"Shall I order another batch before we proceed, Doctor?" inquired Michael.
The doctor stood unresponsive in front of the control panel in silent contemplation. Several moments passed before Michael cleared his throat. "Doctor?"
"Hmm? Yes. What was that, Michael?"
"I asked if I should order more Thyratron tubes before we proceed."
"Well that would be quite a merry chase, indeed," replied Dr. Epson, pausing briefly to adjust a few settings. "You see, we are out of money. I was hoping that I wouldn't have to bring it up at this particular moment, but . . ."
Michael could feel the goose bumps dance across his skin like spiders attending a masquerade ball. He longed to hear those words. He needed to hear more. "But what?"
"But until this morning I still had hope that one of the bevy of financial suitors I've made contact with would come forth. Unfortunately, I received a wire from the last of them today; no one will help. Unless I can prove that this confounded device can do what it is supposed to do, nobody will lend us a red penny." Dr. Epson exhaled loudly and went on adjusting knobs and levers on the control panel.
Michael remained silent, unsure of which way to guide the conversation. He stood just behind and to the left of the doctor. His eyes sparkled with glee as he glanced at the panel which housed his subtle rearrangement. Having worked shoulder to shoulder with the doctor from the beginning, it hadn’t been difficult to steer him away from the simple crossed circuit during the construction two months previously. The circuit board seemed the obvious location for sabotage. It was in plain sight, and the doctor would have never thought twice about it being faulty, because he was the one who initially installed all the delicate circuits.
After several minutes, Michael broke the silence. "Is there anything I can do?" he asked, feigning sincerity. His mind and commitment were clear, but his heart remained divided. Even though his main dedication was to the Society, he remained indebted to the doctor. It was Dr. Epson who nurtured him right out of college and gave him this amazing opportunity so early in his career. Michael hated seeing the man brought to his knees so publicly, but he was faithful to the cause, and it dictated that this path of research needed to be culled at all costs.
"Unless you can pull together a few thousand dollars by next week, I am afraid we are going to have to shut down."
"A few thousand dollars?" Michael gasped "That's a lot of money, Doctor."
"Yes, I am aware. You see, I put my house up as collateral to the bank a few months back. I was so confident that my algorithms were precise that I had no hesitation in doing so. Now the note is due, and I haven't paid rent on the lab since March. Everything I had has gone into this blessed machine." Dr. Epson tapped the base of the large computer lovingly with the toe of his shoe.
"If it's any consolation, Doctor, you can forgo paying me this month. If it helps," offered Michael.
Dr. Epson turned to face Michael. "What a gracious offer, Mr. Gallagher, but we are both professional men here, and I do not intend to short your stipend one cent. We've worked together for many years, and I value your mind and your service far more than I do my money. You will have your weekly pay on Monday."
The two men stood in silence a moment longer before Dr. Epson wandered into his office and shut the door.
Michael stood alone in the quiet, dusty lab, wondering if he should start checking the processor now or wait for the doctor to return. He sat at his desk, and after a quick glance to the doctor’s office to reassure himself that he was, in fact, alone, he pulled out a telegram from beneath the leather ink blotter. It was neatly scribed in his own handwriting. He skimmed the lines:
Mr. Cypress
Box 42
San Francisco
Start: Objective nearly complete. Project funding depleted. Society success imminent. Awaiting further direction.
Stop.
Michael read the telegram once more before folding it and sliding it into his breast pocket. He had known this moment was inevitable and had written the telegram weeks ago. All that was left was to excuse himself for lunch and have it sent immediately. He stood and took off his lab coat. As he was exchanging it with his overcoat from the rack, the creak of the front door startled him.
"Good morning, Michael," said Miss Stewart, Dr. Epson’s secretary. "Is the Doctor in his office?" she asked excitedly.
"Yes, he is. Is everything all right?"
"I'm not quite sure. There is a gentleman from the military here to see him."
"Do you know what he wants?" asked Michael.
" I’m pretty sure it has something to do with his research. The doctor had me send a cable last week looking for backing. This man may very well be our savior," she replied as she knocked and then disappeared into the doctor’s office.
Speechless, Michael slumped into his chair, pulled the telegram from his pocket, and tore it to pieces.
CHAPTER 1
The penetrating briskness of the thin night air chilled Peter to the bone. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness of a moonless sky. The few scattered streetlights shone harsh in contrast to the gloom throughout the village, their hardened light causing mysterious, foreboding shadows. The cobblestone streets were vacant, just as they had been all night, and the sound of silence was louder than the thoughts in his own mind.
Peter glanced at his night-glow watch, only to find ten minutes had passed since his last inspection. What, he wondered, are they waiting for? He shifted nervously in his crouch and decided it was time to move.
He crept stealthily along the stone wall that bordered the winding road. As he neared the edge of the shadows, he slowed his pace and briefly leaned into the glaring light to see if the street around the corner was vacant. He noticed the silhouette of another person slinking along the face of the building across the street. At first he could not clearly identify the individual, although a moment later the shadowy figure slipped into the light and it became clear to Peter that the silhouette was that of a woman. He exhaled softly. He quickly recognized the high cheekbones and silky brunette ponytail. It was his partner, Julie Frey.
Peter pursed his lips together and made a short bird chirp to attract her attention. Julie glanced around and, a moment later, returned the call. Peter once again checked his watch. Their time limit was critical; this mission needed to be complete inside of two hours. It was now 1:37 a.m., and it had been ninety-seven minutes since they entered the small French village. They had begun their incursion from separate ends, headed as discreetly as possible toward the same destination: the small café near the center of town. They were currently on opposite sides of the narrow street, just a few hundred feet away from their target, and Peter felt confident they would have no problem completing the mission with time to spare.
Cautiously, he stepped into the deserted street and began to amble in Julie’s direction, his leisurely pace belying his extreme nervousness about being exposed.
As Peter reached the halfway point, Julie also stepped onto the cobbled road and proceeded toward him. They met in a shadow at the edge of the light cast from the nearest light pole.
“Any problems on your end?” whispered Peter.
“I came across a few drunks stumbling out of a bar a few blocks over, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle. You?”
“I haven’t seen a soul all night. It’s a little too perfect for comfort. Let’s move before we’re noticed.”
With Julie at his side, Peter stepped from the shadows and walked confidently toward their destination. Despite the darkness, he could begin to make out the word café painted on the brick above the glass storefront. Seeing the familiar word, he instinctively relaxed; this was the closest they’d gotten all week.
With renewed energy Peter continued closer, but he stopped instantly when he heard the noise. Julie heard it too. It was the unmistakable sound of footfalls on the pavement. He could not tell which direction they were coming from, but he knew they were close. Their options were limited. They were out
of cover and near the middle of the street. He intuitively reached out and took Julie’s hand and began to walk in the opposite direction. As the two made it to the end of the block, they began to veer down a side street. But before they got around the corner, a loud voice startled them both.
“Arrêter!”
Peter’s French was improving, and he recognized the word stop. He gripped Julie’s hand tighter and halted. In unison, they turned to face the person behind the startling voice.
The man moving toward them towered higher than six feet tall. His face was pockmarked and sported a wiry mustache. He was pointing a rifle in their general direction, and his uniform was clearly that of the Vichy France Army. “Où vas-tu à cette heure de la nuit?”
Peter understood the soldier’s question–Where are you going?—but had been instructed to let Julie do all the talking.
“Nous sommes tout simplement pour une balade. Belle nuit, n'est-ce pas?” she replied perfectly. “We're just out for a stroll. Beautiful night, isn't it?”
“à 1h40 du matin?” The soldier directed the question at Peter. “At 1:40 in the morning?”
Peter simply nodded.
“Que, chat a obtenu votre langue?” The soldier asked if the cat had Peter’s tongue.
Both Peter and Julie laughed out loud before Julie answered that Peter had a sore throat and the doctor had instructed him not to speak for several days. Peter nodded his head as Julie recited the scripted answer.
The soldier stood a few feet from them, still holding his rifle steady. He examined Peter before moving his eyes to Julie. As he raked his eyes over her feminine form, meticulously scrutinizing every luscious curve far longer than appropriate, Peter noticed how uncomfortable she had become. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything he could do about it.
After visually molesting Julie, the soldier grinned slightly, and said, “vous êtes plutôt sexuelle.” Peter clinched his fists and stepped between Julie and the armed man.
The man raised his rifle to Peter’s chest and demanded he get back: “récupérer!”
Julie placed her hand on Peter’s shoulder and whispered, “It’s not worth it.”
Peter was about to step aside when the soldier suddenly elbowed him in the face.
Peter dropped to his knees yelling, “Fuck! What did you do that for?” The words, in English, were out of his mouth before he could pull them back.
“Américain soja?” accused the soldier. Peter thought he was half right. He was American, but he was no spy. At least he didn’t think he was.
Peter stood back up and turned toward the soldier to explain, but the soldier jumped back and re-leveled his rifle at Peter’s chest.
“Wait!” is all Peter could say before the soldier opened fire on him, shooting him three times in the torso. Julie screamed as Peter fell back, hitting the cobblestone street.
Lying on his back, Peter blinked his eyes. His head throbbed where he cracked it against the pavement. He brought his hand to his chest and the pool of wetness he felt was not reassuring. When he lifted his hand, it was covered in red. He was shot. He tried to sit up, but Julie, kneeling next to him told him in English to wait a moment.
“Shh!” Peter whispered to her. “He’ll hear you!”
“It’s okay, Peter. The training is over. We failed again.”
Training? Peter tried to sit up, but his head was spinning. Julie pushed on his shoulders in an effort to make him lie still, but he still managed to push up from the cobblestone street into a sitting position. He wobbled, then steadied himself and looked around. The scene—which had been dark just moments before—was now in full light from the mercury-vapor lights above. He reached back and felt the growing knot on his head.
“What? But we were so close,” Peter said.
“Yes, Peter. You were closer to your goal than you’ve been all week. But do you understand your error?” General Applegate asked as he stepped out of a doorway in the mock village.
Peter rolled to his side and got a leg underneath him. He stood up and looked menacingly over at Mark. The ogre was dressed in the Vichy uniform. “It’s because that asshole crossed the line.”
“There will be no lines in 1942. You have to expect anything and everything. Heaven forbid that you two encounter a soldier such as the one Mark was portraying.” Applegate nodded to Mark, who returned the nod before turning to walk away. As he passed by Peter, he flashed a petulant smirk that grated on Peter’s nerves.
Peter forced himself to look at General Applegate. “Okay then. What would have been the correct reaction to Mark’s sexual advances? Do we sacrifice Julie for the sake of the mission?”
“Don’t be absurd, Peter. Julie has been through several levels of advanced combat training. The soldier would have suffered greater injury if he were to make that advance than he would from your efforts to play protector. Isn’t that right, Julie?”
“Let’s just say he would have to sit to pee for at least a week,” replied Julie, now standing next to Peter. “But that was a very noble gesture,” she said as she patted his shoulder.
“Right. Why don’t you two get changed and wrap up for the day,” suggested the general. “We’ll discuss your results tomorrow.”
Peter and Julie stood in silence as Applegate walked through the village and stepped into a dark alley.
“Are you going to be OK, Peter?” asked Julie, the patting of his sholder turning to a gently rub. “You hit your head pretty hard.”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine. My pride is what’s really injured right now. I can’t believe I let Mark get to me like that. Seriously, did he have to hit me and shoot me?” asked Peter, not really looking for Julie to answer.
“Let’s get this paintball goo cleaned off you and get out of here before Applegate changes his mind on more training.”
CHAPTER 2
Peter was mentally and physically exhausted when he got home. Trevor, the security detail that General Applegate assigned to him two weeks ago, had just dropped him off. Although he hated having an adult babysitter, he was much happier with Trevor as his watcher than Julie was with Mark.
The past two weeks had flown by in a blur. After accepting the general’s mission and signing a number of nondisclosure forms, Peter was whisked off to “the warehouse” for training. Peter managed to persuade the general to let him stay in his home during the four weeks of training. The general begrudgingly agreed but insisted that Trevor stay with him for the majority of his time away from the warehouse. Meaning any time that he spent away from his home, Trevor would be close by.
As these thoughts revolved through Peter’s mind, he slid his key into the lock on the front door and turned it over. Upon stepping into the foyer, he could hear both kids in the kitchen. He dropped his keys on the table and was off to hear about their day.
Tori was sitting at the kitchen table, earbuds in, singing along with her music. The nubs did little to limit the range of the thump of her latest hip-hop obsession permeating the room. Brett was standing over the kitchen sink, still wearing his soccer cleats, shoving nearly an entire piece of pizza into his mouth.
“Slow down there, slugger!” Peter exclaimed. “We’re going to have dinner soon.”
Brett nearly choked when he heard his dad come into the kitchen. “Thorry, dhad,” Brett spat, trying to retain every soggy morsel of his afternoon snack. He chewed hastily and swallowed. Brett smiled sheepishly and said, “I was hungry. Coach really worked us hard today.”
Peter smiled and winked at his son. “It’s alright, bub. I just don’t want you to ruin your appetite. I’m making Texas Tacos tonight.” Brett’s smirk turned into a full-blown grin. Texas Tacos were Brett’s favorite, and Peter knew that no matter how much his son ate before dinner, he would still clean his plate.
Tori was so engrossed in her music and homework she didn’t hear them talking. Peter had to move into her peripheral vision before she took notice. She instinctively pulled the buds from her ears and looked up. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, kiddo. How’s the homework going?” he asked as he pulled up a chair and sat down.
“Almost done. Biology sucks.”
“Tori?”
“Sorry, Dad. Biology blows,” Tori said with a devious grin. “Better?”
“Yes, thank you. ‘Blows’ is so much better than ‘sucks,’” Peter replied sarcastically. “Want to help with dinner tonight?”
“Sure,” exhaled Tori, as she rolled her eyes and tucked her hair behind her ears. As she did, Peter could see the shiny new ring in her nose. It had been a little more than a week since he let her get it done, even though he had sternly forbade it earlier. He hated to see it, but his heart smiled. He knew that he only had to live with it for a month at most, since when he returned from his mission, the offending nasal hoop would never have perforated his child.
“Thanks, kiddo. I’ll cook, I just need help cutting things up.”
Tori looked relieved and smiled. “Cool. You know how much I hate that stove.”
“Yes, Tori. I know you hate the stove,” Peter chuckled.
Brett sat down across from Tori, pulled out his history textbook, flipped it open to a marked page, and began to read.
Peter watched his son, reflecting. It had been years since they all sat at the kitchen table when a meal was not being eaten. It was nice. He almost felt content at how things had changed so dramatically since General Applegate reemerged into his life. Peter knew it was a false sense of contentment, because nobody knew what life would be like after the shift. Peter hoped that if he could just get through the mission cleanly, he could return to a normal existence. No more debt. No more misery. He could have a brand new life and a fresh start. If only he knew what changes would happen because of his mission.
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