Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series

by McWilson, Randy

  A dialog has been initiated with Defense Secretary Lovett concerning a high altitude Soviet nuclear reconnaissance program. My early impressions of these discussions is that there is some resistance within the Pentagon about authorizing the CIA to handle “military matters.” Of course, my interactions did not include our intentions of utilizing TDS Film, which, if implemented, must remain a program within our agency.

  If there is a growing consensus to move forward with this initiative, and the Pentagon asserts control (Air Force), I may be forced to brief Truman, or his successor concerning TDS Film. He can provide an Executive Order securing agency oversight. There may be counter-intelligence value in creating the appearance that the source of this initiative is the White House. Regardless, if authorized, this will be a hellish political battle.

  I am not in the mood for another ulcer.

  END

  PS/DCI

  MEMO July 28, 1952

  SECURITY LEVEL: TOP SECRET

  FOR: Chief Howard D. Ross, Project SATURN

  FROM: General Walter Bedell Smith, Director, Central Intelligence

  SUBJECT: High Altitude Reconnaissance Program

  The creation of a fleet of high altitude reconnaissance aircraft for evaluating the status/progress of the Soviet Temporal Displacement Program has been authorized.

  Under the aegis of Soviet nuclear threat analysis, the Air Force, utilizing Wright Air Development Command (WADC) has been tasked with the development of the aircraft for the program. To minimize the threat of discovery of this initiative, most of the aircraft funding will pass through the agency, shielding the Air Force from a traceable paper trail. Unfortunately, budgets, motivation levels, resources, and timetables have all been drained by the continuing war in Korea.

  Estimates for the modification of existing aircraft or the creation of a new design range from 9 months to 2 years. It appears, Howard, that we must now show the same patience that Moscow demonstrates in its pursuit of our eventual destruction. As you well know, I, unfortunately, have firsthand experience in this assessment of the intractable Communists.

  This initiative has been codenamed: Project AQUATONE. To maintain secrecy and control, I would envision further modification of the airstrips and hangars at Dreamland to accommodate these high altitude aircraft, but it looks like we will have plenty of time for those preparations.

  In addition, since the program will be in concert with the Air Force, a new designation for Dreamland must be inaugurated to protect the integrity of Project SATURN. When referencing all activities related to AQUATONE, use the location designation: Paradise Ranch.

  END

  PS/DCI

  CHAPTER 48

  Frazier killed the headlights the moment they pulled into the uptown alley. Denver noticed that the brilliant harvest moon made headlights unnecessary anyway. His stomach tightened to a painful knot. The thought of being alone with Frazier down a small alley in a town over fifty years from home wasn’t exactly comforting.

  Stay focused on the mission, Collins.

  Denver had made it his life’s goal to avoid getting caught up in any part of anyone’s rumor mill. But, as Normal’s newest Jumper, it seemed everyone was quick to drag him there anyway. These various factions probably saw each arrival as a fresh opportunity to further stack the deck, to build their own club, or maybe to secure yet another vote. There were fascinating and highly speculative tidbits floating around about several of the Jumpers.

  But none juicier than those surrounding Garrett Frazier.

  Not that he didn’t deserve most of the gossip, Denver mused. Garrett’s tactless unsocial skills and violent tendencies provided continual fuel for the eager fires of suspicion.

  He was the sort of character whose actual past may have dwarfed the monster quickened by malicious mouths. Three days ago, Ellen confided to Denver that it was entirely probable that Frazier had jumped from prison. The thought had never even occurred to Denver that someone might have actually been glad to have jumped.

  To a hopeless, incarcerated felon, a temporal rift could be the ultimate prison break—not only freedom gained, but a clean slate to boot.

  He glanced over at Garrett’s distinctive features, etched by the intense but colorless light as they closed in on the rear of the Journal. Garrett definitely fit the physical profile, but Denver had served with dozens of guys who were bigger, looked meaner, and yet whose only crime was perhaps stealing a girl’s heart.

  Denver struggled to keep those suspicions at bay, but every time Garrett opened his mouth, he seemed determined to service the stereotype.

  They rolled to a stop directly behind the back door to the newspaper office. Once the engine died, it was unnaturally quiet and Denver was pretty sure he could hear his own throbbing heartbeat.

  Calm down, Collins. Come on, the chief of police set you up to do this! What’s the worst thing that could happen?

  Garrett cracked his door and slid out, slipping on a pair of black gloves to complete his dark outfit. He reached into the backseat and snatched a bag of tools and looked over at his nervous accomplice. “Ready, Collins?”

  Denver was honest. “Nope, but let’s get this over with.”

  They made the short trek to the back entrance without making any more sound than a few soft footfalls. Denver played the lookout while Garrett made quick work of the door. He glanced up at Denver, who made a final survey of the situation. He nodded as Frazier then shoved a small pry bar into the soft wood frame. One firm push and it was all over.

  Garrett made it look all too easy, and disturbingly—all too familiar.

  They popped their flashlights on as they eased in and Denver shut the door gingerly behind them. Garrett paused. “There are blinds on the front windows—kill your light and go shut ‘em.”

  Denver went dark and dutifully headed up the narrow hall towards the foyer. It reminded him of countless late night missions in Afghanistan—only this time he was without the aid of monochrome night vision headgear and he was without the threat of potential death. The moonlight pouring in through the front glass provided all the illumination he needed. He stayed low and gazed out into the uneventful downtown area.

  Nice and quiet. Let’s keep it that way.

  The reluctant thief moved sideways and grabbed the cord to the left window. With a small tug he first released and then gradually dropped the blinds. He repeated the process twice more, and retreated to find Frazier.

  Denver spotted a dancing pool of light in Betty’s office and crept up behind Garrett. “Done,” he reported.

  Frazier spoke without interrupting his own search. “Good. Look behind the front counter for the cash drawer, and I'll locate the safe. Once we find what we need, we can trash the place a bit.”

  Denver nodded under the cover of darkness and stole his way back towards the foyer for his second objective. He crouched behind the counter and flicked his light on, scanning the loosely organized shelves.

  Cash box. Where are you?

  He noticed a stack of receipts and examined them, more or less.

  Must be close.

  He moved another stack of papers and an old, wooden box with a small lock came into view.

  Bingo.

  He slid the dictionary-sized container across the shelf-paper and relocated it on the floor directly in front of him. Seconds later the thin metal clasp was no match for a small pry bar and the lid popped loose. As Denver lifted it he was greeted by neat little rows of ones, several fives, and a couple of tens, plus scores of coins.

  Just over the wall to Denver’s left, Frazier’s prize—on the other hand—would not give itself up quite so easily. He searched all of the filing cabinet drawers, moved all of the furniture, and scanned under the big desk.

  He stood and aimed his flashlight at the wall behind her office chair. A large painting came into view and he moved closer. He placed the flashlight on the desk and lifted the bottom edge of the frame, sliding his free hand along wall behind it.

&n
bsp; He retrieved the light and panned it off to his right. Another wall, more artwork. He stepped up to it and lifted the edge, shining the narrow beam into the gap. Something glimmered and Garrett lifted the frame off its hooks. He couldn’t help but smile as the wall safe became exposed.

  “Well, hello there, beautiful.”

  He lowered the painting off to his left, and fetched a medium sized pry bar. Starting in the corners, he began to dig several holes in the plaster around the perimeter. He grabbed a larger bar, and shoved it in a hole below, rocking it up and down, seeking to loosen his prize.

  Denver returned triumphantly with the cash box and displayed the contents. “Extra. Extra. Spend all about it.”

  Frazier glanced down as a little sweat fell. “Sweet. Now, set that down, and gimme a hand. Pry the other side.”

  Denver obeyed and grabbed his own bar, sliding it into another gap. He began applying pressure as Frazier wooed the metal box from the tight cubby hole. With some reluctance the safe finally surrendered in a waterfall of plaster and dust. The two men guided the surprisingly heavy, reinforced enclosure down to the floor. Garrett paused and studied it for a few seconds, examining it from different angles.

  Denver looked over at him. “Should we try to open it here?”

  “We have to open it here,” Garrett replied. “If the items aren't in here, we have to keep looking. We can’t leave til we got the goods. We get one shot. One.”

  “How do we open it?”

  Frazier laughed. “You don't open a safe, Mr. Collins, you crack it.”

  Fair enough, Denver thought. He whispered, “So crack it—like a crab leg?”

  Garrett reached back into his bag. “Oh, I bet you never used one of these on a crab leg.” He lugged out a bulky power drill and handed the cord to Denver. “Plug it in over there.”

  Frazier motioned over his shoulder. “This will be a bit noisy. Keep a lookout at the front window.”

  Denver snuck away as Garrett dug a small cloth sheet out of his satchel and spread it out. With considerable difficulty, he lifted and set the safe dead center on the cloth, face up. He looked around and borrowed a small pillow from a nearby chair. Frazier examined the locking mechanism for a moment, and then positioned the drill bit precisely. He held the pillow over the drill and pulled the trigger.

  Although he knew it would come, Denver still jumped when the drill began its unnerving screech. It was still quite loud, even though muffled by the pillow. He turned back toward the window and peered along the empty street through the blinds.

  The drilling stopped. Frazier called out in a loud whisper. “Still clear?”

  “Yeah, yeah...all clear,” came the reply.

  The violent drilling started up again with a vengeance. Ten seconds later it stopped again.

  Denver called out. “Everything okay?”

  The reply was calm and cool. “Perfect. Starting hole number two. Still clear?”

  “Clear.”

  Frazier shoved the pillow down and grabbed the trigger, leaning his considerable weight into the process. The bit and the safe protested with unnerving wails amidst the grinding.

  Denver began to smell the hot aftermath and pungent, dark smoke that drifted over the short wall.

  Without warning the drill broke through and Garrett released the trigger. He wiggled it rhythmically to extract the red hot bit, and then laid the drill off to the side. He positioned the flashlight and peered inside the smoking holes. He blew hard. A few tiny, twisted metal shards ricocheted off his face.

  Frazier picked up a stout hammer and a long metal punch. He inserted it into a drill hole and angled the rod with careful precision. He began tapping it several times. There was a pause, he re-angled the rod, and repeated the process.

  Denver took a final survey of the street and stole his way back to watch the much quieter action. He dropped beside Garrett. “What're you doing now?

  Garrett scrunched his face and moved the metal punch. “I'm bending, or at least, attempting to bend the cams out of the way to release the bolt.”

  Denver was fascinated. “How do you know what to do? And what tools to bring? Was it Doc, or the Chief?”

  Frazier didn’t even miss a beat. “Life, Mr. Collins. Life taught me. Hold these.” He transferred the punch and hammer as he bent over and investigated his handiwork. Denver looked down at the cloth spread across the floor.

  “What’s up with the bed sheet?” he asked. “Gonna take a nap?”

  Frazier retrieved his tools again as Denver pointed his own flashlight upon the work area. “The sheet,” Garrett began, “collects and holds the metal shavings from the drilling. If we did this on the bare floor—”

  “We would leave evidence that someone drilled the safe.”

  “Correct, Mr. Collins.” He finally looked up at Denver. “Regular thieves would've just yanked the damn safe and opened it somewhere else, to save time.”

  Denver paused for a few thoughtful moments, having discovered the wisdom of the plan. “But if the thieves opened it here, that would mean they were probably looking for something in particular, instead of a generic robbery. Brilliant, absolutely brilliant, Frazier.”

  Garrett leaned in and strained to see in the darkness. “Hold your applause til after we have the items, Mr. Collins. More light.”

  Frazier raised the punch again and struck it a few more times. He discarded the tools and clutched the release handle on the safe door. He worked it back and forth with some restraint, until something popped deep inside.

  Denver glanced up. “That sounded promising.”

  “Well,” Garrett grinned, “we're either about to cross the finish line...”

  “Or return to the starting blocks,” Denver added. “Will it open?”

  Frazier twisted the handle and tugged. He looked up. “It will.” Together they pivoted the safe down into a normal, upright position.

  Denver apologized. “Well, sorry, we both know the rules, Mr. 1974. The Second Accord must be honored.”

  Frazier growled as he stood. ”Look, I don’t need to be schooled, especially by you.” He turned around and looked back over his shoulder. “And if I leave the room, it’s because I’m choosing to leave.” He plodded off. “I’ve never been a big fan of rules.”

  Really Garrett? I never would’ve guessed.

  Denver thought about his orders as he watched Frazier disappear around the corner. Doc, Shep, and the Chief had unanimously agreed. As the most senior Trailer—so to speak—they decreed that Denver alone should look at Betty’s items.

  No one knew for sure what type of futuristic items she had found. They argued that even simple knowledge of advanced technology to the wrong person could jeopardize their future in any one of several complex and unforeseeable ways.

  The safe door swung open easily enough, and he inserted his hand into the dark chasm. He smiled and his heart raced somewhat as he pulled back a small wooden box, and set it on top of the iron chest. He double checked for anything else he might have missed.

  Nothing.

  Denver wasn’t quite sure if he subscribed to their gloom and doom forecast about the newspaper editor’s little collection—though he would never verbally admit it.

  Not yet, at least.

  The idea that a tiny event could ripple outward and replace aspects of the future was not even at the level of a theory in his own deliberations at this point.

  But the others believed it, or, at the very least feared it. Denver had been trying to be a model Jumper. He had memorized the Four Accords. He probably could have written a one-page paper about each of them, but his current perspective was strangely not in accord with the Accords.

  He was yet in the early stages of survival mode, only a smidge past denial mode. Many of the salient points of being a good citizen of the Jumper community were lost on a hopelessly out of place man seeking to find his place.

  He glanced down.

  This ain’t Pandora’s Box, guys, come on.

 
Still, a burning knot grew in the pit of his stomach and a certain strange apprehension built up inside the skeptical thief. Denver spun the box about on the floor and toyed with the token lock for a few seconds. He grabbed a small tool and snapped the lid open without much trouble.

  He raised the cover and bathed the interior in a pool of light.

  Nice collection. A digital watch with a black plastic band, shiny red flip phone…battery’s dead, go figure…a thumb drive, a small flashlight, and a five dollar bill.

  Denver picked up the cash and looked at the date, 2013. He remembered his first diner visit, and looked at all four corners—one was almost completely torn off.

  That’s gotta be my money. But how did the newspaper editor get it?

  The temptation crossed his mind of simply removing the offensive money from the box. A flood of rationalizations broke over him. No one would know. Plus, he was already in enough hot water with the powers that be regarding his lost wallet.

  He started to put it in his pocket, when Garrett’s irritated voice from the hallway broke the silence. “You done yet?”

  Denver reconsidered his little cover-up and shoved the money back into the box and closed the lid. He deposited it all back into the safe. “All clear!”

  ____________________________________

  Ike Sanders was accustomed to rising before the chickens, but half past one in the morning was too darn early, even for him. A “sorry to wake you” phone call from his brother—who was in the middle of a barnyard emergency—prompted the impromptu, red-eye express through Normal.

  Ike was always aggravated that the best path with the least amount of miles, also entailed the most amount of traffic signs. And, of course, right through the center of town.

  But at this ungodly hour, he considered stop signs as little more than scarlet and white landmarks (actually, a few of them were still yellow and black, but those were outside the city limits). Ike rolled past them, confident that the Chief and Officer Billy were exactly where he should be right now.