“In Europe and America, there's a growing feeling of hysteria

Conditioned to respond to all the threats in the rhetorical speeches of the Soviets

Mr. Krushchev said we will bury you, I don't subscribe to this point of view

It would be such an ignorant thing to do, if the Russians love their children too

How can I save my little boy from Oppenheimer's deadly toy

There is no monopoly of common sense on either side of the political fence

We share the same biology; Regardless of ideology

Believe me when I say to you, I hope the Russians love their children too

There is no historical precedent to put words in the mouth of the president

There's no such thing as a winnable war, it's a lie we don't believe anymore

Mr. Reagan says we will protect you, I don't subscribe to this point of view

Believe me when I say to you, I hope the Russians love their children too

We share the same biology; Regardless of ideology

What might save us me and you, is if the Russians love their children too”

- Russians

Written by Sergei Prokofiev and Sting

 

     A cold breeze caught Sam in mid-stride as he stood outside in a driveway.  Reflexively, he stopped and grabbed the heavy brown jacket he was wearing and made sure it was zipped up all the way.  Sticking his bare cold hands into his pockets, he took a moment to look around.

     The neighborhood was like any other one in suburbia.  Houses almost all looking the same with decent sized yards, it occurred to Sam that he was in a development or a giant grid.  The street he was on seemed to go on a ways in both directions with numerous places to turn onto other streets with more similar houses.

     Judging by the positioning of the sun in the pale sky and the cold temperature, Sam guessed that it was late November or early December.  Almost all of the trees were empty of leaves and piles of them were scattered throughout the yards.  It just had that feel that the holidays were quickly approaching.  The whole scene made Sam recall the Thanksgiving holiday of 1969.  It was the last time the whole family had been together before Tom had shipped off to Vietnam.  He had spent the time with his sister Katie, and his mother and father too.  The taste of his mother’s award winning pies made him wonder how his family was doing.

     So caught up in his memories of his family, Sam failed to realize immediately that someone was yelling for him.  Turning towards the street, a black Toyota pick-up truck was sitting in the roadway, the cab and the rear area filled with young male teenagers, two a piece.  “Yeah, you,” the one driving the truck yelled at the leaper.  The kid behind the wheel had average length black hair parted down the middle and looked to be about seventeen.

     Sam stood there and stared back as the driver yelled again, “I’m talking to you, Commie!  You speak English?”

     “What do you want?” Sam demanded.

     “We want you to go back to your mother Russia where you belong. No room in this country for Communists!” a blonde male from the rear of the truck responded. 

     “Yeah,” a brown haired kid next to him agreed, opening up a paper grocery bag, “and if the color fits, wear it!”

     Before Sam knew what was happening, he was pelted by a half dozen tomatoes.  One had hit him in the side of the head, sending bits of tomato oozing downward slowly, dripping onto the yard.

     “Damn Reds! Leave our country!” the driver yelled as the truck raced off down the street, the occupants shouting, “U.S.A.!  U.S.A.!”

     Stunned, Sam could only stand there as the remaining pieces of tomato slid off of him to the ground.  He looked around to see if anyone noticed what had just happened to him.  A man in the next yard over had been standing in his driveway.  As he realized Sam was looking at him, the man quickly glanced away and entered his house, acting as if Sam had not existed at all.

     Behind the leaper, the front door of the house opened and a middle aged man in his forties stepped outside.  “Gregory,” he called in a Russian accent.

     Sam didn’t take long to realize that the man was calling to him.

     “Come inside,” the man ordered gruffly.  “It is time for supper.  Wash up and get to the table.”  The man closed the door behind him and entered the house.

     The leaper turned and walked up to the door.  Looking into the glass, he caught a reflection of a dark haired youth in his late teens.  It was hard to tell, but it appeared as if one of the kid’s eyes had a black and blue mark around it.  Was the man who called for him a child abuser? Sam wondered.

 

PART ONE

 

Project Quantum Leap

Stallion’s Gate, NM

February 5^th, 2006 – 11:43pm – Night before Sam’s leap-in

 

     An old beat-up white van made its way along the desert highway before coming to a stop in the roadway.  This late at night, there was no traffic at all as the occupants of the vehicle decided on how to make their next move.  The road they were on stretched forever into the dark horizon but signs of what appeared to be a secondary route perpendicular to them traveled towards a series of mountainous terrain.  Flashes of light seemed to shimmer from that direction.

     “Would you look at that, Jake?” observed the man moving forward from the rear of the van.  He was in his late thirties, and sported a goatee with a shaved head.  Small tattoos adorned his arms.

     “What do you think that is?” asked the driver, following the other man’s gaze, off toward the mountains.  Jake was in his late forties with a trimmed moustache just turning gray and neatly groomed hair.

     “Some sort of electrical discharge perhaps,” remarked the other man, straining to peer through the windshield.  “Perhaps it’s a lightning storm.”

     “Looks more like a fireworks finale than it does sheet lightning, Benjamin,” reasoned Jake.  “You should probably film this stuff.” He added, indicating the rear of the van with a nod of his head.

     Benjamin grunted and stooping low moved back into the back of the van.  Rows of video monitors and video tape decks were mounted on both sides of the van.  Editing equipment and a soundboard took up half of one area on the left side.  Benjamin looked underneath the counter that housed the editor and found a pulsing red light where his videocamera was recharging its battery.  Inserting a fresh cartridge of digital recording tape, he disconnected the recharger and exited the van through the passenger side.

     Setting his feet apart to find proper balance, Benjamin hoisted the camera onto his shoulder and hit the record button.  Looking through the viewfinder revealed a breathtaking image of the lightning coming from over the mountains.

     “You’re getting this, right?” called Jake.  “You have the lens cap off?”

     “Don’t worry,” Benjamin answered back with a toothy smile, “I’m getting all of this.”

 

     Just a relatively short distance away, Project Quantum Leap went on as usual.  Sam was to everyone’s knowledge still in-between leaps and was expected to reappear on the timeline and Ziggy’s sensors very soon.  If anyone were to think differently, it would seem as if a family was getting ready for bed as most activity in the project was winding down for the night.

     Admiral Al Calavicci was already in bed, dressed in his pajamas.  His wife, Beth, was already trying to fall asleep beside him despite the fact that Al still had the TV on and was flipping through channels.  He wasn’t quite ready for dreamland yet but he wanted to enjoy the fact that no one was around to bother him and a good night’s sleep awaited him for a change.

     “I know why it is you can’t sleep,” Beth spoke softly beside him.

     Al paused from flipping through channels.  “Oh?  You do, huh?”

     “It’s General Hawkins,” Beth went on, almost in a trance. 

     The Admiral scowled.  “What about Hawkins?  I actually have a night free from that yutz looking over my shoulder and superceding my authority with his Presidential mandate crap, and I plan to enjoy it.”

     Beth shifted herself up from her pillow, favoring her recently injured ankle.  “Dear, that is exactly my point.”

     “Would you care to make some sense and enlighten me on this?”

     Al’s wife sighed.  “You can’t sleep because you’re keyed up due to the fact that Hawkins isn’t here.”  A confused look came from her husband and she continued, “Look, you complain when Hawkins is here dictating what you and Sam have to do for his leaps, but at least you knew where he was and what he was doing.  Now, he’s gone away for awhile to spend some time working on some anti-terrorist project in Virginia.  With him not here, you can’t keep an eye on him and what he is doing.  You said so yourself, you’re scared to death of what this other experiment is that he’s building.  Scared of what’ll mean to Sam, to this project, and to us.  He’s all the way across the country about to tamper with something he probably has no concept of.”

     A sly grin slowly spread across Al’s face.  “I guess you know me better than I thought.”

     Beth echoed his smile.  “I should know you after all these years together, but don’t think I’m done.  I know you’re trying to change the subject before I hit on the rest of what you’re thinking.”

     “Am I that obvious?”

      “You’ve been moody for weeks now, ever since the leapees showed up here last month.  I know you’ve been doing your damnedest to hide it from everyone else, but don’t try to fool me.  The minute Hawkins offered Sam’s brother and nephew jobs at that new project of his, it has burned away at you because you think Tom sold out his brother to be there instead of remaining here.  You never offered Tom the chance to help out here since he left politics.  Whatever it is that made you dislike Tom is the reason why he is in Virginia.”

     “It’s not that I dislike the guy, Beth, it’s just that…I don’t know.  He rubs me the wrong way sometimes is all.”

     Beth raised an eyebrow at him.  “Could it be that it is due to the fact that the brother of your best friend is a lot like you in some ways when it comes to leadership and you refuse to believe that?”

     Al scoffed and continued clicking on the TV remote.

     “Laugh if you must, Albert,” Beth intoned, “but I think you might be afraid that if Tom were given a duty here, he would eventually replace you.”

     The Admiral closed his eyes.  “I don’t feel worn out, and I refuse to go down that road.  Tom Beckett would have to be a leaper before I worry about him replacing me, and that won’t happen.  Case is closed.  As for Hawkins, I highly doubt he’ll get that project of his working.  Even with all those think tanks that the General claims he has working on his own project, Quantum Leap was the result of a once-in-a-generation brain.  I seriously doubt Hawkins has the mental capacity for that distinction.”

     Shaking her head, Beth placed his head back against her pillow and closed her eyes.  Al, meanwhile, finally settled on a program to watch before getting some sleep.  Although the screen said ‘PREVIOUSLY PRERECORDED’, it didn’t stop the Admiral from watching it.

     “Hi, everyone, thanks for joining.  I’m Larry King,” said the bespectacled man on the TV screen.  The sight of Larry with a cigarette made Al want to get up and grab a cigar, but he abstained for Beth’s sake as Larry went on, “Tonight’s topic has much to do on the possible re-emergence of quantum physicist Dr. Samuel Beckett.”

     The remote fell out of Al’s hand and even Beth bolted upright in the bed.  “What?!” they exclaimed together.

     “With me tonight,” Larry King rambled on, “is Dr. Milo Hasselein, chief scientific advisor to the President of the United States.  Good evening,” he greeted his guest.

     “Good evening,” replied Dr. Hasselein, a clean shaven, well groomed man in his late forties. “It’s a pleasure to be here.”

     “Before we open the phone lines,” Larry stated, “I want to take a minute to explain the reason for your appearance on this evening’s program.  Viewers, about a month ago some of you may have noticed an e-mail sent to you with the topic heading: EXPERIENCED LAPSES IN TIME YOU CANNOT EXPLAIN?  Some people, as I have been told, went to a chatroom link related to that e-mail where a transcript revealed that Dr. Sam Beckett, once dubbed as the “Next Einstein” was alive and well and part of a time travel experiment situated somewhere in New Mexico.  Some of you might recall that years ago Dr. Beckett disappeared from the public eye without any clues as to his whereabouts.  Tonight we hope to set the public straight on this matter.  Dr. Hasselein, would you care to comment on this?”

     Al and Beth stared at the TV set, jaws dropped as Hasselein cleared his throat.  “Certainly.  Where to begin?  First of all, I can assure you that Dr. Beckett is alive and well, and yes he is working on a project in New Mexico.”

     “God, don’t let this nozzle confirm the truth,” Al yelled at the screen.

     “Is it fact then that Dr. Beckett is conducting experiments on time travel?” asked Larry King.

     “I can happily announce the answer to that question,” responded Hasselein.

     “No, no, no, noooo!” Al gripped the bedsheets tight, if he could he would have ripped them in two.

     “Dr. Beckett is indeed working in New Mexico,” continued Hasselein, “but it is not a time travel project.”

     Al had no idea that a large exhale escaped his lips.

     “In fact,” said Hasselein, “he is working on a project for NASA.  Has been for the last decade or so.  I am here tonight to dispel all rumors concerning the fact that Dr. Beckett is part of a time travel experiment that went haywire.  There is no such experiment.  It is scientifically impossible for there to be one in existence.  All I can add is that Dr. Beckett has been slaving away in the mountains of New Mexico as part of a top level think tank to develop technology for possible future manned flights to Mars and perhaps beyond.”

     “So you are saying,” Larry King interjected with a long puff of his cigarette, “is that Dr. Beckett is part of a group determined to make the works of Arthur C. Clarke a reality instead of fiction?”

     “Correct,” Hasselein nodded.  “He has been locked away so long due in part to his tenacity at being a perfectionist.  He has refused to respond to friends and family over the years because he hopes to complete the project and bring the level of space exploration into the 21^st Century as most people have always imagined it would be.  So please, I have been asked by the President to urge the good citizens of the United States not to interfere with this project.  People have gotten the wrong ideas and I hope to correct this matter.”

     “Thank you, Dr. Hasselein, I think it’s time we opened the phones.”

     Al turned off the TV set.  “Amazing how all this came to be because of J.T. Beckett.”  Switching off his lamp, he leaned back and tried to get some sleep, but found it impossible.

 

 

Wyomissing, PA

SUNDAY - November 20^th, 1983

4:35pm

 

     So far Sam had been able to guess correctly about the current situation he was in.  The man that had yelled for him was the leapee’s father, who had frowned unfavorably at the tomato stains on his clothes.  Speaking in both Russian and English, it was clear to Sam that he was to wash up for dinner.

     “What happened outside, Gregory?” the man asked Sam.

     “Some kids drove up and pelted me with some tomatoes,” was all Sam could offer, not knowing anything else to say.  He cringed, expecting the man to strike him in anger, but to Sam’s surprise, he sighed heavily and placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder.  “It will not be easy for you, it would appear,” he surmised.  “It is bad enough to be a new student your senior year, but to be one of Russian ancestry makes it worse.  Especially with all that is going on in the world right now with politics, I do not think people will show tolerance for us.”  The man gazed into Sam’s face.  “I see you display the injury to your eye.  Although your mother and I are disheartened that you not reveal the name of your attacker, we are proud that you stood up for yourself and have not tried to hide your bruise.  We may live here in this country as Americans, and we will honor the laws and customs of this country, but the Russian heritage will never fully be watered out of our blood.  I stand here, proud to be an American, but I will never cower in fear from the Russian I truly am.”  A loud clang came from the kitchen.  “Now, mother is nearly ready to serve us.  Change your clothes and wash up.”

     Nodding, Sam stumbled off in the hopes of finding his bedroom in the ranch house.  It appeared that he was an only child, and his room was down at the end of the hallway from the kitchen.  All the rooms he passed were filled with moving boxes and his host’s room was no different.  Searching through some boxes, he found a blue pullover shirt and a pair of blue jeans.  After changing, he took the tomato stained clothes across the hall to the bathroom where he placed them in a small tub he filled with water.

     As the leaper turned on the faucet and grabbed a bar of soap, the Imaging Chamber door whooshed open behind him.

     “Oh, jeez, Sam.  Why the hell do we always talk in the john?”

     Sam held up his hand.  “Not my fault.  I didn’t suggest we talk in here. You just happened to time it wrong, is all.”

     “Speaking of time, Sam,” remarked Al as he looked at his handlink, “your clock and my clock are exactly in sync.  It’s 4:53pm where you are and at the project.  What are the odds on that?”

     “Probably better odds than you getting around to tell me why I’m here,” muttered Sam as he grabbed a towel and dried off his hands.

     “That hurts, pal,” Al said with a hurt look on his face.  “For once, I am happy to report you are in no immediate danger.  Relax and take a breather.”

     Sam gave him the stare.

     “All right. Geez Louise, Sam.”  Al fiddled with the handlink, hitting it a few times until it squawked.  "Damn.  I wish Dom would get back from town so he can fix this thing.”

     “Handlink problems, again?” Sam teased his friend.

     “Yeah.  Of course it happens right after Dom takes some personal time and goes into town to shop for clothes,” the Admiral stopped short.  “Why the hell am I telling you?  Like you care anyway.”  Al gave the handlink another good whack.  “Let’s see.  It’s November 20^th, 1983 and you are in Wyomissing, Pennsylvania, which is right outside the city of Reading.  Your name is Gregory Talosovich, a high school senior.  Your parents are John and Helena.  Ziggy says your, I mean, Gregory’s, father changed his name from Ivan to sound more Americanized.  According to what Ziggy discovered, the parents defected from Russia in the mid 1960’s and settled in the States shortly after.  Gregory was born the following year.  You’ve probably noticed the moving boxes, they just moved in a few days ago.  John has been bounced around from one warehouse or factory job after another while Helena, a former nurse, has been working temp jobs.  Seems no one in the States seems to have a need for a Russian defector with a degree in physics or another with medical skills.”

     “Gregory’s father is a scientist?”

     “Real good one apparently.  You gotta remember, Sam, the Cold War is still going on, albeit not for much longer.  While not in the same league as the Cuban Missile Crisis, the thought of nuclear war and destruction was a common fear at this point in time.  A Russian was viewed as a Communist and an enemy of the U.S.  Most Americans where you are would probably wish Russia wiped off the face of the Earth.”

     Sam was appalled.  “That’s a terrible mindset, Al.”

     The observer shook his head.  “Don’t point at me, Sam, I happen to come from Russian bloodlines as well as Italian.  My mother and my Uncle Stawpah were Russian.”

     Before Sam could ask another question, there was a loud knock at the door.  “Gregory,” John yelled, “what is the delay?  Dinner is on the table.”

     Sheepishly, Sam opened the door and walked into the hallway.  John was standing there waiting, a look of disapproval on his face.  “I could not hear too well, but it disturbs me when you are having a conversation with yourself.  This is happening far too frequently of late.”

     Sam looked over at Al as they headed for the kitchen. The Admiral slammed the handlink against his palm.  “Ziggy found some medical files from their previous doctor.  Apparently, Gregory had a few visits about possible schizophrenia.  The kid obviously talked to himself often.”

     Arriving at the kitchen, Sam found his host’s parents had already seated.  Before them was a large plate loaded with salad and pieces of cold cuts and sausage.  Another plate was filled with steaming rice with a lid over it to keep it from getting cool, and next to that was a large soup bowl.

     As Sam found his way into his chair, Helena took a ladle and poured a large portion of soup into his bowl.  It was steaming broth loaded with meat and vegetables.  The leaper’s mouth watered at the smell of the delicious food.

     Al’s lips formed an ‘O’.  “Why is it you get good food on your leaps, and I get whatever the cafeteria dredges up?  That looks like borscht, kinda like vegetable soup.  Looks like the main course is an Americanized version of a Russian dinner.”

     Just as Sam finished serving himself a portion of the main dish and went to take a bite with his fork, John came over with a basket filled with bread.

     “Russian style bread!  Ah, Sam, if that tastes half as good as it looks, I might consider going into the Accelerator to switch places with you.”

     Trying to hide a smile, Sam’s fork was almost in his mouth when John scolded him in Russian.  Confused, the leaper failed to understand what was being said.

     “Um, Sam,” Al cut in, “he’s yelling at you to put the fork down.  This family says grace before a meal.”

     Sheepishly, Sam lowered the fork and like John and Helena, brought his hands together and bowed his head.  Silence passed until it became an awkward silence.  Looking up, he discovered the other two were staring at him.

     “Think it’s your turn for the blessing tonight, Sam,” Al observed.

     “I know,” Sam countered through clenched teeth.

     “Well if you know, Gregory, then start with the blessing already,” a clearly not amused John said.

     “Dear Lord,” began Sam.

 

PART TWO

 

Wyomissing, PA

SUNDAY - November 20^th, 1983

9:05pm

 

     Sam watched in horror as city after city became consumed by nuclear fire.  The flames spread out in all directions as buildings were torn apart and destroyed.  People screamed in horror as they were either consumed whole by the raging heat or disintegrated in a flash burst of light.

     Just as quickly, the onslaught ended.  Numb by what he had witnessed, Sam could only sit there, his face expressionless.

     “Now that’s what I call a reality check,” drawled Al.

     Sam looked over to see Al near the sofa he was sitting in.  John and Helena were down the hall in their bedroom getting ready for bed, having to go to work earlier than Sam had to get up to go to school.  “How long have you been here?”

     “Long enough to see the destruction of mankind,” answered the observer.  “I remember this movie, Sam.  It’s called The Day After.  Television’s attempt to open up peoples’ eyes to the horrors of nuclear war.”

     “I don’t remember this movie at all.”

     “Of course you don’t, Sam.  Your nose was buried in a book somewhere most likely.  I read somewhere that the guy who directed this sent a copy to Reagan and Russia with a note saying, ‘Let’s not do this for real’.”

     “Amazing how much paranoia and hysteria existed in 1983,” remarked Sam.

     Al looked at his blinking handlink.  “It seems that paranoia and hysteria would explain why you are here.  Apparently, tomorrow, Gregory will be murdered sometime during the school day.  Couple of ignorant goons at the high school are gonna goad Gregory into a fight, and things get heated, then he gets killed.  Stabbed by a switchblade knife.”

     “Is there a way I can get out of going to school?”

     The Admiral shook his hand.  “Not likely.  Ziggy says with this scenario, that the ones responsible will find another chance to do it.  There’s no way of avoiding this.”

     Sam shut the TV off.  “I guess I’d better get some sleep.”

     “Not a bad idea, Sam.  I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.

 

Project Quantum Leap

Stallion’s Gate, NM

MONDAY, February 6^th, 2006 – 9:35pm

 

     Making record time, Dom turned up the dirt road that after a while, led to the sheet lightning ahead.  Traveling around a turn, he pulled up to the gates that blocked his path.  The road had led right up to a mountainside and continued through it beyond the gates in a tunneled out corridor.  Next to the gates was a guard station booth with armed sentries within.

     “ID please,” a guard demanded.

     Fumbling for his project badge, Dom finally flashed it to the guard.  “By now, you guys should know who I am.”

     “Can’t take too many chances, sir.  After the breach of security last month, we can’t be too cautious.”  The guard nodded to the booth and the gates opened.

     With a wave, Dom drove into the tunnel under the mountain.  Lights were placed on both sides to help him see.  As they passed him by, Dom couldn’t help but reflect on the crisis with the leapees.  Ever since last month, the government sent a crew to barricade the back way to the helicopter landing pad, sealing off that route.  The only way in and out of there now was by aircraft.  The government no longer apparently trusted radar security to monitor the roads leading to the pad.

     Shortly, Dom found another gate at the other end of the tunnel.  Another set of gates barred his way in and once more, he had to present his badge before being admitted.  After clearing that gate, Dom drove the car to an underground parking area.

     Reaching into the back seat area, he dragged all the packages out.  For some reason, it took a little extra pull to get the ones half crammed into the trunk area.  Stumbling about from carrying it all with both hands, he made it to the elevator that led to the lower levels.  Next to the elevator was yet another booth.

      “ID please,” a guard demanded.

     Cursing, Dom dropped everything to get his badge out of his pocket.  Satisfied, the guard signaled for the elevator and helped Dom pick up everything.  When the door opened. The head programmer somehow managed to lug everything into the elevator and with great effort, freed a finger to press the button that would take him to his living quarters.

     Moments later, he stepped out of the elevator.  The hallway was quiet.  It seemed that everyone had decided to turn in early.  Stepping into his quarters, he immediately dropped everything onto his bed.

     “Welcome back,” Ziggy purred.

     “Thanks, Ziggy,” Dom returned the greeting.

     “As soon as possible, you are to report to General Hawkins’ office.”

     The head programmer raised an eyebrow.  “Is anything wrong?”

     “Not that I could tell, but then again I am not a psychiatrist.”

     Dom nodded and went back out to the elevator and took it to the office level.  At the end of the hall was General Hawkins’ office, formerly Gooshie’s and then Dom’s.  The head programmer wondered what could be so important this late at night.  Nervously, he knocked on the door, which immediately opened to reveal the General sitting behind his desk.  Various computers that tied him in to Ziggy, the project, and to Washington D.C. surrounded him.

     Taking a puff on a cigar, Hawkins looked up to see Dom enter.  “Please be seated,” he instructed.

     Confused, Dom did as he was told.  He sat there in silence as Hawkins typed a few commands into one of his computers.  Finally, the General turned his attention back to the programmer.  “I suppose you are wondering why I’ve called you here?”

     Nodding, Dom fidgeted in his chair.  “Yes.”

     Hawkins leaned forward and clasped his hands together.  “I cannot tell you too much at this point.  All I can say is that I am about to launch a project of extreme importance and I need your help.”

     Dom sat up in his chair, his curiosity aroused.  “M-my help,” he stammered.

     “You are the head programmer which makes you the candidate I need.  When it comes to your job, would you say you are as familiar with the system here as the person who originated the post was?”

     “If you mean Gooshie, General, then yes I think I am.  Over the past few months I have poured over all of his notes and in doing so I believe I am just as competent.”

     A small smile crept on Hawkins’ face.  “Good to hear.  I will have need to call on your programming abilities, especially in the field of parallel hybrid computers.”

     “Parallel hybrid computers?  That would mean Ziggy.”

     The General nodded at Dominic’s classification of what the parallel hybrid computer could do.  “In order for my new project to work, it has become clear that I need a system of Ziggy’s caliber to make it operate.”

     “You need me to create a system like Ziggy for you?”

     “Not quite,” Hawkins responded.  “I need Ziggy.”

     Eyes wide open, Dom shot to his feet.  “You can’t have her, sir.  She is tied in too directly to this project.  Removing her will end it, and trap Dr. Beckett in time.  Arrest me, or do what you will, but I will not disconnect Ziggy and hand her over to you.”

     “Sit down!” Hawkins bellowed.  “I did not say anything about taking Ziggy away from here just yet.  I said I need Ziggy to run my project.  I need you to create a copy for me.”

     “Create a copy?  It’s not like I just save a file, put it on disc, and let you install it.  There are so many algorithms and subroutines.  It’s impossible!”

      Hawkins slammed his fist on the desk.  “It’s not impossible.  You just admitted that you are at the same level as Gushman.  You will find a way.  I want a working replica of Ziggy as fast as you can get it to me, one without the Streisand ego preferably.”

     Dom folded his arms.  “What makes you think I’ll do this to help you?”

     Anger began to bubble at the general’s forehead. “Working at this project makes me think this way.  This project has fallen under Presidential authority, so in turn working here makes you an employee of the United States government.  Making a copy for me is a direct order.”

     “I still refuse.  Besides, Ziggy will not allow this.  She’ll tell Admiral Calavicci at the first chance she gets.”

     “You forget, Mr. Lofton.”  Hawkins pointed to one of his computers.  “You designed this for me as a direct link to Ziggy.”

     “Only to monitor and communicate, nothing else.”

     “And so you did, Mr. Lofton.  But I went beyond your work.  Last month when those people that Dr. Beckett had once leaped into arrived, I had a team of computer technicians with me to analyze the computer that young David Watkins put together.  With the help of those technicians and the unwitting help of Mr. Watkins, I am now able to launch commands and directives directly into Ziggy that she is forced to comply with.  If anyone asks Ziggy about this, she will of course deny this.”

     “You’ve programmed her to lie,” accused Dom.

     “To suit my purposes, yes.  By the way, do not make any attempts to disconnect my system.  Removing it will cause a system breakdown and destroy Ziggy.  Dr. Beckett will remain trapped in time.  So help me with my project or I pull the plug.”

     “You sick bastard.”

        “It’s your choice, Mr. Lofton.”

     Before Dom could answer, heavy banging came from the other side of the wall.  Pushing a button on his desk, Hawkins opened the door, and a guard rushed into the room.

     “What is it, soldier?”

     The guard saluted.  “Sir, we just caught an intruder trying to infiltrate the project.”

     Hawkins stood up in alarm.  “Explain.”

     “Apparently, the individual was trying to crawl out of a vehicle.  He was caught carrying only a videocamera.”

     “No weapons?”

     “None that we could find, sir.”

     “What about the car, soldier.  Who’s was it?”

     “Sir, the car license plate showed it is registered to a Dominic Lofton.”

     “Any other signs of others trying to infiltrate?”

     “None.  We ran a perimeter sweep.  Just the one guy.  Should we hold him until he can be taken away for incarceration?”

     “Yes,” Hawkins decided.  “You are dismissed.”  As the guard turned and left, Hawkins faced a much shaken Dom.  “Your car.  You allowed someone to get past two checkpoints and almost entered this project.”

     “I had no idea,” asserted Dom, his face pale.

     “Enough of this.  You realize what might happen if you become linked to that intruder?  You will be relieved of your duties here and face maximum time in a federal prison.  Your life as you know it will be over.  The courts will have physical evidence like the video security cameras showing that man coming out of your car.  Unless…” The General’s voice trailed off.

     “Unless what?” Dom was afraid where this was going.

     “Unless you help me.  I understand that part of your salary goes towards your relatives in the D.C. area to help them make ends meet.  Be a pity if that money was cut off because you were part of a conspiracy.”

     Dom’s shoulders slumped. “Fine. I’ll do as you’ve ordered.  Just don’t tell anyone I’m doing this, please.  What I am about to do will violate a large amount of trust this project has given me.”

     “Not to worry, Mr. Lofton.  My lips are sealed.  As are Ziggy’s.  As long as no one tells Admiral Calavicci or anyone else employed here about your association with my project, no one will ever know.  I don’t think the Admiral would support what I am doing either.”