36: A Novel (14 page)

She turned in her chair and gestured at the screen.

“This photo was taken by a merchant seaman sailing from New York just over 18 months ago.  The bomb had been purchased from a Pakistani General by a radical Islam terror group and smuggled into the US over the Mexican border.  Once in the country, they just drove to Manhattan and detonated it as soon as they arrived.

“Two levels below us are over a hundred FBI and NSA analysts whose only job is to wait for an event, such as this one.  As soon as something occurs, they go into action.  Looking for an
event point
.  An event point is what we call a point in time within our thirty-six-hour window where we have an opportunity to interdict the perpetrator or perpetrators and stop them.

“They are tapped into everything and can monitor the investigation in real time.  There are also another two hundred, specially trained FBI agents in the field, spread across North America.  Within minutes of an event, they are in contact with the analysts, aiding in the collection of information. 

“Together, they piece together a puzzle and determine
where
and
when
to send the asset.  Once we have that information, the asset is sent back.”

“To stop the attack?”  I asked, starting to get the picture.

“By any means necessary,” Patterson chimed in.

Dr. Anholts gave him an irritated look that he didn’t see before continuing. 

“Once the asset successfully completes their mission, time changes.  The attack doesn’t occur.  People, other than possibly the perpetrators, don’t die.  Job complete, the asset simply waits for time to expire and is brought back to
real time
, where things have been changed back to the way they were.  Ready for their next assignment.”

“You want me to be one of your assets.”

Things had finally clicked for me.  The pieces were falling into place, painting a picture I wasn’t at all sure I liked.

“Correct, Mr. Whitman,” Patterson said, turning his full attention on me.

“What if I decline?”  I asked, not really sure what I felt.

“Well then, that would be another bad decision on your part,” Patterson said, glaring at me.  “You see; you don’t really exist.  The State of Arizona executed you for capital crimes.  And Joseph Ryan Whitman is alive and well, driving a truck from Dallas to Miami at the moment.  Who are you, other than a dead man?”

The room went completely silent when he spoke.  Not only could you have heard a pin drop, you could have heard it whish through the air as it fell.  I stared at him in shock, my mouth set in a grim, hard line.  Even though it only seemed like yesterday that I had been an inmate on death row, my reprieve had made me want to live again.

Anger coursed through me, threatening to turn into full blown rage.  The kind of rage that had kept me mostly safe while I was in the general population of murderers, rapists and arsonists.  It was only through a supreme effort of will that I kept my ass in the chair and didn’t leap across the table and throttle the son of a bitch.

“I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, Mr. Whitman,” Patterson said, appearing to be anything but sorry.  “But there is really no other option at this point.”

“So I work for you, or you kill me.  Is that it?”

“Succinctly put,” he nodded as he answered.

“What’s to prevent me from taking off as soon as you send me back?”

“Weren’t you listening to Dr. Anholts?  You can only go back for a maximum of thirty-six hours.  When that time expires, you are returned to us.  There’s nothing you can do to stop that from happening.  Nowhere you can go or hide.  The Universe doesn’t care.  It will find you, and when you come back we’ll know if you’ve done your job or not.”

I stared at him, seriously considering going for his throat.  One hard blow, in the right spot, and his larynx would collapse.  Maybe they could get him to medical care in time to prevent his death.  Maybe not.  But thoughts of what would happen to me tempered my desire to see him writhing on the floor as he died.

Calming my murderous impulses, I thought about what he was saying.  What he was offering.  What was he offering?  Other than being rescued from the executioner’s needle, what did I get out of this?

“What’s in it for me?”  I asked, slowly sitting back in my chair.

For the first time I noticed Agent Johnson sitting next to me.  His hand was balled into a fist the size of a picnic ham.  I realized that he was prepared to stop me if I had tried to attack Patterson.  Looking at him, I grinned and cut my eyes down to his hand.  He smiled back and nodded, letting me know I’d guessed correctly.

“Life, Mr. Whitman.  That’s what is in it for you.  And I’ve already delivered on my end of that bargain.  Without the Athena Project, you would be six feet under at the moment.”

“So… what?  I just hang around and wait for something to happen, go take care of it and come back to wait for the next time I’m needed?”

“That’s pretty much it,” he said.  “But you won’t be bored.  Our assets need to be able to deal with any situation that arises.  Be prepared for any eventuality.  That’s where Agent Johnson comes in.  He’s not your babysitter.  He’s your team leader, and there’s a rather large team ready to start working with you.

“You will be taught everything we can think of to make sure you are the most prepared and lethal individual in any situation.  Language skills.  Science and mathematics.  Religion.  Combat training.  Everything you need to survive and successfully complete your missions, we will give you. 

“And it is Agent Johnson’s job to ensure you are ready.  He will oversee the team that trains you.  And he reports to me.  If you are unable, or unwilling, to do what needs to be done, he will let me know.  You do not want to find out what will happen if that is the case.”

I stared at him for a long moment.  Thinking.  Evaluating my options.  Well, trying to evaluate my options.  It’s hard to evaluate something that doesn’t exist.  Then I flashed back to a conversation I’d had with Monica.  She’d told me that we always have choices, just that some of them weren’t the ones we wanted.  As far as I could see, I had two.  Play ball, or die.  I didn’t doubt Patterson’s sincerity for an instant.

“I don’t have much choice, do I?”

“No, Mr. Whitman.  You do not.  So are you ready to commit?”

“Like I said, I don’t have much choice.  I’m yours.”

I didn’t voice the second part of that, rather kept “until I find a way out”, silent in my mind.

“Very good, Mr. Whitman.  Welcome to Project Athena.  I expect great things from you.”

Patterson stood and strode out of the room without another word.  I sat there staring at the door for several moments after he left.

“You OK?”  Johnson asked me in his rumbling baritone.

“No,” I said.  “But I don’t seem to have much choice about that either.”

18

We took a break at that point.  Dr. Anholts scurried out of the room ahead of us.  Johnson escorted me to the open platform so we could get some fresh air.  It was a partly cloudy day with a gentle breeze blowing across the deck.  The sea was a beautiful shade of blue, gentle swells marching across the surface towards some distant shoreline.

Johnson pulled a cigar and butane torch from his jacket, a moment later the stogie smoldering to his satisfaction.

“Want one?”  He offered, blowing out a thick plume of smoke.

I shook my head.  Thankfully, I’d never picked up the disgusting habit.  Moving upwind, I turned to face him.

“He’s serious, isn’t he?  I asked, meaning Patterson.

“Very,” he nodded.  “And don’t think I’m not on board.”

I was surprised at that.  Here was an FBI agent telling me that he would condone my murder if I didn’t do what they wanted.

“You seem surprised,” he said after watching my face.

“This is so fucking surreal.  Work for us or die.  What are you guys?  The goddamn Nazis?”

“What we are is a nation at war,” he said, unaffected by my characterization of him and his boss.  “Do you have any idea how many innocent Americans died in the attacks that Dr. Anholts showed you?”

“No,” I said, not liking that I knew where he was going.

“Almost two million,” he said gravely, puffing on the cigar.  “And if we hadn’t gone back and changed what happened, probably two or three million more would have died a slow and painful death from radiation sickness.

“And we’ve not been successful in every attempt.  A few months ago there was an attack on a ferry boat in Seattle.  Our asset went back, but without much time.  She perished in the attempt to save over 2,000 lives.  This isn’t a perfect world.  If the enemy employs effective compartmentalization and maintains operational security, it’s very difficult to identify an event point.  In the case of the ferry, we didn’t even identify the perpetrator until there was less than an hour of the thirty-six hour window remaining.  Because of that, we failed.

“So, if you ask me if this is fair?  Is it even legal?  To force you to work for us like this?  No, it isn’t.  But it’s the best option we have.  And where would you be if it wasn’t for us?  It’s not like we plucked you out of a normal life with a good job and a loving family.  Said do this or die. 

“We snatched you out of death’s arms.  We’re giving you a second chance.  A chance you didn’t give to Mike Eppers and Ricardo Morales.”

He was referring to the two cops I’d killed.  I had finally learned their names when my case went to trial.

“They didn’t give me a choice,” I protested, getting angry.

“Did you call the FBI when they threatened your brother?  The DEA?  What about the State Police?”

He knew the answer, but wasn’t going to continue until I responded.  I shook my head and looked down at the deck.

“Why not?”

“They didn’t give me…”

“I didn’t ask you what your excuse was.  I asked why you
chose
to not call some authorities who could help.” 

He stared hard at me through a cloud of smoke, his eyes boring into mine when I looked up.

“I didn’t think they’d believe me.  Or if they did, there wasn’t time to convince them I was telling the truth before Tim would be killed.”

“You didn’t know that,” he said, more gently.  “You didn’t have anything to base that decision on.  So what happened?  You killed two men and were sentenced to death.  No, they weren’t good men.  But did they deserve to die?  Your choice to try and handle things your way set events in motion that led to their deaths, and you standing here talking to me.”

“And killed my brother,” I said in a quiet voice, breaking eye contact and turning to look at the ocean.

Tim had been killed about the same time I was being arrested for murder.  I’ll never know if this was just random prison violence, or if the cops had an accomplice who carried out their threat to pay off the warden for the hit.

“I’m sorry,” Johnson said, and I believed he sincerely was.

“So.  What now?”  I asked, wiping my eyes and turning to face him.

“Now we finish the briefing with Dr. Anholts, then you have an appointment with the shrink.  After that, school is in session.  It’s time to start teaching you how to survive in the world we’re going to drop you in.”

I nodded and started for the door, pausing when he gently placed his big hand on my arm.

“Look, JR,” he said in a fatherly tone.  “I wasn’t trying to rag on you or make you feel bad.  This was a lesson.  The first of many.  A lesson about choices, and how the ones we make have an impact on everyone else.  Soon, something bad is going to happen and you’re going to be dropped in the middle of it.

“You’ll be on your own, and you’re going to have to make split second decisions.  And they have to be the right decisions, or lots of people will stay dead.  You have to think things through, and you have to learn to do it quickly.  It’s called critical thinking. 

“Evaluate a situation, develop a course of action and predict the consequences.  Then you make your choice, after exploring all of the possible outcomes.  And you have to do it fast, often by the seat of your pants. 

“Not every decision you make will have a positive outcome.  You’re not perfect.  But you have to strive to be.  To think three dimensionally.  Do you understand?”

“No,” I said.

“That’s alright,” he smiled, tossing the cigar over the rail and into the sea.  “We have people that will help you with that, too.”

We stopped in the restroom and five minutes later were back at the conference table.  Dr. Anholts had returned and was furiously typing away on her laptop.  I caught a glimpse of the screen as I walked in.  Row upon row of mathematical formulas.  Shaking my head in amazement that a human could actually comprehend that chicken scratch, I took my seat and waited for her to look up.

“Shall we resume?”  She asked a minute later, closing the computer’s lid. 

Johnson and I both nodded that we were ready.

“I’ve been doing all the talking up until now.  You must have questions, Mr. Whitman.”

I hadn’t consciously thought about it, but my brain had been working on the fantastic things I’d learned while Johnson and I were having our discussion.

“Those pictures you showed me.  They’re actual photos of terrorist attacks that were… what’s the right word?  Undone?”

“We use the term,
redacted
,” she smiled.  “Yes, they are real images.”

“OK.  So, if they’ve been redacted, as you say, how do you have pictures?  You sent someone back and they changed the past by stopping the attacks.  That means the attacks never happened.  If they never happened, how can you have pics?  For that matter, how can you even know about something that never happened?”

I was pleased with myself, thinking I’d caught her in a lie.  Suppressing a smile, I sat back in my chair and waited, expecting her to hesitate and sputter as she tried to answer.

“Excellent question, Mr. Whitman.  You really are very sharp.  To answer it, we cheated.”

“Cheated?  You mean you faked the photos and are lying to me?”

“Not at all,” she said, a note of indignation creeping into her voice when I questioned her integrity.  “Your assumption is spot on.  Not your idea that we are lying to you, but your belief that if something never happened there would be no way for us to know about it, let alone have photographic evidence.