by Dirk Patton
“Well, that’s good,” Julie said. “At least our pictures aren’t on TV yet, and they aren’t mentioning the police looking for anyone.”
“Yet,” I said, returning my attention to the phone.
Pressing a couple of keys, I initiated a call to the only number it would dial. Agent Johnson. It rang one time before it was answered.
“You’ve made a mess, Mr. Whitman,” he said immediately when the call was picked up.
“Not as much as there would have been,” I said, a little defensively.
“I’m sure I’ll learn all about that in a few hours,” he said. “But right now you’ve kicked over a hornet’s nest. I’m monitoring traffic and every three letter agency I can think of is getting involved. Since you’re calling me, I’m guessing you’re in a secure location at the moment.”
“Yes, we are,” I said, without thinking about the we part of that.
There was dead silence for several beats before he spoke again.
“We? Would that be the woman that called me? Ms. Julie Broussard?” He asked in a low voice that made me cringe.
“Yes,” I said, steeling myself and charging ahead with the conversation. “Without her I’d be in the hands of the police right now. She provided some cover and we made it out of the immediate area, but we’re still too close. And she’s going to have a problem after I, uh… after I’m extracted.”
“She most certainly will,” he said, exasperation clear in his voice. “OK, we’ll discuss operational security when you get back. For now, what do I need to know that I don’t?”
“Well, we’re at the…”
“Downey Motor Inn,” he interrupted. “Your phone gave me precise coordinates when you called.”
“Right,” I said, slightly disconcerted. “She stuck her neck out for me. And she needs some help.”
“What does she know?” He asked.
“Enough,” I said, evasively. “She was Army. Combat medic in Iraq. She’s seen enough Special Ops to know what was going on. Understand?”
“I believe so. She’s unaware of the project?”
“Correct,” I said, noting that Julie had taken a seat on the bed and lit another cigarette as she listened intently to my conversation.
“You’d better hope so. For her sake.”
“The cops have us on a dash cam,” I said, ignoring his ominous statement. “And I’m probably on security video somewhere from the cameras in the parking lot.”
“The parking lot footage has already been taken care of. As soon as I received Ms. Broussard’s call, I identified the location and had them disabled. But the dash cam isn’t good. Hang on for a moment and let me verify something.”
There was a click as he muted the phone on his end. I was left watching the TV while I waited. Julie had turned the volume down when I placed the call and I couldn’t tell if there was any new information. Several minutes later, Johnson came back on the line.
“OK, here’s the bad news. The Downey Police use an older dash cam system that records onto a disk housed inside the cruiser. It requires a direct download to a server when they return to the station at the end of shift. There’s no way to get to it remotely until that happens.
“The system has the ability for the cops in the field to review the footage that has been recorded. And they can print a copy of any image that’s on the disk. Without remote access we have no way of knowing if they’ve identified you and Ms. Broussard and are already looking for you.”
“Can’t you call one of your buddies that’s at the scene? I’m watching a news report and there’s FBI all over the place. Can’t one of them take care of things?”
“This has already gone too wide, Mr. Whitman,” he said with a sigh. “Homeland Security, the ATF and California State Police are already on scene in addition to FBI. The NSA and CIA are sticking their noses in behind the scenes. I can’t shut this down without drawing a lot of attention, and that’s exactly what we are supposed to avoid.”
“Fuck me,” I breathed, looking at Julie. “So what do we do to help her?”
“How secure are you?”
“Probably fine until our faces make the news. I paid off the desk clerk to give us a room without registering. But he’s got a TV sitting right in front of him. If our images pop up it’ll probably take him about three seconds to start dialing 9-1-1.”
“Room number?” He asked.
“108.”
“Stay put. Don’t stick your head out. I’m going to have an agent come pick you up and move you to a secure location. I’m texting you his photo right now so you can confirm it’s him when he arrives.”
“Both of us?” I asked.
“Yes, Mr. Whitman. Both of you.”
There was a gentle beep in my ear and I took the handset away from my face long enough to confirm I’d just received a photo.
“You’re sure I can trust this guy?” I asked.
“He’s one of the project’s team on the ground,” he said. “Yes. He can be trusted. Ten minutes and he’ll be knocking on your door. We’ll take this up when you get back.”
“Hold on,” I said, pausing until I was sure he hadn’t already hung up. “What are you going to do with Julie?”
“She will be protected, Mr. Whitman.”
With that, there was a click and he was gone. I lowered the handset and opened the photo, staring at the face long enough to ensure I’d instantly recognize if it was someone else that knocked on the door.
“FBI is picking us up,” I said, storing the phone in my pack. “Moving us to a safer location while this all shakes out.”
Julie nodded and tried to light another cigarette. Her hands were shaking so bad she couldn’t hold the flame steady, so I reached out and took the matches. I held one for her, absently slipping the pack into my pocket when the smoke was lit.
It was only eight minutes later when there was a soft knock. Looking through the peephole, I instantly recognized the face of the man from the photo Johnson had sent me. Opening the door, I stepped back to let him come in, but he stayed where he was.
“Ready?” He asked.
I nodded and extended my arm towards Julie, inviting her to go first. She dropped her cigarette in the water cup and stood, moving past me and through the door. The agent had stepped back and I followed, bumping into Julie’s back when she suddenly looked to her left and came to an abrupt stop.
Instantly, we were swarmed by large men in dark clothing. Before I could put up any resistance, a Taser was pressed against my back, every muscle in my body going into a painful knot. I heard another one clicking, a grunt of pain from Julie as she, too, was shocked.
Strong hands grabbed my arms, preventing me from falling to the sidewalk. There was a pinch on the side of my neck and almost immediately the world began to spin. Darkness rapidly closed in as I lost consciousness.
29
I woke up with a splitting headache and a tongue that felt about four sizes too large for my mouth. Dehydration, I realized without even having to think about it. I’d dealt with it before and my brain recognized the symptoms the same way it would recognize the smell of frying bacon or the taste of an orange.
But, where the hell was I? The last thing I remembered was… what was it? I lay there in the darkness, confused for a moment. Then it all came back. Killing the terrorists then hiding out with Julie, waiting for the FBI agent to show up. And being ambushed when he did.
I sat straight up in alarm, putting my hands down on a soft surface. A bed? What the hell? Looking around, I could see nothing other than perfect darkness. There were some faint background sounds that were familiar, as was the taste of the air gently blowing from an unseen vent.
Reaching up, I found the light switch exactly where I expected it to be. Even before I turned it on, I knew I was in bed in my cramped quarters aboard the Project Athena oil rig.
Lights on, I saw two bottles of water on my small table and stood to retrieve them. I was wobbly at first, my legs not wanting
to cooperate with the commands my head was issuing, but they finally got with the program and I walked five feet across the steel floor.
I drained the first bottle without pausing, opening the second and drinking half of it in another long gulp. Quickly, I began feeling better and the stabbing pain behind my eyes receded until it was only a faint, dull ache. With clarity, came anger. Boiling up from my gut until I was ready to throttle someone, and that someone was Agent Johnson.
Glancing down, I saw that I was still dressed in the same clothes. My shoes had been removed and neatly tucked under the edge of the bed. The wallet I’d been given was missing. I assumed they’d taken it back. All that was in my pockets was Julie’s matches. I stared at them, surprised I’d been able to bring something forward through time with me until I remembered the conversation with Dr. Anholts.
While I was thinking about this, a muted knock came from the steel hatch that served as a door. It was only two steps away, and I spun the wheel to release the latch and yanked it open.
Agent Johnson stood there, looking immaculate in a pin striped suit that had to have been custom made. He held a large mug of coffee in his right hand, the FBI seal boldly emblazoned on the white ceramic.
“I should kick your fucking ass,” I seethed, seriously considering attacking him.
“That would be a futile effort as well as counter productive,” he said calmly, stepping across the threshold and into my room without waiting to be invited.
He moved across the small space, turned my lone chair around to face the bed and sat with his free hand folded in his lap. Meeting my eyes, he gestured at the bed, telling me to take a seat. I slammed the steel door and angrily spun the wheel to secure it.
“What the fuck was that all about?” I asked as I sat down. “There was no need for that.”
“We needed control of the situation, Mr. Whitman,” he said, taking a sip from the mug. “We needed both you and Ms. Broussard safely tucked away until things calmed down and could be managed by cooler heads. My agents had no idea if you were still armed, and with my approval they took no chances with their, or your, safety.”
I glared at him. Pissed. Wanting to rant and rave, but it was difficult to maintain the level of anger when he was so fucking calm and collected about the whole situation. A juvenile impulse to reach out and slap the mug, spilling coffee on his clothes passed through me. I barely resisted the urge.
“Wasn’t necessary,” I said. “And where are we? Back in real time?”
“Yes,” he said. “About sixteen hours ago. And we’ve reviewed the data from your chip.”
“That’s nice,” I said sarcastically. “What did you do with Julie?”
“Ms. Broussard is no longer your concern,” he said. “She is being protected. That’s all you need to know.”
“Fuck need to know!” I shouted. “What did you do with her?”
“Mr. Whitman…”
“I’m not fucking around, Johnson,” I said through clenched teeth. “That woman did nothing other than help. Now you can tell me what you did with her or I’m going to shove that mug up your ass and turn it sideways.”
“As pleasant as that sounds, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline,” he said, his eyes narrowing.
There was just a hint of tension that appeared in his shoulders and his free hand stiffened into a hard edge. He was prepared to defend himself if I tried to carry out my threat. I sat staring into his eyes, breathing hard as I struggled with the desire to go for his jugular.
“You’re an asshole, Johnson,” I seethed. “I thought you were someone I could trust, but now I see what you really are. You’re just a cog in the machine, incapable of making a human decision.”
“I have two ex-wives who would agree with you on those points,” he smiled.
After a moment, despite myself, I felt the anger begin to dissipate. Just the blind rage anger. I was still upset and determined to know what had happened to Julie.
“Tell me what you did with her, or get out,” I said in a calmer voice. “I don’t work for people that I can’t trust.”
He stared at me for a long time. Nearly two full minutes. The silence stretched out until it was uncomfortable, but I wasn’t going to be the first one to break it. Finally, he heaved a sigh, relaxed his shoulders and took another sip of coffee.
“Ms. Broussard was taken to an FBI safe house in Los Angeles. She was well cared for as we wrapped up a few things.”
“What things?” I asked.
“We ensured that the dash cam footage containing her image has been completely erased. We also scoured the path you took escaping from the apartment to locate and delete any video evidence of the two of you in the stolen Kia. So far we’ve had to intercede and wipe three ATM cameras and the security systems in four different retail stores that captured the two of you abandoning the SUV and walking to the hotel.
“And equally as important, we talked with her to make sure none of what she saw or heard will be repeated. To anyone. Once we were satisfied, she was returned to her apartment”.
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” I asked. “You lied to me when you sent that agent.”
“I did?” He asked, eyebrows arching. “I don’t seem to recall saying anything other than the agent would take both of you to a secure location. And that is precisely what occurred. I’m sorry if it wasn’t handled in a manner acceptable to you, but here you are. Safe and undetected by the authorities investigating your little mess. And so is Ms. Broussard.”
“Fuck you,” I mumbled, refusing to acknowledge that technically he was correct.
“I believe you meant to say, thank you,” he said, frowning.
“What now?” I asked, ignoring what he’d just said. “Debrief so you know what happened?”
“We already know exactly what happened, Mr. Whitman. That data chip inside you? It doesn’t just carry a record of why we sent you back. It also records everything you did.
“So, not a debrief, but we’re going to have some discussions about how you handled things. And Mr. Patterson wants to speak with you, too.”
“Fine,” I grumbled, not looking forward to any of the conversations that were in my immediate future.
“Now,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’ll leave you to clean up and get some food. Be in the conference room in forty-five minutes.”
With that, he left my quarters without another word. I watched him depart, still unhappy with the way things had gone. But then, I imagined he was as well. Glancing at my watch, I noted the time. Grabbing my kit and a small towel, I headed for a community shower I shared with half a dozen of the analysts.
Twenty minutes later I was cleanly shaven, showered, dressed in fresh clothes and heading for the cantina. Loading a plate with food, I looked around and spotted Dr. Anholts. She was seated by herself, as usual, typing away on her laptop as a tray of food sitting by her elbow went untouched. No wonder she was so damn skinny.
“Hi,” I said, walking up.
“Mr. Whitman,” she said brightly. “Welcome back!”
“Thank you. May I join you?”
She looked surprised, but quickly waved me to a seat on the opposite side of the table.
“I understand your first mission was successful, despite some unexpected consequences,” she said, pushing the laptop to the side and closing the lid.
“I suppose,” I said. “I’m about to go into a meeting with the Director and Agent Johnson. They don’t seem too happy with me.”
“Pffffttt,” she made a rude noise. “Director Patterson is never happy. He seems to be incapable of recognizing and acknowledging accomplishments.”
She looked around us, conspiratorially, and leaned close. Lowering her voice to almost a whisper, she smiled and said, “He’s also a bit of a pompous ass.”
Hmmm. Those were interesting insights. I was glad to know that I’d read her correctly. She loved her work, but resented the government drone that was in charge of what should be her proje
ct.
“Can I ask you something?” I said, taking a bite of my food.
“By all means,” she smiled. “Anything you like.”
“The thirty-six hours. Why? What I mean is, why can’t we go back farther?”
She looked at me and her eyes danced. Then she smiled.
“Perhaps we can,” she said. “Especially since you didn’t experience any of the disorientation the other assets reported.”
I paused with a fork halfway to my mouth.
“How did you know?” I asked.
“Your data chip,” she said, leaning closer as if taking me into her confidence. “It also records everything that occurs while you’re back in time. One of the first things I did was to review the first couple of hours, post-arrival. It’s quite exciting!”
I shoveled in a couple of bites, keeping an eye on the large clock attached to the wall. Being late for a meeting with Johnson or Patterson, as I’d learned the hard way, was a pain in the ass.
“Yeah, I was pretty happy about that, too,” I said in between bites. “But, what do you mean by, “perhaps”? Have you found something?”
She looked around again before speaking, as if still afraid of being overheard. Leaning closer, she whispered so softly that I had to completely focus to understand what she was saying.
“It’s all about power, Mr. Whitman. I’m working on a side project with hopes that with greater power we can generate and control larger Black Holes. In theory, with enough power and a large enough portal, we could send someone back weeks, months or possibly even years.
“That hadn’t been a possibility due to the severe effect of even thirty-six hours of time travel. Until you came along. You were completely unaffected by the trip. Of course, extending farther back might produce undesired results, but it’s given me hope.”
“Speaking of power,” I began, pausing to finish chewing and swallow a bite of my meal. “You told me this collision thing was what created the Black Hole, and said it was in Texas. We’re in the middle of the ocean. How’s it working here?”
