Paradigm Rift: Book One of the Back to Normal Series (22 page)

Thursday, Feb. 9, 1950

Ahead of schedule and better than expected! The contractor “turned over the keys” to the factory today. The “Nelson Manufacturing” sign should arrive early next week to finish it off and make it official. Shep has ordered several pallets of parts, supplies, and raw materials in conjunction with Ritenour’s guidance, and nearly all of the machinery has been ordered, some of it has already arrived and has remained crated.

We should be building residential windows within the next few weeks. Leah and Martha are busy setting up the office and accounting and a little decor. Stonecroft and X continue to draw up the plans for the underground research lab. I have been toying around with a pet name for it. I was thinking about calling it: The Basement (I don’t have a future in Marketing or Advertising).

There is such optimism in the air. It has been a long time coming. With a more secure temporal studies lab hidden from prying eyes fifteen feet underground, we can put our efforts into high gear. I really feel like we are on the edge of a major breakthrough.

Once again we all celebrated at the corner of Main and
West Virginia.

His first public test as a man from 1956 was over.

Denver was privately relieved.

As he headed out the diner door, there was little doubt in his mind that he had failed miserably. He hurried out onto the sidewalk, and politely held the door wide for an elderly lady with a young, blond-haired boy in tow. The well-behaved youngster, not quite half Denver’s height, looked up into his eyes.

Right then—something snapped.

A swirling array of sounds, sights, and emotions shredded Denver’s mind like so much shrapnel. It was pain, and screaming, a child, voices, confusion. His hand slipped off the metal frame of the door, and he stumbled towards Leah’s car, grasping the bridge of his nose. He blinked repeatedly, leaning off-balance like a doomed ship and growing nauseous.

Several irregular steps later, the bizarre episode subsided, at least the overwhelming intensity of it all. He halted, took a slow breath, and looked back at the diner.

What is going on?

Leah intercepted him. “Hey, why didn't you tell us?” she demanded.

He still hadn’t cleared his mind to the level of a meaningful conversation. “Uh, tell, you...what?”

“Why didn’t you tell us, about the fact you had
contact
with that waitress back there last week! And lemme guess. You paid with your money.
Future
money?”

He spun about, a bit lost, but recovering. “I'm, I'm sorry...it was before I, uh, I knew, about all of this.” He lurched over. The vomit was rising much quicker than good responses. He swallowed hard.

Leah bent towards his face, which had lost all of its color. “Hey, whoa, sorry. Listen...you okay?”

“Well...yeah, I think so.” Another swallow. “I, uh, just had a little episode back there. I'm fine. It's nothing. Really.”

“Episode? What do you mean?”

He raised back up, squinting into the sun, and rubbed his face. This was going to be hard to explain. “I, um, have these—flashes,” he said.

“Flashes?”

“Or…quick thoughts, like overpowering images will shoot through my mind. Usually violent. Seem to involve children. Sometimes night terrors, too.”

Leah guided him towards some shade. “Are they random, or do they have triggers?”

“Dunno. I’ve had it for a long time. Unpredictable.”

She put her hand on his shoulder. “I’m not a doctor, but you told me that you saw fighting overseas. A lot of violence. These flashbacks, you know, lots of guys that came home from Vietnam had them—especially soldiers that witnessed children being harmed. The stories I’ve heard are enough to give me nightmares.” She locked empathetic eyes with him. “Maybe the painful memories you’ve tried to repress are kinda leaking through.”

He nodded. “Yeah, you’re probably right. That must be it.”

It wasn't it.

He lied.

He didn’t really intend to. It just jumped out of his mouth like a verbal reflex. It wasn’t true, but at worst, it was probably a third degree falsehood.

He didn’t tell her that he had been crippled by these disturbing experiences long before the war in Afghanistan, long before the attacks of September eleventh, and long before he even got his driver’s permit.

But Leah got it half right.

Denver knew that this wasn’t leftover trauma from the war somehow percolating up into his consciousness. No, this was something far earlier, and something far more personal. He suspected that these paralyzing incursions were the echoes of experiences that were refusing to be shackled any longer.

And they were getting worse.

_____________________________________

As they strolled back to the car, Katie’s eyes may have escaped their notice through the dusty window, but the entire fiasco did not escape hers. Katie watched the two patrons interact at the car then she popped open a small pad and scribbled down notes. Her pulse quickened and a fascinating new excitement rose within her.

She strained to read the woman’s license plate. For an instant Katie imagined herself as an investigative journalist: lurking, listening, learning.

She had already worked out a rudimentary headline—MYSTERY MONEY MAN INVADES NORMAL.

She leaned against the cool glass, reveling in her new fantasy job. But fantasies are impossible to sustain.

A customer called out. She pursed her lips and flipped the pad shut. Katie hollered over her shoulder, “Coming.”

Back to reality, girl.

SECURITY LEVEL: TOP SECRET

FOR: Roscoe H. Hillenkoetter, Director, Central Intelligence

Dr. Willard Machle, Asst. Director, OSI

FROM: Chief Howard D. Ross, Project SATURN

SUBJECT: Project BLUEBIRD

Dr. Edwards reports that Subproject 1 studies by the Medical Intelligence Unit at Edgewood Arsenal regarding chemical psychological enhancers has been completed. Initial results are attached.

I would offer that the value of this technique for information extraction from time displaced subjects cannot be overestimated.

Requesting permission to expand BLUEBIRD significantly per Subproject 2 & 3 objectives. Subproject 2, which primarily focuses on memory annulment/ replacement, is essential for final debriefing of staff involved with interrogation of time displaced subjects.

Please advise.

END

DCI/PS

Tuesday, March 21, 1950

Spring is here and the dirt work is underway for The Basement (our “bomb shelter”). The plans are for 3 underground rooms: a conference room, a power room, and a time-displacement chamber (largest room). Oh, and a bathroom, so really four rooms. We are letting the contractor do almost all of the concrete work, but Doc Stonecroft said that we will need to finish the “time” chamber ourselves. Something about the walls need to be curved for wave reflection/refraction or something.

I’ll just be glad to get all that equipment out of my garage and barn. An empty garage will be a sign of progress. A few weeks ago the Soviets finally publicly admitted that they have successfully detonated an atomic bomb. Now the Cold War will really begin to heat up.

I remember watching those black and white atomic safety videos and reading about the nuclear-paranoia of the early 1950s. But reading about it and living it are two completely different things. There are times you just want to grab people by the shoulders and tell them it’s gonna be okay, especially the children. They are so afraid.

But you can’t. Fear shaped an entire generation, and that generation shaped our future.

Struggling with a loose socket on a stubborn nut was not exactly Ellen Finegan’s first choice this morning, but Doc and Papineau rarely asked her to do much physical work. So either out of respect for them, or pride for herself, she pushed forward with minimal success.

She stretched back and wiped her damp forehead. It was during times like these that she really missed her dad. Not that she had ever really spent much time with Lieutenant Commander George Wyatt Finegan, though.

The double burden of being a Navy brat and an officer’s kid forced a childhood and lifestyle upon Ellen Marie (that’s what he called her) that no
normal
kid would have ever chosen. In the military, success is nearly always linked to sacrifice, and the family is typically the first thing offered on the proverbial altar.

The Finegan’s certainly fared no better.

In any respect, Ellen and her mother Marie, were the real Finegan family. George Wyatt (as her mother called him) was more miss than hit, a familiar face at all things Navy, but typically a stranger in his own home.

When she was small, Ellen just imagined that all daddies were like hers. As they moved throughout the world, from promotion to promotion and base to base, she never really had time to get to know very many other kids, let alone time to gauge the patterns of normal fatherhood.

The uncharacteristic nature of her experience didn’t really strike close to home until her freshman year in high school. George Wyatt had been reassigned to the U.S. Naval Air Station in Kodiak, Alaska, in early 1950. Tensions in the Pacific theater rose on a hair-trigger as the Korean Peninsula became the center of global political and military maneuvering.

Alaska, still nearly ten years from being a U.S. State, was certainly no paradise on Earth in 1950, but his latest assignment brought something new to the Finegan household:
off-base
housing. Ellen Marie had always existed within the rigid confines of a military residence, perpetually surrounded by other transient brats.

But Alaska had more to offer her than merely a long winter and weeks without normal daylight. The disconnected Alaskan territory allowed Ellen to connect with real kids: regular kids with real and regular dads.

High school was a strangely bittersweet period for Ellen. It was the first time in her life she ever had a best friend who was really
there
for her, yet also the dawn of the realization that her own father wasn’t.

She still loved him though.

Deeply.

In Ellen’s mind she fancied herself as a daddy’s girl, though she inwardly took the blame for his sporadic influence. There was certainly no way to avoid the hidden suspicion that a big, important Navy man like Lieutenant Commander George Wyatt Finegan would have naturally wanted a
son
.

Maybe Ellen was supposed to be an
Allen
? She had always wondered that, and the fact that her grandpa’s name was Allen, only fueled that painful fear.

In the irregular times that her father was home for more than three hours, she smothered him, showcasing her accomplishments, begging for validation. It was a trend she would never break free of, throwing herself at powerful men (or any man), seeking affection at any cost. It made for relationships that took off like a rocket, and went down like the Titanic. Two failed marriages in less than seven years proved it all too well. With George Wyatt’s ignoble example, she didn’t expect much from a man, and she usually got it.

But today, regardless if she was supposed to be an Allen or an Ellen—regardless if he wasn’t there in the past—
today
, Ellen Marie wanted Daddy to help her with this jammed little bolt! She gave it another shot, and it mocked her once again.

Of course, not that he even
could
be there.

It had been just over three years since Ellen Marie had lost her part-time father. A failed take-off in a
Fairchild R4Q-2 Packet
on July 17, 1953, had violently extinguished the lives of over twenty brave men, including George Wyatt Finegan.

The father who was rarely there would now never be there again.

Being a time Jumper meant a lot of different things to different people, but for Ellen it meant losing her father
twice
. When she first jumped in 1951, she begged Phil Nelson for just one more chance to go and spend even five minutes with her father before the fatal plane crash.

Just five minutes.

Intellectually she assented that he was absolutely right in denying her request, but there were moments she secretly hated him for it. Over time, though, she grew to respect his tougher decisions. As he did for others, the larger than life Phil Nelson became a second father to her. Little did she know that she would tragically lose both her surrogate and biological father in the same year, in the same month, and only a few short weeks apart.

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.”