Las Vegas, Nevada February 8

David Barber sat in the bus depot reading the previous day's newspaper. He wondered what to expect to see after thirty plus years. In 1970 Major Charles had been a young man with a full head of hair and a lean, athletic build. For the thousandth time the newspaper man repositioned himself on the thin slatted bench beneath a spring sun.

“Hello, Barber.” The voice came from behind the newspaper hound.

“Been here nearly an hour waiting on you.” Barber took a sidelong glance at the man seated beside him. Major Charles wore khakis and a button down beneath an aged, but still handsome face. Aviator sunglasses hung from his shirt pocket.

“I had to make sure no one was here to greet me.” A wary glance around the street reassured him.

“Did you ever find your sons?” Barber turned to the comics lazily.

“Still looking.” It had been a rough road to get as close as he was. Major Charles seemed to always be a day or two behind Jarod. He did get to see all the good his eldest son was doing along the way. In that he could take pride.

“What happened to the package we slipped out of the base?” Barber asked, watching the other man for a response.

“Miss Helms and I took it safely to Philadelphia, an old friend there took care of it for us.” The major smiled slyly, remembering his friend's expression.

“Good, those three I told you about from Delaware are in the stockade on the base as we speak.” Major Charles listened to Barber's weary voice. The reporter had a lot of water under the bridge. Thirty years and change had taken their toll. “I think the lid is about to come off this can of worms, Major.” Barber sighed heavily, one beefy hand thumbing through the obituary column.

“Yes, I believe it is, I'll be out there by this time tomorrow, take care of yourself.” Neither man said anything, they just went in separate directions.

Scene Break

NNL 0200 hrs February 9

Jarod lay on the twin bed, his eyes closed, but he wasn't asleep. The Pretender hadn't puled down the bed linens or kicked off his shoes yet. Dry, warm air filled the guest quarters where he camped out. Even with a stylish, marble bathroom, southwestern motif paintings and a door he could choose to walk out of, Jarod felt cramped in the subterranean living space. It was too much like the Centre.

“You have mail.” Broke Jarod out of his dozing mode, bringing him to life. One new message had appeared on Jarod's email account. A large attachment and two words comprised the message: Major Charles, Conundrum.

“ Thank you, Angelo.” Jarod whispered aloud in the dark. Scanning the attachment after decoding and reverse encryption, Jarod found a Centre file with a birth certificate and medical files for a mother, son and father. Included were IQ tests, physicals, blood work and results of genetic tests. Phrases like, 'Subject shows extreme pain tolerance' or 'Evidence of photographic memory evident at an early age.', filed every report on all three patients. Jarod read, both horrified and not one bit surprised. The Centre and Project Backstep were more connected than Jarod had known. At the end of the attachment was a letter from Dr. Mentnor, formally complaining about the direction Project BS was taking. Project Backstep should be manned by volunteers only, he argued. Jarod skipped back to the birth certificate. 'Frank B. Parker', typed in neat, block letter crossed the name portion of the official document. The stolen genius swore under his breath. There wasn't anything the Centre wouldn't stoop to.

“I see the Pretender project wasn't the only pie you had your finger in.” Jarod gritted his teeth, his indignation flaring more than usual. The Pretender printed the file off and set out to the stockade.

Dressed as a medic orderly, Jarod rolled a cart toward the two guards posted outside the holding cell. The higher ranking of the two looked him up and down.

“You're new on base, aren't you.” Jarod heard the gruff, southern drawl in the soldier's voice.

“Yeah, that's why I got down here late, took forever to find the holding cells.” Jarod lied easily.

“Good luck in there, don't get too close to the female, she nearly strangled Ramsey earlier today. She's a wildcat's kitten.” The sergeant shook his head.

“I'll remember that, thanks.” Jarod laughed. These three didn't know the half of it. Parker was as deadly as she was seductive. The guard buzzed him into the cell block. He hummed softly as he pushed the stainless steel cart down the block walled enclosure. One wheel squeaked and rattled as it rolled along.

“Pick that up and carry it, you imbecile.” Miss Parker bellowed, sitting up on her bunk.

“Ah, Miss Parker, I chose this cart especially for you.” Sydney and Broots both sat bolt upright. Miss Parker rushed to the bars.

“Jarod.” She hissed venomously.

“Why, Miss Parker, it's good to see you too.” He slid a meal of toasted wheat bread and peanut butter through the tray slot. “I thought you might be hungry and I know your stomach hurts when it's empty.” Somewhere down deep he hoped Miss Parker wouldn't throw it in his face.

“What are you doing here, Jarod?” Sydney asked, wiping sleep from one eye.

“Finding the truth.” He pulled the file from beneath his uniform and passed it through the bars to Sydney. The doctor flipped through the file, speed reading the high lights.

“The Centre was involved with Project BS from the beginning, they planned to steal a child, a prodigy, to use as a chrononaut.” The ire in Jarod's voice rose. The force of his anger vibrated up and down the cement cells.

“I had no idea.” Sydney studied the letter at the end of the file as he spoke.

“What does that have to do with why we're locked in here?” Miss Parker demanded. Jarod turned his cold expression on her.

“My father must have found out about Project BS when he followed Mr. Parker to NNL to kidnap him.” Three pair of eyes looked at the Pretender like he'd become a gray alien all of a sudden.

“My father was never in any danger of being kidnapped.” Miss Parker openly scoffed.

“Are you so sure, had the Centre informed you of everything, Miss Parker?” Jarod countered, his jaw clenched and dark eyes narrowed. He had her dead to rights. The Centre only disseminated information for the purpose of manipulation. Miss Parker's expression turned cat-like, never a good sign. If she had them, Parker would have kneaded her claws to use them on the master of disguise standing before her.

“Eat your toast, Miss Parker, you'll have a long day ahead of you tomorrow.” Jarod took the file from Sydney and rolled his cart out the door. Once outside, the genius stopped to be checked out. The ranking guard looked him up and down again.

“You don't look any worse for wear, is she as gorgeous as they say?” The lean built guard asked, a grin on his mischievous face.

“She's quite attractive.” Jarod agreed, not sure how he felt about other men ogling Miss Parker. He'd known her most of his life and for better or worse, she was the most constant female in his solitary existence.

Scene Break

Knott County, KY February 8

Chase Harper sat in the building he owned in downtown Hindman. Across the room a small, color TV played live coverage of the president's announcement. A dark scowl controlled the features of the Dark Moon Group's leader. His emerald green eyes bore holes into the news broadcast. None of the countries targeted had capitulated. Three men, average men, stood in the simple, second floor office.

“AJ, send a message to the contacts of each capitol, have them go ahead with the assassinations and clear out our operatives.” Harper's southern drawl pulled the sentences together tightly. The southeastern Kentucky businessman had began to see a need for change in America as a young man growing up during the Vietnam War. Using the family money gleaned from dealing with huge energy companies stripping the Appalachian mountains of coal and natural gas he'd set about to make those changes. Ten generations of Harper's family had been neck deep in the business.

“Yes, Sir, Mr. Harper, we'll have this done before sunset.” AJ Slone moved swiftly out of the worn office. Operatives all over the continent were set to use the deadly sound wave technology. America had to change, by force if necessary.

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