Date: Thu, 31 Oct 1996 17:10:43 -0700 (MST) From: "Katherine R. Freymuth" Subject: Coup D'etat - Chapter 3 Message-ID: MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: TEXT/PLAIN; charset=US-ASCII Chapter 3 March 24, 1976 "Good morning, Alan," a woman said as she entered the bar. Sam, having just leaped in, looked around quickly. Yep, it was definitely a bar and, for some reason, this bar looked very familiar. He vaguely remembered a television show he used to watch. He shook the vague feeling off, trying to find out exactly where he was and who he was. "Hello. Alan. Can you hear me?" the woman put in, not having been answered. "What?" Sam asked. The woman sighed. "Don't tell me you were up all night again," she asked more than said as she walked up to the bar and placed a backpack on it. "Who was it this time? Susan? Candice? Georgia?" Sam hesitated. "I'm not sure." The woman laughed slightly. "Boy, are you in trouble! Just wait 'til they hear that one!" She looked at Sam carefully. "Something's wrong, isn't it?" "Why do you say that?" Sam questioned. "Well," she said as she sat down, "you don't look like your normal self." She huffed. "You obviously _didn't_ stay up all night but you're completely out of it. You didn't even complain about my putting my backpack on 'your bar'." She smiled. "Seems like everything is yours, isn't it?" "I guess so," Sam answered, still unsure about how he should act. The woman laughed. "You guess so. Now I know something's wrong. You usually aren't so generous with your answers." She took her backpack off of the bar. "And now, for my next trick, I shall transform myself into a waitress. And you had better open the bar. I'ts nearly six o'clock." With that, the woman went around the bar and disappeared through a side door. "Oh, boy," Sam muttered as he looked around. He went to the front door and found, to his relief, that it was already unlocked. Looking at the establishment, he noticed that there were several tables with chairs on top of them. Methodically, he set each chair on the floor. Finishing that, he went to the bar to get a cloth to wipe off the table. As he did so, the woman came back from out of the back room. "Whoa!" she exclaimed. "What are you doing?" "Just setting up the bar," Sam answered. "But, I thought the tables and chairs were my job. Why aren't you checking on your liquor supply? You know Friday is our busiest night." "Yeah, well..." Sam hesitated. Just at that moment, the front door opened, allowing a young looking man into the bar. He seemed to be about five feet six inches tall with a muscular build that Sam doubted he wanted to test. "Hey, Alan!" the man said as he walked up to the bar. "Give me a beer!" "Uhh...what kind?" Sam asked, not knowing where the beer would be even if he knew the kind. The man laughed. "My usual, as if you didn't know." The woman glared at the man. "Don't you think you ought to ease up on the booze, George? I mean, it's obvious you're hungover." "My name is Pierce and that is precisely why I need a beer. Isn't that right, Alan?" "Actually," Sam started, hating being put in a spot, "it would be better if you stayed away from alcohol for a while." George, who wanted to be called Pierce, stared at Sam in astonishment. "What?! Is this coming from the same man who said 'the best cure for a hangover is a stiff drink'?" Sam sighed when he heard that. "Oh, boy," he muttered. "Oh, I know what it is," Pierce said. "You've been hanging around Ellen to long. I told you she'd get you in trouble." He glared at the woman. "She did me." Ellen returned the glare. "Go ahead," she taunted. "Get drunk. And when you get into a serious accident, I hope it's on the front page of your stupid newspaper." "Well, I can't get on the front page of my stupid newspaper if I don't have some beer," he retaliated. "Ooooo!" Ellen exclaimed in frustration. She yanked at a nearby apron, nearly tilting over an empty beer mug. Quickly and angrily, she put the apron on. "So, Alan," Pierce turned to Sam. "How about that beer?" "Go ahead and give it to him," Ellen complained. "Let him drown out his stupidity." Pierce smiled. "You love that word, don't you. Stupid. Stupidity. Really imaginative, Ellen." He looked at Sam expectantly for the beer. "Well," Sam started at the expectant look. He didn't want to serve Pierce a drink, especially since he still didn't know which kind of beer to give him. Ellen exhaled in frustration and quickly poured the requested drink. "Here," she told Pierce angrily. She turned to Sam. "You'd better get the money up front. You don't want to be out fifty dollars again." "Hey," Pierce put in, "I paid that off!" "Oh, sure you did, George. Five months later." "Well, that's better than paying up five years later!" Pierce retaliated. Much to Sam's surprise, Ellen slapped Pierce hard on his left cheek. "Hey!" Pierce exclaimed, rubbing his cheek. "Just drink your beer and get out of here!" Ellen ordered. Pierce smiled at her. "Sure, baby, sure. Then I can start the party!" He laughed. "Ha, ha, ha," Al replied cynically, having come into the Imaging Chamber in time to hear the last part of the conversation. "He's as much fun as the guy in the Waiting Room." Sam turned and went through the side door. Al, knowing what Sam was thinking, followed him. "Al, what am I doing here?" Sam demanded. "A bit testy, aren't you?" Al wondered. "Just being around those two is enough to get anybody testy," Sam told him. "Just tell me who I am and what I'm here to do." Al raised the handlink. "Your name is Alan Heath and you're a bartender in a small town in Alaska. This town is so small, it's not even on the map." "Great," Sam muttered. "Today's July 19, 1994, and you're here to prevent mister "I am the party" over there from dying in a severe car accident." Sam frowned. "Sound like Ellen's little prediction has more than words behind it." "What?" Al asked. Sam explained the part of the conversation that Al had missed. Al shook his head. "No, no. George's death was purely accidental. There's no way Ellen planned it. George was stone-cold drunk and he sped right into a large old tree at about a hundred twenty miles an hour. That's going to happen in two days." "How am I going to save _that_ guy from getting into an accident?" Sam complained. "He just told me that the guy I've leaped into thinks the best way to cure a hangover is a stiff drink!" Al frowned. "Barrel of fun, isn't he?" He sighed. "Ziggy thinks the best way to save this guy is to sober him up. Permanently." "In two days?" Sam exclaimed. "It's not the first time you've sobered someone up," Al pointed out. "Remember?" He was indicating himself. "Al," Sam started, "you just can't get someone like George completely away from alcohol in two days." "Well, you'd better think of something or that big old oak is gonna have a huge dent in it and so will George's head." "Al..." Sam glared at Al in rebuke as Al looked at his watch. Al sighed. "Sam, I've gotta go," he said as he raised the handlink again and pressed several buttons. "Just keep George away from alcohol. Or at least keep him away from a car." With that, Al stepped through the Imaging Chamber door and closed it, leaving Sam alone in the back room. "Great," Sam muttered, walking back to the main bar to face his new problem. **************** "Gushie," Al said as he entered the Control Room, "I'm leaving for the rest of the day. Call me if you need me." He started for the elevator. "Uhh, Admiral?" Gushie said softly. "I think there's something you ought to know." Al sighed. He was definitely going to be late at this rate. "What is it, Gushie? I've got to get to the airport to pick up Beth from her trip to D.C., you know." Gushie hesitated. "We've just got word from the D.C. Police Department." Al tensed. Gushie realized what Al was thinking. "It doesn't concern your wife." Al exhaled with relief. "Don't scare me like that, Gushie." Gushie looked at him apologetically. He sighed. "They found a human skull outside of the city. They've confirmed it as being Admiral Fairbanks's." Al blinked his eyes slowly, unsure that he had heard that correctly. "What?" he asked quietly. "I'm sorry," Gushie said, his head lowered in sympathy. Al couldn't help stare at the nothingness before him. *Bill Fairbanks, my long time friend. Dead. And...* "Only his skull?" "I'm afraid so," Gushie answered quietly. Al gulped slightly. "Where was the rest of his body?" Gushie was quiet for a moment. "They haven't found it yet." Al exhaled. "Oh, gawd," he muttered. He closed his eyes. "Thanks, Gushie," he told the programmer softly as he left the Control Room. He immediately drove to the airport to pick up Beth, driving the complex's red Ferrari Testarosa. Picking her up, he gave her a small peck on the cheek and helped her into the car. He drove home in silence, his wife looking at him with concern. "You're awfully quiet for a man who has been reunited with his wife after she was away for an entire week," Beth told him once they had returned to their little villa in Stallion Springs. "What's wrong?" Al sighed. He didn't want to tell her like this but, if he didn't tell her, she would pester him for the rest of the day. "Beth," he started. "There's no easy way to put this. Bill's dead." "What?" Beth whispered. "I just heard it from Gushie. The D.C. police found his skull." He lowered his head, unable to look Beth in the eyes. "Oh, Al. I'm so sorry," Beth said softly, hugging him. Al returned the hug as the two consoled each other for their loss. ****************** "Beautiful," the man commented as he sat at the table. "I did good?" a woman in fatigues asked. The man smiled. "Lieutenant, you did terrific." The smile faded. "What about recruitment?" "We have thirty possibilities. Twenty definites." The man growled. "That's not good enough. I need at least fifty definites." The lieutenant glared at him. "Well, we can't exactly call General Brigham for re-enforcements." The man looked at her with a glare and stood up. "Don't ever speak to me in that tone of voice again," he threatened quietly. "Do you understand?" She smiled at him mischeivously. "I thought you liked strong women, sir." He approached her slowly. He didn't need to look angry to be intimidating. "There's a difference between being strong and being stupid. You're a good officer and a great lover but..." She leered. "Am I being a bad girl?" He slapped her hard. "But you need an attitude adjustment," he told her quietly but firmly. "Now, you say we have twenty definites. I need fifty. Get them, Lieutenant," he ordered. "Yes, sir," she replied with slight sarcasm. Fortunately for her, it didn't seem to warrant another slap. "Dismissed," the man told her. She obeyed, leaving the room with a glare. She couldn't wait to finish this assignment. Inside the room, the man sat at his work table and examined the electrical equipment that the lieutenant had procured for him. The man smiled. The lieutenant may not be his idea of perfection but she could definitely do field work. In fact, it surprised him how easily she could get some of the material he requested. He raised the identification card. It was a typical military I.D. card. It was about a centimeter thicker than an ordinary driver's license. It only needed to be reprogrammed. But forging onto the card was a difficult process. That was what the man was doing right now. With delicate care, he removed the surface of the card. Having done that, he began to program the card with false information about himself - information about clearance codes, military status, anything that would normally be imprinted on such a card. When he was done with that, he altered one more piece of information which would insure what he wanted: the proper clearance classification. It took him nearly eight hours to reprogram the card so that it could not be identified as forged. Now it was time to forged his identity visually rather than electronically. He needed the card to be perfect or he would fail miserably in his plans. That meant the card would have to look as if it were made in a genuine laboratory. It was difficult getting the picture of Admiral William Fairbanks off of the card but he eventually succeeded to remove it so that it were as if the picture was never on it. Placing the card on a stolen scanner, he positioned the card properly to achieve the professional touch. He took an activation switch that he had rigged and connected it to the manual switch on the scanner. He sat down in front of the scanner, the activation switch in hand. Taking a deep breath, he put on his best authoritative look and pressed the switch. The scanner activated. He turned his head slwoly to the right and back. He then shut off the scanner and stood up. Going to the scanner again, he turned a knob to the right. He returned to the front of the scanner but didn't sit down. This time, he placed his right hand in front of the scanner before turning it on again. Slowly, he rotated his hand, his palm wide open. He stopped after one rotation, allowing the scanner to get a good scan of his palm. He then shut off the scanner and retrieved the I.D. card. He looked at the forged card with care. He smiled. "A piece of art, if I may say so myself," he complimented himself as he returned to his work table. There was still quite a lot to do before he could put his plan into action. -------------- Well, there's chapter 3. I should have Chapter 4 out next week. Maybe even Chapter 5, if I'm lucky. Kat