Crossing In Time: The 1st Disaster (Between Two Evils Series) by Orton D. L

Author:Orton, D. L. [Orton, D. L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Rocky Mountain Press
Published: 2015-04-21T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter 27

Matt: Pretty Nasty Stuff

So here I sit deep inside an underground bunker outside Washington DC, Picasso pacing in front of me like a caged tiger. Everything in here looks eerily familiar, right down to the Empire State Building outside the fake window, the cheap imitation wood tables, and the beastly coffee. I remind myself not to drink the water.

After nearly an hour of twiddling my thumbs, I can’t take it anymore. “Bloody hell, mate, can you stop with the pacing, please?”

A month ago, Air Force One was shot down over the Amazon rainforest, probably using a surface-to-air missile system sold to the terrorists by the US Government.

If it weren’t so god awful, it would almost be funny.

Hours after the plane went down, an ex-Hollywood action hero was sworn in as the President. Turns out, the guy is a religious fanatic who promises to “bring back the real America.” Apparently, the best way of doing that is by declaring martial law, offering huge tax incentives on gun purchases, and canceling all government services.

But that’s not the worst of it. Only a couple of days after we figured things out, our funding was cut pending the new President’s personal approval—personal as “in person.” So here we are, locked inside an underground cell watching the clock tick.

Why is it always cold, dark, and cramped? But I suppose it beats snakes.

The door swings open, and we are escorted into a large conference room just as four elderly men are shown out. Picasso gives them a nod and then turns to me. “Ex Star Wars guys.” I give him a blank stare, and he adds, “Now working on a city-sized force field, but they haven’t made any real progress in decades.”

The President, who is eating a chocolate-covered donut, is wearing a gray T-shirt with “Pro Life. Pro God. Pro Gun.” on it. He’s sitting at the head of an oblong table surrounded by what appears to be an impromptu Halloween party. On his right is a scantily-clad redhead with breasts the size of Montana. She’s reading some sort of glossy fashion magazine and doesn’t even glance up when we enter. Next to her is a short Asian man in a cowboy hat. To the President’s left is a balding blond guy in a Hawaiian shirt, and next to him is a middle-aged woman wearing a white fedora and holding a small dog. Of the seven people seated at the table, there is only one person wearing anything close to business attire: a black woman in a dark blue suit.

The President licks chocolate off his fingers. “Well then, what’s up?”

I take a seat, and the woman in a suit jacket reads out the title of our project.

Picasso, who is in dress uniform and pinned with enough medals to open a pawnshop, remains standing. “We have a working time machine, Mr. President, and we need your approval to use it on a matter of national security.”

“A time machine? You mean like a TARDIS?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s the craziest thing I’ve heard all morning,” the President says.

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