The news didn’t seem to concern her, so Dr. Montgomery tipped his cards further. “We've found that most nurses with your type of traditional hospital experience have a little difficulty in...adapting to our specialized type of clientele.”
“Oh, I completely understand,” she said.
But he knew she didn’t.
Silently he gave her three weeks.
He peered down at some paperwork, and collected a small folder’s worth. “There are certain rules and policies here at Chicago State Hospital that may be a little unfamiliar to you.”
She nodded. “That’s to be expected.”
He half-stood to hand her the packet. “Such as our prohibition regarding jewelry.” She reached out to accept the information. “That pretty silver ring you are wearing—”
She beamed as she showcased it.
He wasn’t impressed. “That ring could be turned into a deadly weapon by one of our more…unstable clients.”
If she heard him, it didn’t show. She caressed the red gemstone. “It was a gift from my mother.”
He raised his eyebrows as he sat back. “Well, Nurse Beussink, I’m sure your sweet mother wouldn’t want her precious daughter injured…or, heaven forbid, killed by her own gift.”
Her tone grew more serious as she bit her lip. “I, uh, completely agree. Yes. It won’t be a problem. I just want to thank you for this job. And trust me, I can adapt to just about any situation. I’m so excited to work here.”
Montgomery nodded as a polite gesture and revised his estimate of her employment longevity down a whole week. He signed some required paperwork.
She lowered her voice somewhat. “And, uh, don’t worry about my mother. She died a long time ago.”
He looked up briefly. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Oh, it’s okay. But she would be proud of me, getting this job.” An inappropriate grin spread across her painted face.
“This is something that I’ve trained for my whole life.”
Journal entry number 164
Sunday, May 11, 1947
Not sure what is going on. Grant Forrester, our newest Jumper, is missing, along with his clothes and a few other personal effects.
I’m not sure how to handle this. None of us are.
CHAPTER 28
Monday, August 13th, 1956 4:52 p.m.
Ross had always hated Mondays as far back as he cared to remember. He despised them long before he transitioned to the CIA from the OSS nearly ten years ago. Some people hated them because each Monday represented undeniable evidence that the weekend was over. To add insult to injury, Monday was also, statistically, the furthest point possible from the next weekend.
But that was not why Howard Ross detested Mondays.
Being a project chief in the most sensitive CIA program ever developed, rendered the concept of a weekend meaningless for all intents and purposes.
Intelligence and espionage did not differentiate or cater to any particular twenty-four hour period, regardless of where it fell on a calendar. In fact, Saturdays and Sundays only varied from the other five days in terms of the sheer volume of meetings. The so-called “weekend” had statistically 18% less of those unpleasant bureaucratic encounters.
But all of this was not why CIA Project SATURN Chief Howard Ross hated Mondays, per se. The first day of the work week represented something far more humiliating and frustrating for the double-decade intelligence veteran. Monday represented his weekly progress update phone call with Allen Dulles, Director of Central Intelligence. Every Monday at 4:30 p.m. Dulles called—in sickness or in health, rain or shine, progress or no progress. And for the last few years, it had been no progress.
Recently, after one too many whiskey shots, Ross had confided to his second-in-command that he had personally dubbed them his PLOP Calls. “Pitiful Lack of Progress Calls,” he moaned, and then desensitized his frustration with another shot or two.
In the early days of the program, when he answered to Director Hillenkoetter, he almost looked forward to the calls. But that all seemed like another world and another time.
In many ways, it was another world with the arrival of the Cold War and the emergence of the Red Threat. But in many more ways, it all remained the same. Some within the agency had observed that we merely traded things. We traded symbols of hate: from the Swastika to the Hammer and Sickle; we exchanged the German death camps for the Soviet gulags; Fascism for Communism; and the SS for the KGB. We still fought a relentless enemy. He was just a few time zones further east, and yet in many respects, a lot closer to home.
But Ross wasn’t complaining. He knew that vicious enemies abroad equaled job security in the intelligence business at home. Despite his many personal flaws, including an expanding ego, and his willingness to ignore due process from time to time, Ross’ heart was in the right place…most days.
He harbored no illusions about the threat of nuclear weapons combined with an aggressive, Marxist political ideology willing to use them. He fully intended to use whatever leverage was necessary to gain a strategic advantage for the home team. That driving factor alone made it an easy decision to head up Project SATURN back in 1947, though he had set his sights higher and then been shot down time and time again.
He had witnessed and participated in the meteoric rise and lamentable phasing out of many agency initiatives from Operation Paperclip at the OSS to Project Phoenix to Bluebird and more recently, MKULTRA.
But the time would surely come, he thought on many occasions, when the Western intelligence community would all respect and revere the name of Howard Ross. Project SATURN was his ticket to the big show, and come hell or high water, he was cashing that ticket in.
He stared at the secure phone on his desk. Just minutes ago he was condemning himself by his own admission, confessing apparent incompetency. With phrases consisting of “not at this time, sir,” or “not yet, Mr. Director,” or “still eluding us, sir,” he had reinforced the growing notion that the name of Howard Ross would be relegated to the dustbin of covert history.
The thought was intolerable, that without real progress in the very near future, he would be completely forgotten as the failed director of a failed division that didn’t even officially exist. A nobody within a non-agency that achieved no results. He stored a small bottle of whiskey in his briefcase to help celebrate such joyful predictions.
Today was a day to reach into the briefcase.
He had scarcely finished his first swallow when a rapid knock at his office door forced him to halt his celebration. He hid the flask. “Come.”
The door opened and his right-hand man rushed in toting a small briefcase. Ross had always said that Neal Schaeffer should have been the quintessential poster boy for West Point. Always smartly and immaculately dressed down to the cufflinks, perfectly shaven, with not a hair out of place. Even his movements and overall rhythm were impressive by-products of years of military precision.
Today was no exception.
Schaeffer spun about, shut the door with care, and eased into a chair in front of his boss’ desk. Ross recovered the whiskey, took a quick hit, and locked it away. “I really need some good news, Neal.”
Schaeffer leaned forward. “How was Director Dulles today?”
The Chief leaned back and stared through the dusty window blinds. There wasn’t much to see except for miles of desert, a few buildings, and the dark, sleek form of a U-2 Reconnaissance aircraft in refuel.
To Ross, those planes represented one of his few major accomplishments at Groom Lake. Under the public guise of high-altitude weather research, and the covert cover of Soviet nuclear analysis, the U-2 fleet had, in truth, been primarily commissioned to study the status of Russian time travel research.
The program was a rare if not unique joint effort between the Air Force and the CIA, but Howard still claimed full credit. Ross knew, however, that his limited credit would gradually evaporate over time.
“Well Neal, to be honest, I would say I’ve go
t less than ten months to produce a living, breathing time traveler, or I might be out on Dreamland tarmac pumping Dragon Lady gas in the balmy 120 degree heat of a delightful Nevada summer. And working for tips.” He paused. “That’s how my call with the Director went.”
Ross glanced over at Neal and studied him. Something was up. “We work in intelligence, Agent Schaeffer. You know that it’s officially a crying shame when a subordinate knows more than their boss. Spill it.”
Neal reached beside his chair and retrieved a compact, black briefcase. He slid the unmarked box across the Chief’s desk. He stared at Ross like a boy on Christmas morning waiting for his parent to open his gift.
Ross squinted and examined it from all sides. “I’m not sure I like the expression on your face, Schaeffer.” He even looked at the bottom of it. “This case could contain a directed explosive device.” Ross grinned at Neal. “You would stand a lot to gain if I were to have an unfortunate accident.”
Neal’s grin transformed into a poker face. Ross started to slide the briefcase back. “I could make you open it,” he said.
Schaeffer didn’t flinch, and Ross pulled it towards himself once again. “But…where’s the fun in that?” The CIA Chief looked up at him a final time. “What is it?”
“FBI field office in Chicago picked this up less than forty-eight hours ago,” Neal announced. Ross wasn’t impressed. He had always considered the FBI as a nuisance to be tolerated rather than a valuable agency to exchange information with.
Neal released the tiniest of grins. “Trust me, when you see what’s inside, you just might want to call Dulles back.”
“That’ll be the day.”
“Today will be that day. Trust me. You and I both know that Director Dulles favors tangible, human intelligence over technology any given day.”
Ross grumbled. “It’s a constant battle.”
“Well, that briefcase is right up his alley. It’s a game changer.”
Ross peered up at him. Neal had never been prone to fish stories, but for a bureaucrat like Ross, exaggeration and hype were the regular currency of the agency. Cold War intelligence briefings were usually long on sizzle and short on steak.
Ross popped the double releases and lifted the lid. Inside was a small, brown leather wallet. He glanced at Neal who was nodding subtly, hands on his chin.
“So, has Project SATURN stooped to pick-pocketing now, Agent Schaeffer?”
Neal didn’t respond to the dig.
Ross opened his desk drawer and started to don a thin pair of gloves. “No need, Chief,” Neal observed, “it’s already been dusted.”
Ross reached in delicately and grabbed the supposed game changer. He spread it open, and slid out an unusual, thick plastic card. He turned his desk lamp on and tilted it under the light. His eyes grew wider as he scanned the surface. Ross flipped the card over and then back to the front again.
Neal circled around behind his excited superior and pointed at the wallet. “There’s more.”
Ross looked up at him, speechless, and then picked through the wallet again. He pulled out a few ten dollar notes and a twenty. He snatched a magnifying glass out of his top drawer and trained it on the bills.
“2011, 2014, 2011, and 2013. Incredible.”
Neal moved the briefcase out of the way as Ross spread out the contents of the billfold in an orderly fashion.
Neal leaned forward. “Money, an insurance card, military ID, some other financial cards and a New York driver’s license dated 2012.”
Ross studied the items, and then scooted back. “Where did you say this was discovered?”
“Chicago. FBI.”
Ross gazed up at the ceiling. Everyone at SATURN knew that look very well. It was always followed by work, and usually lots of it.
“I need a list of every agent that came within fifty feet of this wallet,” Ross demanded. “Contact the Chicago field office, quarantine everyone on that list until we arrive.”
Neal walked back to the front of the desk. “We’re still trying to ascertain exactly who initially turned the wallet in.”
Ross was irritated. “Why don’t we know that already?”
Neal held his hands up. “Hey, Boss, don’t flip your wig—it was given to the Feds by one of the local police precincts.”
Ross jumped up. “I don’t want to hear about one of the local precincts, I want to hear about which one of the local precincts, and then about the actual person who turned it in. We need to debrief every single person in the chain of custody.”
Neal smiled. “Trust me, Chief, I’m on top of it. Have a little confidence in me, please. We’ll have that information by the time our wheels touch down at Glenview Naval Air Station.”
There was a pause as Ross, like a chess master, calculated and coordinated his next half-dozen moves.
Neal started for the door. “I’ll notify the team, and call the hangar to get your plane ready.” He was almost out the door when Ross stopped him.
“Wait.”
Neal grabbed the edge of the heavy door and swiveled back in.
Ross may have been an arrogant, impatient dictator at times, but he was good at what he did. There were several reasons why Hillenkoetter handed him Project SATURN, almost on a silver platter. It was during times like these that subordinates learned much by sitting at the feet of the master.
Ross leaned onto his desk and rubbed his face. “Call Washington. I need to collect a probable family list, in New York state, and Illinois, and in that order.” He picked up the driver’s license. “Get a copy of this signature over to Graphology for analysis. They might be able to give us a general geographic background for our suspect here.”
Neal nodded. “Anything else?”
Ross sat down on the edge of his desk. “Consult with our psyche team in Building C. Let them analyze everything; the wallet, the military ID, his photo, signature, even the money. They should be able to give us a probable baseline personality profile.”
Neal stepped back up to the desk to collect the evidence. “As you wish, Chief.”
Ross paused. “Listen, I know you weren’t there at Roswell, Neal.”
Schaeffer finished putting everything back into the briefcase, and eyed the Chief. “Sir?”
Howard stood and walked around to the front of the desk. “We made a lot of mistakes. Granted, the department was young. Days old actually. But, that’s no excuse. We should have located them.”
Neal picked up the briefcase. “Intelligence is an imperfect science, Chief.”
Ross snatched the phone handset and glared at Neal. “I won’t repeat the lapses in judgment we made with Phillip Nelson. I can guarandamntee you that. Dismissed.”
Neal exited and shut the door behind him while his boss dialed. Ross glanced out the window as his face grew a calculated smile that it hadn’t worn in several months.
“Linda, get me Director Dulles.”
CHAPTER 29
Denver's eyes popped open as he convulsed and thrashed about like a startled, disoriented beast. “Jasmine! Jasmine!” he screamed out in helpless terror. His crazed eyes found it difficult to maintain focus as he struggled to understand his situation. “Jasmine!”
What’s wrong with my head? What is going on?
He reached up and pressed around on his face and scalp. Cloth? Bandages?
And then he felt something else.
Pain.
Sharp, shooting pain.
The back of his head was burning like it had been sliced open with a serrated steak knife. His swollen kneecap was still far beyond tender. He rubbed his face. A few more cuts there as well. His vision started to return as Ellen Finegan rushed into the bedroom. She was just a dark moving shape in his confusion. “What is happening, where am I?” he shouted.
Ellen leaned over him and clenched his arms as he fought her. “Denver. Denver! Hey! Shhhh…Look at me! Look...at...me! It’s me, it’s Ellen. Ellen Finegan.”
He calmed down by degrees, but was still dist
racted by pain and unfamiliarity. He yelled out, “Where…where's my daughter?”
Ellen leaned across him to stabilize his rage. “Listen...shhh. Listen to me. You're okay. Thank God, you're okay. I'm here.”
He didn’t find that as comforting as she had probably intended. “Where am I?” he demanded again. “What's going on? What happened?”
A different yet familiar voice boomed through his confusion, “What happened? Death. Death is what happened, Mr. Collins.”
Denver strained to identify the new shadow walking up to him.
That shape, that hat, a policeman?
“Dead, as in doornail,” the male voice declared. The figure pulled up a chair and slid it across the wood floor beside Denver’s bed. “Well, at least, you were dead,” Chief McCloud said. “That is til Nurse Finegan here decided to cheat death ever so slightly in your favor.”
Ellen leaned above Denver’s face and her beautiful red hair framed her relieved smile. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Collins.”
His eyesight was approaching functional again as he surveyed the small, but cozy bedroom. The wind gently kicked some thin, white curtains around a window off to his left. It appeared to be a beautiful day outside, but inside, his throbbing skull and general aches and pains offered a different forecast. He looked straight up at her. “What, uh, happened?”
Ellen touched his hand. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
He closed his eyes. Last thing?
His foggy mind tried to repress the horrific sights and sounds of Jasmine, the lightning, the screaming. He remembered the storm, the park, Jennifer and the Chief! He shunned those images as well.
It must’ve been a dream. A cruel dream.
Ellen traded glances with the Chief as she continued rubbing Denver’s hand. “Don’t you remember anything? Anything at all, Denver?”
McCloud moved closer. “Do you remember the accident in the reactor room?”
Accident! The reactor room accident.
Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series Page 13