Action."

  "I see. And what are the chances for something going wrong?"

  "Well, RA says any number of things, but that the risk of inaction is greater. Each day—"

  "RA?"

  "Research analysis, sir. So, as I was saying, each day these nut jobs have the WMD is a day one of them could decide to open it. The biggest threat to the MO, besides the obvious risks of detection, is that we get the wrong TO. We don't want to get it back here only to discover they nabbed a propane tank or water filter or such. So, just like we did DNA analysis on OBL, we'll have AG on hand to ID LT on site."

  "What the heck are you saying?" said the President, "What does any of that mean?"

  "What does what mean?"

  "All those acronyms!"

  "I didn't use any acronyms."

  "Sure you did... OBL?"

  "Those are initials. Osama Bin Laden."

  "Okay, those are initials, but what about MO?"

  "Modus Operendi. Also just initials. To be an acronym initials need to be pronounced as a word, such as RADAR, LASER, POTUS..."

  "Those are words."

  "Yes and no. Technically they're—"

  The President raised his hand to stop him. "This is why I hate you, Jim."

  "You hate me? I... I'm sorry, sir, I only use initials to save time. I'll send you a complete list of the initials used, immediately following this conversation."

  "Great, then I'll know what the heck we talked about. For now tell me who or what is AG. Is he or it an acronym?"

  "No, sir. He's Alex Graham, the boy who first found LT, I mean, Loose Thread. He's the only person we have who's actually seen and held it."

  The President shut his eyes, then nodded and said, "Ah, yes, the innocent child."

>   "I'm sorry, sir?" Jim noted with alarm that the President had gone to his 'distant place'. It was a place he seemed to be spending more and more time in lately, as opposed to the real world or, for that matter, the White House.

  "Nothing. Proceed."

  "You don't want to first see IMPACs from the CIA, DOD, JCOS, or..."

  "I've heard enough. Proceed."

  "When?"

  "Immediately."

  "Meaning..."

  "ASAP."

  "Yes, Mr. President."

  * * *

  The stealth helicopter swept over the Persian Gulf like an Egyptian osprey. Charcoal clouds blanketed the sky, blocking out the moon and stars and turning ocean waves to ink. The forty-billion dollar flying machine itself was black, rendering it as imperceptible as five tonnes of flying steel had any right to be.

  In the cockpit sat the pilot and mission coordinator. In the cabin behind, huddled three men and a teenage boy. The interior was illuminated only by scattered LED equipment lights and the iPad screen on which Alex Graham was busy playing Emoji Inquisition, the current hottest game for download. There wasn't supposed to be any civilian equipment on board for a mission where every ounce had been weighed to ensure fuel capacity. Charlie, however, had argued it a necessity to keep his young ward from "totally freaking out". Now, he found himself watching the game over Alex's shoulder in an effort to do the same. While inspired by the Spanish Inquisition, the game's cartoon victims made it hard to take their suffering seriously. Charlie resisted the urge to tell the boy when to 'rack' and when to 'flay' to turn the smiley faces :-) into sad faces :-( and, hopefully, elicit a full confession :-O. Alex chose instead 'toca', the sixteenth century version of water boarding. He was rewarded with a full conversion +:-o, along with twenty bonus points.

  "Seven minutes," said the pilot over the intercom.

  With the exception of Charlie and Alex, all of the men in the cabin were Navy SEALs. They were not, as Charlie had expected, the famed SEAL Team 6, aka the best of the best. Instead, they were from an even more elite subgroup of that unit, formed after the operation that killed Osama Bin Laden. These were members of SEAL Team 6², composed of the best of the best of the best. For the most part, the SEALs had remained in total silence during the flight. They had all been thoroughly briefed and the mission had been planned as best as possible given the available recon. Ali Madda's compound had been easy enough to spy on from the outside. The interior required more guesswork. They had, however, acquired word-of-mouth descriptions primarily from a source known only as 'Wetmop'. Wetmop's identity was unknown, but was widely suspected to be Ali Madda's former cleaning lady. She had provided detailed descriptions of all the rooms, but most especially the bathroom and kitchen areas. She had also provided a complete inventory of the contents of his sock drawer, which turned out to be socks of various styles and colours, including a disturbing predilection for toe socks. The place was palatial, including its own bowling alley, Bikram yoga room, and Dancersize studio. It was not, however, impregnable. They would enter with just two soldiers. The fear was that a large squad would be detected more easily and might lead to the device's detonation. The SEALs in question had been hand picked as the best of the best of the best of the best, aka SEAL Team 6³. Charlie and Alex did not know the two men's real names, only their code names. Everyone on the mission had code names. The mission itself had a code name which reflected its intent to infiltrate and infect the terrorists. That name was 'Operation Infectious Disease'. The mission theme was then used by a Pentagon computer to generate theme related identifiers for all of the individuals involved. This meant that, for the purpose of the mission, Charlie was known as 'Gall Stone', while Alex's alias was 'Whooping Cough'. Clearly the automated software had some drawbacks. Neither, however, was complaining. They knew it could be worse, as the two Navy SEALs seated next to them, Chicken Pox and Pink Eye, could attest to. Chicken Pox sat next to Charlie, eyes closed as if sleeping. Pink Eye sat hunched across from him, dressed entirely in charcoal grey fatigues, with his night-vision goggles pulled up over this head. He was singing softly under his breath. So softly that Charlie couldn't make out the tune, although there was something oddly familiar to it.

  "You ready?" Charlie asked.

  Pink Eye nodded. Pink Eye kept nodding. Charlie noticed the familiar white iPod earphones dangling from under the soldier's helmet. Pink Eye was nodding to the music in his head. Charlie tapped the SEAL's knee. Pink Eye pulled the earbuds from his ears, allowing the tinny sound of Rogers and Hammerstein's The Surrey with the Fringe on Top to escape into the cabin. "Yo, 'sup?"

  "Let me give you Herpes," said Charlie, using the assigned codename for the item in question.

  "Sure."

  Charlie reached into his bag and retrieved a shiny steel container. It was a perfect replica of the Loose Thread device. Perfect, save for being made out of stainless steel instead of osmiridium. That was simply too tall an order on such short notice. Still, provided no chemical tests were conducted it would fool Professor MacGuffin himself. Alex agreed, he could see no differences between it and the original. Charlie handed it to Pink Eye, who slid it safely into a satchel at his side. "Remember, making a swap is secondary. All that really matters is that you and Chicken Pox get Restless Leg Syndrome. If you can give Ali Madda Herpes, well, that's just icing on the cake."

  Pink Eye stared at Charlie with a sort of withering look that said, I'm the best of the best of the best of the best, do you really think you need to remind me of our mission objectives? Charlie stopped talking. He heard someone snicker and glanced to see Chicken Pox smirking at him.

  "I still don't get why we're doing a swap," said Alex.

  Charlie shrugged and said, "Orders from on high. I'm not sure myself. Ours is not to wonder why..." Charlie stopped himself. He realized Alex didn't know the rest of the line and decided it was better that way. What they were doing was incredibly dangerous. It wasn't his decision to bring the boy, but he suddenly felt sick at the thought of it. He thought of Faith. He'd never have let her be put in such a dangerous position. Yet somehow he'd failed to protect her too. Of course, if they didn't retrieve the device, the whole world would be in danger. I'm out on a ledge here, he thought, I guess we all are. Alex had told him where he'd found it. The canister had been wedged under a rock in a river for more than half a century. I guess we've all been on this ledge the whole time, thought Charlie, we just didn't know it.

  * * *

  The stealth helicopter descended over the roof of Ali Madda's estate on the island of New Brunswick in The World, Dubhai. The artificial landmass had little in common with its namesake province. For example, while the island featured an abundance of palm trees and Islamic terrorists, the province had considerably more potatoes and Canadians per capita. Commonalities included: being land, being land near water, and a relative scarcity of Albanians. The helicopter halted thirty feet above the roof and began to hover. The muffled craft wasn't entirely silent, but the waves, wind and sound of a Yusuf Islam dance remix thumping from the windows below provided sufficient cover. Ropes dropped to the rooftop and almost instantly two dark figures rappelled down. The house was oddly Spanish in style, chosen on a whim after Ali Madda spent a drunken weekend in Tijuana during his pre-terrorist youth. Despite the fragile clay shingles, the two Navy SEALs landed silently, and immediately surveyed their surroundings. Everything was exactly as expected. There were no guards on the roof, nor any cameras. As far as the interlopers were concerned, Ali Madda might as well have left the key in the front door.

  "Pink Eye, Chicken Pox, get yur fingers outta yur noses and get yur butts in gear!" growled a voice in their helmets. "Now, move to the access vent to your left" The voice belonged to 'Irritable Bowel Syndrome', the acting mission coordinator. Sitting upfront alongside the pilot in the helicopter, Irritable Bowel Syndrome was their eyes and ears. He also came with an attitude that embodied his codename. Still, there was nobody better, so the two SEALs were glad to have Irritable Bo
wel Syndrome for the duration. Chicken Pox spotted the rooftop air vents and pointed.

  "Got it, IBS," said Chicken Pox. The two men moved to the vent and began immediately, in tandem, unscrewing the corner bolts. A sudden gust of wind buffeted them, nearly knocking Chicken Pox over. Both men glanced up and noticed, for the first time, the black storm clouds above their heads.

  They're pregnant with rain, thought Pink Eye, and it looks as if their water's about to burst. Pink Eye thought this, but decided not to say it. "Nobody talks that way," his wife told him when he said things like that. Pink Eye loved metaphors. He loved mixing them like drinks and serving them like jury duty. Pink Eye wanted to be a writer. I just want to do something important, he thought. Instead, here I am stuck unscrewing bolts on some terrorist's rooftop in Dubai. "Looks like rain," he said.

  "In Dubai?" said Chicken Pox.

  "Forecast's all clear. Weather will not be a factor," said Irritable Bowel Syndrome irritably.

  "Um, okay," said Pink Eye. He wanted to point out that the storm clouds might have different ideas. Instead, he let it go. Concentrate on the mission, he thought, focus like a Buddhist monk, focus like a camera. With the last bolt extracted, the vent was easily pried free.

  "We're in," said Chicken Pox.

  The second floor of the Ali Madda estate was decorated in the sort of Versailles grandeur beloved by tinpot tyrants from Moammar Gadhafi to Donald Trump. Gold leaf lay over every piece of furniture and moulding. Original artworks covered every inch of every wall. These too were covered with gold leaf, rendering them, ironically, less valuable. A friend of Ali Madda had once observed that these were hardly the trappings of a humble warrior or devout Muslim. Madda disagreed, saying that, "if we're all going to paradise, what was wrong with bringing a piece of paradise here? A 'paradise preview', as it were, to help inspire us to greatness." Ali Madda championed the view that the warriors of Jihad, and generals such as himself, should not suffer the same restrictions as the average Muslim. "If Allah intended us to be equal," Ali argued, "he would not have given so much money to some and so little to others." Ironically, he first conceived this philosophy while accidentally watching Christian minister Joel Osteen preaching the 'Prosperity Gospel' on television. At the time, Ali Madda was in his suite at the Waldorf Astoria in New York, eating nachos in his underwear and was too busy picking hot melted cheese out of his chest hair to change the channel. He later said that the searing pain of liquid Velveeta helped inspire him. Specifically, it inspired him to personally avoid pain. Ali Madda was glad to be a Sunni Muslim if only to avoid 'Tatbir', the Shia Muslim practice of hitting oneself on the head with a sword.