Time Risk: A Time Travel Novel, page 2
Jonathan laid a hand on Rachel’s file while he considered his next words. “Rachel, technology has come a long way, super computers, A.I., A.I. robots, and… not so well known, time travel research. It’s been a secret, of course, at least to the average person.”
Rachel didn’t stir or speak.
“Okay, let me just throw it out there. What many people who are somewhat familiar with time travel would find surprising is that the technologies delivering time travel results today are not based on the popular sciences portrayed in the media and movies. That is, traveling faster than the speed of light, near light speed, or through wormholes.”
Rachel could feel her eyes were about to glaze over. “I wouldn’t know.”
“Stay with me for a minute, Rachel. I think you might find this interesting. What I’m talking about is based upon the lesser-known techniques in spacetime physics of generating fields of closed time-like curves or (CTCs). To put it simply, it is the superluminal propagation of information using quantum tunneling.”
Rachel sat up, uncrossing her arms. “Is that supposed to be simple? I have absolutely no idea what you just said.”
Jonathan raised a placating hand. “Okay, okay. Look, in varying ways, these, well, let’s call them techniques… These techniques, CTCs, allow the transmission of matter, information or living organisms to move backward and forward in time, without the need to make matter move faster than the speed of light.”
Rachel scratched her ear. “Look, I don’t want to be rude, Jonathan, but I didn’t take a physics class in high school or college, and I wouldn’t know a CTC from an M&M. Can we just cut to the chase?”
“Okay, fine, if that’s what you want, then here it is. What if you could go back in time and stop your sister from jogging the day she was abducted? Wouldn’t that be something? Is that simple enough to understand?”
A flare of anger burned Rachel’s chest and rose hot to her face. “Then I’d say bullshit, and you can go to hell.”
Jonathan looked straight at her. “I’ve heard you have a temper, Rachel. I’m sure you know that anger is a weakness, and it’s poison for the body.”
“And so is bullshit. I’ve gone through three interviews, you’ve wasted my time and my money, what little I have of it, and you’re talking to me about what? Time travel? As I said, I was led to believe that I was applying for a security job for a movie star or some bow-down-before-me arrogant alpha male billionaire, who gets his kicks walking around with a not-too-bad-looking ex-homicide detective, who’ll protect him from bad guys and girls.”
Jonathan’s smile caught Rachel off guard. “What are you so angry about, Rachel?”
She glanced away, running a hand through her new haircut, which cost a hundred and twenty bucks, hearing her breath loud in the room. Jonathan is right, she thought. She did need to calm down and stop being so defensive. He was also right that anger is a weakness.
“Never mind, Rachel,” he said softly. “I know you’ve had a difficult year. Among all the other things that happened to you, I know your partner was killed in a drug bust that went wrong. Maybe I know more than you think I do.”
She glared at him, forcing herself to chill out.
“I’ll say this now, and to your face, Rachel. Based on your reactions and your attitude, I will advise my superiors not to hire you for this job. Frankly, you’re too hot-headed and not psychologically right for what we need and what we have in mind. Now, thank you for coming in, and I’m confident I can rely on your complete secrecy that this meeting ever happened.”
He rose, indicating the interview was over.
Rachel didn’t move. She said, “I’m not going until you tell me exactly what the job is that you’ve turned me down for. If I’m going to keep this meeting secret, then I might as well know what the job is so I can keep that a secret, too.”
His mouth twitched. “It doesn’t matter now, Rachel. I do appreciate your coming in and meeting with me, but…”
Rachel cut him off. “Bullshit. Unless you’re prepared to call security and have them throw me out, I’m not leaving until you tell me.”
Jonathan squared his shoulders, his face tight with authority. “You must know there are security cameras everywhere. You must know that this conversation is being watched, and it is being recorded. You must know I don’t have to call security because security is already on its way.”
Rachel leaned forward and made her voice as soft as silk. “Yes, but do you know that I have a button-sized camera hidden in the middle button of my suit, capturing both audio and video? It’s being fed in real time directly to my laptop in my apartment. A girlfriend is watching right now. Watching you get very angry at me.”
Jonathan’s jaw clenched. He blinked fast, and his face colored.
“You said it, Jonathan. Anger is a sign of weakness.” Rachel pitched her voice low. “So, just tell me what the damn job is, and I’m gone.”
At that moment, the door swung open, and entering was a tall man somewhere in his fifties. He bore a striking resemblance to the archetypal portrayal of a United States Senator from classic movies: distinguished, with a crown of salt-and-pepper hair and a sun-kissed complexion; impeccably dressed in a sleek gray suit accented by a blue pocket square and matching tie; and exuding the composed demeanor of a chaplain.
Still standing, Jonathan whirled about and stiffened as Senator Guy approached. In a smooth, warm voice, he smiled at Jonathan and said, “Thank you, Mr. Dekker. You may go now.”
Jonathan didn’t give Rachel a look or a last glance. He retreated like a starting pitcher who had lost his stuff, being sent to the clubhouse by the manager.
When he was gone, Senator Guy approached, standing behind Jonathan’s chair. He took Rachel in with a little lift of his proper chin. She was still seated.
“Hello, Ms. Rachel Hunt. My name is Blake Nordoff. Do you truly have a button camera?”
She grinned. “No, sir. I don’t.”
He smiled. “Then, may I ask, will you agree to having one last interview?”
“With you?”
“No.”
Rachel thought about it. “So, I guess that means I could still get the job?”
“Yes. You will be flown to a secret location to meet your final interviewer.”
“Why the James Bond secret location stuff?”
“Indulge me, Ms. Hunt. It’s my client’s wish.”
“Okay then, can you tell me what the job is?”
“Yes, well, Jonathan was correct about the job relating to time travel. Simply put, Ms. Hunt, if you are selected for this assignment, you will time travel back to 1941, where your objective will be to save the life of an airman who was shot down and killed during the bombing of Pearl Harbor on December 7. You will be paid two million dollars.”
CHAPTER 3
Rachel had never flown in a private jet. She sat back in one of the ten spacious leather seats of the Gulfstream G280, reading about its state-of-the-art entertainment and technology systems. As a solo traveler, she knew her carbon footprint was massive, but she justified it, thinking of herself as a kind of female Neil Armstrong, taking a small step for women and one giant step for womankind. Instead of rocketing off to the moon, as ridiculous as it sounded, she might potentially be hurled back in time to 1941.
If she was chosen for the job, she was going to time travel. Rachel tried not to laugh, but she couldn’t help it. Time travel back to 1941? Were these people crazy? The better question was, was she crazy? Would she be the first? Surely, hopefully, they had sent others. Mr. Blake Nordoff didn’t say. “All your questions will be answered in your next interview,” he’d assured her.
So, whoever she was going to meet, the man or woman must have a lot of power.
While Rachel ate a tasty chicken dinner with new potatoes and Brussel sprouts on real china, delivered by her own personal male flight attendant—not a bad-looking guy—she contemplated the last forty-eight hours.
To say the least, her reality had changed, and maybe it felt a bit unstable. Rachel reasoned that if these people believed in time travel and took all the trouble to interview her four times, and then send her on a private jet to meet some mystery person, then there must be some validity to it.
Blake Nordoff had told her what the job entailed, rationally, with a straight face, as if he was describing the ham and cheese sandwich he’d eaten for lunch: time travel to Pearl Harbor a few days before the Japanese attack on December 7, 1941.
Rachel felt as though she’d tumbled down a flight of stairs or been slapped hard across the face. Was the ground solid under her feet? Was the Earth round? Had she awakened on the wrong side of the universe? Was time travel even possible? That question kept circling, bouncing off the sides of her head.
Back in that conference room, she’d managed to clear her head, and she’d asked Mr. Nordoff, “If time travel is possible, then why not send someone back in time to stop an assassination or a world war? Why send someone back to save only one man?”
Blake Nordoff had answered, “As I said, Ms. Hunt, if you are selected, you’ll learn everything you need to know.”
After more than five hours in the air, the plane touched down at a private airport located within a vast forest, with snow-capped mountains visible in the distance. Judging by the travel duration and the landscape, Rachel speculated that they were in Oregon, Washington State, or somewhere in western Canada.
She left the plane and was hustled into the backseat of a waiting helicopter, the rotor blades already in motion. The copter ascended and went slicing through the late afternoon air. For the next twenty minutes, Rachel had a thrilling aerial adventure, soaring over lakes, winding roads and forests, until they circled an impressive sprawling estate nestled in a forest of trees.
As the helicopter banked left and descended, she caught sight of a breathtaking view: a distant rugged coastline meeting a vast expanse of rolling sea. Rachel leaned back and grabbed a quick breath as they approached the landing pad, her stomach fluttery. The previous night she’d been too restless to sleep more than three hours, getting up at 5 a.m. to catch a private limo to Teterboro Airport in New Jersey.
She exited the helicopter and was greeted by a short, broad, friendly man in a blue chauffeur’s uniform, complete with a hat. After exchanging introductions, he took her suitcase and led her to a black sedan waiting nearby. After he held the back door open for her, Rachel slipped inside onto the soft black leather seat, and then he stowed her suitcase in the trunk. Minutes later, they were underway.
The narrow, single-lane road wound its way past manicured lawns, a fountain-adorned pond, and vast gardens sprawling in every direction. As the road stretched out, a magnificent scene unfolded before them. They passed through an elegant stone and wrought-iron gate and proceeded down an extensive driveway toward the stately manor. It materialized eerily from the lingering fog, partly concealed by towering, age-old firs.
The entire scene felt surreal, like something from a dream or a film, and Rachel was like a kid, the tip of her nose touching the window, her wide eyes taking it all in. The limo pulled into a circular drive and stopped. She gazed at the elaborate entrance way, a picture of old-world opulence, with its stone archway, held aloft by two granite pillars, serving as the entrance way to a six-foot porch with stone walls. At the far end were two grand entrance doors made of massive oak, their wood darkened by time. Brass knockers shaped like lion heads were featured on either side, their eyes glinting back at her.
She swallowed, and when the chauffeur opened her door, she emerged into a cool, cloudy day. At that moment, one of the colossal oak doors swung open, revealing a tall, sophisticated woman in her forties. Her dark hair, styled into a chic shortcut, bore hints of gray highlights, complementing her fitted dark business suit. Her smile was polite yet reserved, her demeanor formal.
“You must be Rachel Hunt. Welcome.”
Rachel smiled. “Yes.”
She extended a hand, and they shook only once. “I am Willa Stevens, Mr. Whitlock’s private secretary,” she said, with a hint of a British accent. “Please come in, Ms. Hunt.”
Rachel noted the name “Mr. Whitlock” and entered a vast foyer—an expanse of polished marble veined with silver. A crystal chandelier hung from a vaulted ceiling, casting prismatic rainbows on the walls, and the air smelled of vanilla polish, pine, and old books. A grandfather clock stood at attention, like a soldier, its pendulum swinging, the “tick-tock” loud in the quiet space. Rachel thought of time, and, again, she wondered what in the hell she’d gotten herself into.
The entire scene gave her the creeps, and she thought, If I disappear, no one will ever know what happened to me.
The door closed behind Rachel, and the sound echoed through the cavernous space like a gunshot fired in a silent forest.
Ms. Stevens indicated left, toward a sweeping staircase. “Your room is on the second floor. I’m sure you must crave rest after your journey. Please follow me.”
Rachel followed her up the plush, burgundy-carpeted staircase that reminded Rachel of the scene in the movie Gone with the Wind, when Rhett Butler sweeps Scarlett O’Hara up into his arms and mounts the stairs, with a lusty intention in his eyes.
As they ascended the stairs, Rachel looked left to see a stained-glass window depicting a scene from what she presumed was local folklore—a siren luring sailors toward jagged rocks. She thought that odd.
At the second-floor landing, they proceeded down a long carpeted hallway, past portraits of stiff-collared, black-suited, stern-faced men, their critical eyes watching her. Rachel was certain they didn’t approve of her intrusion, a former homicide detective who’d grown up in Cleveland, Ohio, in a middle class, three-bedroom house, not far from Bob’s Liquor Store, Wong’s Cleaners, and Town Drugstore.
Willa Stevens opened the door to Rachel’s room and entered. Rachel followed her into a room that stunned her with its opulence and size. There was a grand four-poster queen size bed with silk curtains and stacks of blue silk pillows. The mahogany furniture was old world, including an intricately carved armoire, a desk and chair, and antique brass lamps on the bedside tables. A generous black marble fireplace gleamed with a low fire, and there were two black leather recliners on either side of it. The carpet, a plush Persian rug with black, blue and cream tones, provided a soft landing for her tired feet.
Rachel looked at Ms. Stevens. “It’s beautiful.”
“I trust you will be comfortable here, Ms. Hunt. Dinner will be served promptly at seven. I will arrive to escort you. In the meantime, do you require refreshments?”
Rachel noticed bottled water and glasses on a bedstand. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”
“Baxter, our chauffeur, will arrive shortly with your travel bag. The telephone is over there, and if you require anything at all, please just press six. Someone is available twenty-four hours a day. Do you require anything else, Ms. Hunt?”
“When will I meet… well, I suppose I’m meeting Mr. Whitlock?”
“Yes. Tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.”
After her suitcase was delivered, Rachel craved a shower. The modern en-suite bathroom featured both a clawfoot bathtub and a glassed-in rain shower. There was a wall of mirrors, marble sinks, and shelves stacked with soft, blue and white cotton towels.
While she showered, Rachel tried not to think. The shower stall was spacious, and the warm water was heaven. Leaving the shower, she shouldered into the burgundy bathrobe they’d provided, belted it, stepped into matching soft slippers, and returned to the bedroom, wandering to the fireplace. Standing near the golden fire screen, she found a serene moment gazing into the flickering flames. According to the digital indoor/outdoor thermometer, the temperature was a cozy seventy-three degrees inside and a chilly fifty-eight degrees outside.
The ticking mantel clock said it was 3:15 p.m., and in the deep silence, the ticking seemed to grow hypnotically louder every minute. Rachel turned and decided to sample the bed. When she eased down onto the edge, exhaustion overtook her. She flopped backward, shutting her eyes, feeling her body grow heavier and heavier.
But the sound of the damned ticking clock seemed to crescendo, suddenly filling her with a ticking-time-bomb dread. Her eyes shot open. Could she really go through with this? Time travel? What if something went wrong, and she was hurled back to the Civil War, or the Revolutionary War, or even farther back, to the Stone Age? What if she got injured, or her brains were scrambled—or worse, what if she ended up dead?
“You’ve done it again, Rachel,” she said, out loud, in the quiet room. “Stubborn, impatient, and impulsive.” She blew out a frustrated breath, rolled onto her side and closed her eyes again. But I can still say no, she thought. No one is holding a gun to my head. At least, not so far.
Just before she dropped off to sleep, the thought she’d been pushing down kept resurfacing, like a big whale coming up for air. If she could go back in time to 1941 and save some man’s life, why couldn’t she go back in time and save her own sister, Sarah?
CHAPTER 4
At ten minutes to seven, Ms. Stevens knocked on Rachel’s door. Because of her passive expression, Rachel wasn’t certain if Ms. Stevens approved of her choice of outfit—a knee-length cotton floral dress, silver hoop earrings, and brand-new ankle boots. In truth, Rachel hadn’t known how to dress for this “interview” trip; she’d had no idea that she’d be flown to a mansion in the middle of nowhere. At least for tonight, a casual dress seemed better than jeans or a business suit, her other two options.
As she left the room, she brushed back her ginger-colored hair, which fell in loose waves around her shoulders, and pressed her lips together. She’d applied minimal makeup and a raspberry-colored lipstick.
Ms. Stevens led Rachel back down the stairs, around the staircase, and down another long hallway until they entered what was described as the “informal dining area.”
