Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series

by McWilson, Randy

  Ellen shoved all the undermining memories aside and gave it another big Finegan try.

  Shep’s booming voice echoed through the Jump Portal Chamber, breaking her concentration. “Time for a break?”

  She dropped the sweaty wrench and didn’t even look up. “I’m busy.”

  He walked down the metal mesh walkway and lowered a steaming cup of coffee by her face. “Even pretty girls need a break every now and then.”

  At first she decided to ignore him, but changed her mind. “But what about old men? Don't they get a break every now and then?”

  “Now what’s that supposed to mean?”

  She twisted around and locked fiery eyes with him. “You know exactly what that means! I heard about your own personal little meltdown the other day, Robert. And you joined with Garrett Frazier, of all people!” She jumped up and wiped her hands. “Doc and Emile deserve your respect, not your threats! And if my sources are correct, apparently you also included me in your little tirade?” She began to march off.

  He paused for a moment. “That’s old news, Ellen. Plus, you and I both know it needed to be said!”

  She spun around and took a deliberate step towards him. “What I know, Robert, is that we have experienced incredible progress down here over the past year, and all three of us have busted our asses to make it happen! We need support not sarcasm.”

  He stepped over and clutched her by the shoulders. “No,” he affirmed, pulling her in close. “What you need, Ellen, is to slow down a bit. You're so busy chasing something out there, that you're missing what's right here,” he looked into her eyes, “right in front of you.”

  She jerked away and stared dispassionately at the Jump Portal. He tried to reclaim her attention. “Hey, what's wrong with you? What's changed?”

  She looked away. “Nothing. Nothing’s changed. It's just...it's just that, we're close. I can feel it, we're real close to making this thing work!”

  He maneuvered between her and the portal. “And I think that you and I are close, close to making us work.”

  She wasn’t about to encourage him. “I...I think we need to, kinda, cool it for a while.”

  Robert Sheppard was stunned.

  He studied Ellen’s unyielding face, and then scrambled for a plausible explanation.

  Things were great—what’s changed? What’s happened?

  He started to protest, but his pride refused to let him beg. Shep turned on his heels and headed for the door.

  Just outside the chamber, Stonecroft was explaining something—no doubt deep and mathematical—to a curious Denver Collins. Shep studied their newest arrival. He halted and spun. “I think that we both know what's changed, Ellen.”

  He hesitated. “The only thing that has changed.”

  Journal entry number 479

  Friday, May 12, 1950

  The sound and the feeling never gets old.

  And now, with a small army of Jumpers to help find our newest additions, the recovery-window is getting pretty small. For Officer James McCloud, he went from LOST to LOCATED in about 12 minutes yesterday, around 1 p.m. local time.

  Unfortunately for him, he was found by Leah. Out of respect for him, I will just say that those two now share an unforgettable memory. Let the record show he was not…at his best.

  People around town are starting to really take note of the lightning and the thunder associated with FLaT. There has only been solid overcast a few times when it happened, to at least make the flash and boom seem somewhat reasonable. The word on the street is that it is due to some top secret government weapon or testing facility nearby.

  As Jumpers we certainly aren’t opposed to a little public suspicion like that. It is rare that the government serves a positive purpose, so we’ll take this one with a smile. There is a lot of suspicion running rampant in society anyway. A few weeks ago President Truman tried to make the case to the American public that Communists had not infiltrated our country. Incredible. He doesn’t even know that the US has been “infiltrated” by Jumpers from across time—how could he know if there are Communists from across the sea?

  I digress.

  I like this new trailer already. He’s a 50-year-old policeman from Atlanta, and he jumped from 1996, about 10 years into my future. He looks like a rotund drill sergeant, but that’s where the similarity ends, apparently. He has taken his jump better than most and is very friendly, like someone you have already known for a long time.

  Doc Stonecroft and Michael Ritnenour are still our most “advanced” trailers, but McCloud’s arrival stirs again the subtle temptation to find small ways to gain future information while the Jumper is fresh and green—before they find out the rules.

  It’s easy to make laws—it’s a bit tougher to live by them.

  CHAPTER 42

  There were persistent grumblings that CIA Agent Neal Schaeffer practiced the chain-of-command principle with an unnecessary religious fervor.

  Some would say even to a fault.

  But the young West Point graduate would respectfully disagree. As second in command, it was ingrained within him that his most sacred duty was the necessity of filtering everything before it gets anywhere near the first in command.

  And Neal did what he was trained to do.

  With a powerful and connected superior like Howard Ross, Schaeffer insisted that all intelligence flew across his own radar first—and with good reason. Ross had a well-established habit of chasing every fragment of intel, regardless of insignificance. This had been especially true over the last few years, as his desperation for a breakthrough often trumped better judgment.

  Ross always lived in the light of his 4:30 p.m. Monday update calls with the Director of Central Intelligence.

  Always.

  The natural consequence of the Monday conference call simply translated into hectic weekends preparing for it.

  Within a few weeks after Ross had recruited Neal from the PRS division of the Secret Service in late 1949, Schaeffer began weaning Ross away from his micro-management leadership dysfunction.

  On more than one occasion, Ross had made Schaeffer feel like a temporary intern rather than the first assistant to one of the most important divisions within the agency. With Neal, it wasn’t so much about protecting his own ego, rather it was about increasing efficiency within the organization. He took early measures at subtle but consistent course corrections. Everyone at Project SATURN noticed, with perhaps the singular exception of Ross, and everyone appreciated the transformation.

  Ross’ own workload diminished so gradually that some noted that he even became almost tolerable to be around again. In spite of the positive change, most SATURN agents still avoided Ross at all costs though. Too many off-hand comments became discussion points. Discussion points had an odd way of becoming policy, and policy had a strange way of increasing everyone’s already over-taxed workload.

  The discovery of the Collins’ wallet threatened to break the spirits of even the most dedicated within SATURN. The Chicago initiative put the entire organization on mandatory eighteen-hour shifts, with a slim chance of having two days off in a row until at least Thanksgiving, over three months out.

  Ross had an odd fascination in reminding everyone about it, and he did it multiple times per day. His new favorite mantra was: “If you wanna have a life again, find me Denver Wayne Collins.”

  And it was Neal Schaeffer, far more than anything else, that made those kind of days even bearable.

  Agent Schaeffer’s new temporary office just off Lake Michigan was a swarm of activity. There were so many suits rotating through that it more closely resembled an office party than a full-tilt investigation. His desk was wallpapered with a series of maps and littered with several cups of coffee in various states of fill (with at least four hopelessly over-stuffed ashtrays). One of the coffee cups had been officially commandeered as a fifth ashtray.

  Neal hung up his phone just as a young agent pushed up to him through the considerable crowd with a clipboard.
Neal scanned the top two pages and grabbed a pen, signing each one. “Thanks, William.” The young man navigated a swift exit as Schaeffer’s desk phone began buzzing, probably for the fiftieth time since he had lost count.

  He snatched it and tucked the handset onto his shoulder. “Schaeffer.” He lifted a map up and inspected it for a few moments. His eyes grew wider and he dropped the document.

  “Where? Are you sure?”

  MEMO July 22, 1951

  SECURITY LEVEL: TOP SECRET

  FOR: General Walter Bedell Smith, Director, Central Intelligence

  FROM: Chief Howard D. Ross, Project SATURN

  SUBJECT: Media Concerns

  In light of recent national media attention to agency activities, and the leaks uncovered by VENONA, I propose an intelligence program to monitor and manipulate news reporting in the US and even abroad.

  By carefully selecting key media gatekeepers, we can supply them with filtered information to guide national and international attitudes/awareness. Like mockingbirds, they can be groomed to repeat narratives favorable to various initiatives.

  This will especially come into play regarding Project SATURN. If leaks or investigative journalism turns up compromising information, this operation could identify, redirect, or redact such reporting.

  END

  DCI/PS

  CHAPTER 43

  Neal shoved into Ross’ office, lacking the decorum and professionalism he was typically famous for. With surprising dexterity he squeezed past at least half a dozen suits to get access to the Chief. Ross was in mid-sentence with two FBI agents as Schaeffer spoke into his ear. “We just received new intel on the wallet.”

  Ross immediately stopped talking and faced him. Neal dropped his voice low, breathing a bit heavy. “It was found on a Greyhound that runs from Oklahoma City to Chicago.”

  “On 66?”

  Neal nodded, and Ross wasted no time, bulldozing several folders off his desktop, revealing a well-marked map underneath. They both leaned in and studied it, focusing on Northern Illinois.

  Ross cleared his throat and clapped a few times. The room calmed down. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, we need to reallocate resources. We have a new region of concentration.”

  Everyone in the office moved forward, crowding around his desk. He grabbed a red grease pencil and traced an oval along Route 66 from Chicago south down toward Normal.

  He gazed up. “South of Chicago on 66. All other locations are null and void. This noose just got a lot tighter! Make the calls, c’mon, let’s go people!”

  Within seconds, Ross and Schaeffer were left alone in a room infused with old smoke and new excitement. Neal was still smiling. Ross didn’t look at him.

  “Speak.”

  “Oh, yeah, and I thought you’d like to know, we found the driver that turned it in.”

  Now Ross turned to him. “And…?”

  “And he’ll be here tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Why not this afternoon?”

  Neal pointed down at Arkansas. “He’s on the road, still several hours out of Oklahoma City. We’ve got a flight ready for him late tomorrow morning. I have people positioned at the terminal already.”

  Ross dropped into his seat abruptly and began scratching out questions for the interrogation. In his tenure at the OSS, Ross was affectionately dubbed Howard the Hammer. It wasn’t an exaggeration. He could break anyone.

  Now that Ross was in the zone, Neal had become an unnecessary piece of furniture. He was almost used to it. “Oh, you’re welcome,” Neal mumbled as he retreated out the door. He had convinced himself that the absent “thank you” was surely just another unfortunate oversight.

  Then again, many things were unspoken when Howard Ross was involved.

  Journal entry number 481

  Friday, June 9, 1950

  Things are going really well in the factory “upstairs” (The Basement is mainly on the north side, not directly under the facility, connected by a hidden staircase). Shep has moved into the role of plant manager. Leah is our receptionist and is in charge of our books/accounts payable/receivable. Mike takes care of shipping/receiving, and works on the floor with Shep, Tamara, and myself. Martha provides wise advice from time to time, but is retired and keeps to herself. She misses her only living child Caroline (at least living in 1989), and speaks of her often, but I don’t think Momma Martha expects to ever get back home.

  Our newest addition to the family, James McCloud, has been with us about a month now. Leah says he is doing very well in his re-education. With about 4 years of experience, we have really honed a program and curriculum that can prepare a Jumper for life in the 1950s (as much as possible).

  McCloud’s background in law enforcement has given me some ideas, some pretty radical ideas, actually. Riley Brandenburg, our current Police Chief, has been serving Normal far beyond his usefulness. He was probably past his prime before Pearl Harbor was bombed, with all due respect. I think my friendship with Mayor Vorhees, coupled with a few financial donations to community improvement could open some doors for a special appointment.

  It could be very advantageous to have a Jumper in a position of power in the local community. Most of us need to stay below the radar, but we still need eyes and ears out there.

  On a less local but yet more somber note, we are only days away from the official beginning of hostilities in what will be called the Korean War. As a Jumper, you lie awake at night and think about all the phone calls you would make to the president, and all the advice you would give.

  Some people are quick to think that knowing the future would be a blessing. There are several people here in Normal, Illinois, that would beg to differ.

  CHAPTER 44

  A heaping dish of fried chicken and mashed potatoes pushed past the main door into The Basement.

  “A delectable dinner is served, my dear Stonecroft,” Ellen said sweetly in a spot-on imitation of her beloved colleague. Dr. Papineau followed closely behind hauling two more plates.

  Ellen scanned the area as she set the meal on the table. “Doc?”

  The delightful researcher was nowhere to be seen. She glanced over as Emile checked inside the bathroom. He leaned back and shook his head. The reactor chamber door was clearly shut, but the entrance to the Jump Portal was somewhat ajar.

  “The aroma should be getting to you by now,” she teased as she ventured into Doc’s only remaining hiding place. Dr. Papineau was peering through the dark window of the reactor chamber when Ellen’s scream echoed through The Basement.

  “Doc! No, Doc!”

  Emile scrambled to reach her, knocking a metal chair over in his haste. He rounded the doorway and caught sight of Ellen kneeling on the metal mesh walkway next to Doc’s motionless form sprawled out on the floor.

  “Stonecroft mon ami! Ce qui s'est passé?” he cried out.

  Ellen frantically checked for vitals and began patting Doc on the shoulder. She glanced over at Emile, her eyes flooded with tears. “He, uh, he is alive.”

  She paused, reflecting on the language barrier. She smiled weakly. “He is okay. Okay.” Ellen leaned across the wrinkled face of the unconscious researcher. “Doc, Doc—wake up, Doc. Doc Stonecroft. Hello?” She wiped her eyes as a single hot tear fell onto his cheek, and it began to run down the side of his face.

  Emile rubbed Doc’s hand repeatedly. “Mon ami. Mon ami?”

  Stonecroft’s fingers quivered, and then twitched several times. Ellen spotted the movement and patted his shoulder again. “That’s it, hey Stonecroft, come on, dinner is getting cold.”

  She scanned his face for any sign of consciousness when Doc began blinking rapidly. He raised his right hand and felt around on his face for his missing glasses.

  Ellen leaned down and gave him a quick hug in her excited relief. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again, Doc Stonecroft.”

  He reached up and patted her on the back, still obviously disoriented. She leaned back, and with Emile’s help raised Doc to a seated position.
Ellen fetched his mangled eyeglasses and handed them to the shaken but good-spirited colleague.

  “Oh, dear,” he groaned as he took them from her. “Yes, I believe that you will find that the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” He felt the damaged frames. “But I am not so certain about the reports of my spectacles.”

  Ellen looked him up and down. “Are you hurt?”

  He chuckled. “Oh, I am quite alright. At least, I think so.” He looked at her. “But you are the medical professional, Miss Finegan. I will have to defer to your expertise and judgment.”

  She did a further exam, rubbing his arms and legs and checking his pulse again. “How do you feel?”

  “None the worse for wear, I assure you my dear friend. A little shaken, as you might suppose.” He paused for a moment, then smiled. “Fortunately, I think my back broke my fall.”

  Emile looked at Doc and then at Ellen. “Bon?”

  Ellen smiled and nodded. “Bon. He's good. Bon.” She got right in Doc’s face. “Do you think you can stand?”

  He raised his bushy eyebrows and joked. “Why? Are my legs presently detached?”

  “Well, at least your sense of humor isn’t damaged. Come on, up you go.”

  They tenderly raised him back to his feet and assisted the aged scientist as he shuffled to a chair back in the lab. The bent frame on his eyeglasses occupied his attention while Ellen pulled up a chair beside him. “So what happened?” she asked. “Do you remember anything?”