Update! Finally! 17 Jan. 2004.
Deirdre relaxed in the quarters provided to her by her hosts, in exchange for her knowledge regarding Canada and what she knew of their plans. While she had first come into contact with the U.S. Military at Hector Field, in North Carolina, she was now quartered at Cheyenne Mountain, where she was being debriefed – again- and undergoing testing to see if she was transmitting any sort of signal from any hidden devices. With the strained relations between the two countries, she didn’t really blame the Americans for their apparent paranoia.
Deirdre cooperated in every way. She submitted to X-Rays, CAT scans, MRIs, and a plethora of other technical scans and tests. She was, however, somewhat amused at the American doctors’ attempts to medically explain the shape of her ears, and her blood type, which matched nothing they’d ever come into contact with, up to that point. When the military ‘brass’ would speak to her, in debriefings, she was certain they thought she was holding back, though. At first, they were unable to believe she was nearly 60 years old, when she told them that, as near as she could piece together, she remembered waking up, one morning in the fall of 1943, somewhere in Philadelphia. She clearly remembered waking up, and what season it was, but she was unable to remember how to speak, and had no memory of her life up
to that point. She was only able to piece it together, Deirdre had told them, through her research of the times, and events going on at the time.
Deirdre idly wondered what it would take to join the military in America, and rise to officer status….
Politicians with military background seemed to command more respect, in America, after all.
Her thoughts were drawn back to the present by the questioning.
Major Quentin stared at her, narrowing his eyes, “So. Miss Jones. You ….
woke up in Philadelphia… you couldn’t speak… yet you ended up in Canada, in Canadian
Military no less… How do you explain this?”
Deirdre met his gaze, unwavering, “I spent the first few months, living off of scraps I could find in garbage bins, Sir, and I was making my way north, for no particular reason, that I can think of. I watched people… listened to them… I picked up a few phrases in English, and I found that men had the most money back then, and kept it in their wallets, in their breast pockets, or in the back pocket of their pants.
“It was relatively simple to acquire the wallets and mimic what I had seen others do. I picked out food, and clothing, then traded it for the paper that was in the wallets. Yes, sir, I was a thief, a common street rat, until I was taken in by a couple in New York, Dr. Claudius Jones, and his wife Camilla. A wonderful black couple. Dr. Jones was a medical practitioner, and he worked with crazies. They taught me to speak English, and how to survive, and deal with people. In 1952, after being with them for several years, we had a falling out, and I left. In 1973, I wished to come back into contact with them, and tracked them down, where they had moved in Canada… Toronto, to be specific…
“Well… Here it was, 29 years after they had originally taken me in… eh… it took me a while to track them down… and while they had grown quite old, I did not appear to have aged, at all. Dr., and Mrs. Jones were devout Christians, you see, and after having the falling out and then showing back up, looking just the same… Well… They contacted government authorities, unbeknownst to me, and they showed up, and took me into custody. They did a lot of tests on me, and eventually, I ended up in the service, and stayed there.
“This ended up being beneficial for myself and Canada, as I could move about, and had rights and freedoms, and they could keep tabs on me, and keep me where they wanted me. Well… a good relationship can, apparently only last so long. I started hearing rumors, and then seeing how our new Prime Minister was toward America… Look… I’m not a fool. I know that if push comes to shove, Canada can’t take America, we’re simply not equipped for it. I see no use staying on a sinking ship, you understand?.”
Major Quentin ordered one of his subordinates to run a check on a Dr. Claudius Jones, and verify her story.
In the meantime, Miss Jones was to remain in her quarters, until further notice…
Elsewhere
Prime Minister d’Gorthar addressed his top ranking aide, with a mix of boyish anticipation, and almost manic seriousness, “Raymond… It is time to put operation Coldwalk into effect.”
“Yes, Mr. Prime Minster.” General Sharkey answered.
“Our American contacts are prepared to do what is necessary? They know what eventuality will befall them?” the Prime Minister asked.
“Of course, sir, they feel the price is well worth the outcome, sir.”
“Then it is time.” d’Gorthar looked out through his window, “Yes…. It is time.”
Yet elsewhere
Mitch sat on his bike, looking over the outcropping of rock, where he had stopped. The early morning light fog crept slowly, and eerily through the trees below, giving Mitch his favorite view. He loved this spot, especially this time of day. Just him and the mist. No houses, no car alarms, no barking dogs, and no deputy Harris to ruin everything.
He looked over the drop… No new undergrowth, or fallen rocks, and the trail down looked clear as far as he could see, before being lost in the mist.
Mitch zipped up his riding jacket, and pulled the knit cap over his ears, and kicked his offroad bike into life. He turned around, and went back about thirty feet, then turned his bike around again… He loved this.
The young man settled into his seat, and gunned the throttle, spinning his rear tire, until it caught good traction, and thrusting forward, onto the rock ledge, and into the air, allowing the bike to come away from his body, a few inches before impacting with the ground. He kept the throttle pegged, letting it up, only to hit the clutch, and change gears, as he raced down the trail, through the mist and between trees and rocks, at all the speed he could coax out of his bike.
Mitch could think of no better way to start a day, than an adrenaline rush that came from this sort of ride, at breakneck speeds down a thin trail in thickening fog.
The high pitched whine of the bike’s engine cut like a knife through the still of the mountain morning, startling sleeping animals into a short frightened flight. Mitch kept the throttle pegged, taking short jumps, and sliding turns in the trail, as fast as he was able.
He was coming to his favorite part of the bike trail, the nice wide creek that he would jump, due to the natural bank on either side of it. The sound of the engine and the wind the only things he could hear, he started on the straightaway leading to the creek. Hunched over, to reduce his wind resistance, and get just a tad more speed out of his bike, he could see the bank… and…. what? A kid? A child … climbing up onto the bank!
Mitch let go of the throttle, and grabbed the brakes, trying to turn the bike away from the path of the child. He couldn’t hold it. The bike hit the ground, and Mitch along with it, rolling, and then straightening into a slide… he saw the frightened look on the child’s face, as the kid fell off the bank, then he felt the ground go away, beneath him… Mitch felt the cold shock of the water, just before he felt something hit his head, and then something relatively heavy and hard landed on top of him…
Two days later
Mitch could smell the antiseptic in the air, and felt the bed beneath him…
He tried to ask where he was, “Mmmmf… uhh…” was all he could manage… Didn’t know why he was asking anyway, he knew he was in the hospital. He was immediately glad that he wasn’t able to get his question out, he felt that would sound stupid.
Deputy Harris walked in, after hearing the sound coming from Mitch’s room.
“How ya feelin’, man?” Robert asked him.
Mitch looked over, groaned, and then looked again. Harris wasn’t in uniform. “What, man? What do you want?”
Robert chuckled, “Just wanted to know how you’re feeling. Simple question, really.”
Mitch eyed him, warily, noting with a grunt, that only one of his eyes would open, “Tip top, man. Why? You gonna arrest me?”
Harris shook his head, “Look, kid, I’m not even on duty, alright? Lighten up. Thought you might want to know… You missed the kid… he fell back into the creek. His dad pulled the bike off the top of you, and kept you from drowning. I don’t know where you get your luck, man, but some day it’s going to run out… I’d quit pushing it if I were you.”
“Yeah?” Mitch asked… “Well… I’d shave that weasel off my lip if
I were
you… Go away man… my head hurts.”
Robert shook his head, and walked out…
Mitch closed his eyes, silently happy that he didn’t hurt anyone but himself… a single tear finding its way down his face, and into his hair…
To be continued
