12.1.99
The Atlantic Ocean off of the coast
of Newfoundland.
05:15 AM
The
waters in the Atlantic are cold this time of year, rarely reaching above thirty
degrees Fahrenheit. Any human beings cast off in the merciless water would have
a survival time of less than a minute before hypothermia sets in and death
would occur due to exposure. An unusual assortment of things is lost overboard
by boats returning from months at sea; shoes, nettings, various bits of
machinery and so on. So it isn’t unusual for a returning ships magnometer to
chime as she approaches the Newfoundland coast. Ship after ship passed over the
same section of the coastal region, and the magnometer on ship after ship rang
out, letting the crews knows of the large mass of metal below their keels.
However none of the ships reported what they found, after all there were no
reports of ships being lost recently, so there was no reason to think there was
anything out of the ordinary. It was more likely that this was simply one of
the many ships sunk in the Atlantic during world war two. However this all
changed on a cold December morning.
The
Pride of Minnesota is a small fishing boat, privately owned and operated
for over thirty years by Hugh McCallum. McCallum recently brought his son Bob
in as a partner who could help modernize and upgrade his very modest operation.
Bob is a superlative businessman with a fine sense of how a business should
run, and more importantly how a business should change. Bob however, isn’t much
of a fisherman.
“I don’t see why I really need to
come along on these trips pop.” Bob said, “It’s not like I am ever going to
have to actually…. well you know… fish.” He emphasized the last word like it is
an expletive.
“You need to get out of the office
once and awhile, feel the air blow through your hair, smell the salt in the
air…”
Bob cut him off “Along with the
smell of petrol, oil and rotting fish carcass. Definitely worth losing a day of
work over.”
The sarcasm in Bob’s voice was faint
but detectable.
“Young people” Hugh grumbled.
Suddenly
one of the fishing nets Bob had neglected to reel in suddenly went taut, and
the old fishing boat began to slow from its already leisurely five-knot crawl.
Hugh immediately noticed something was amiss, “What the bloody hell is that?”
“What now pop? Bob shot back, anger
creeping into his voice, “What have I screwed up now?”
“Be quiet son and go make sure all
the nets are reeled in.”
Bob moved to comply and he noticed
that the net he had forgotten about was extremely taut, the fibers stretching
to their utmost. Just when it seemed like the net would give………… it suddenly
went slack, limply floating in the briny seawater. The bow of the old trawler
softly splashed into the oncoming swell as Hugh immediately noticed the
resumption of their normal cruising speed, “What happened son?’
Not wanting to lie, Bob told him, ”I
forgot to reel the last net in. It was really straining, like it was hooked on
something, and then suddenly it gave in and went slack.”
“Well, you learned your lesson I
hope. Go ahead and reel that last net in, and I’ll get us up to speed.” Hugh
grumbled.
Bob moved to comply while dreaming
of a steaming mug of coffee with a generous dollop of bourbon in it when he
noticed something small, glimmering among the folds of the net.
Curiosity overwhelmed Bob as he
reeled the nets in much faster than normal.
What he found was a gold pocket
watch, an Elgin pocket watch, very old and heavily jeweled. It was a
breathtaking piece of artwork. It also must have been very old, for it was a
model of watch that needed to be wound daily. It also had an inscription on the
inside of the hinged cover-“My dearest Edmund, may we spend eternity together
in this moment…frozen in time.”
Bob noticed one last strange detail;
the time was frozen at precisely 3:21 a.m., on the 16th of whatever
month it was lost in the Atlantic. Bob thought what a grand discovery he had
made, but wanted to contact the authorities to be certain that this was not
stolen merchandise for it was easy to see that this was a very expensive watch.
He had no idea what kind of a mess he had just started………
12.5.99
The Federal Building in Downtown
Cleveland, Ohio
9:14 a.m.
Coffee, especially government coffee, tastes god-awful on Monday. Monday morning no less, when the hangover hasn’t started to recede from Saturday night just yet. Monday morning when the fucking traffic on Interstate 90 inbound to downtown Cleveland was backed up almost an hour. Monday morning framed by bitter cold winds and a sky so gray the tallest building in the skyline just seemed to fade into the nothingness the coats the sky. But hey! It’s not all bad right? You survived a whole two days alone. And you wouldn’t have given odds on that particular occurrence at 6 p.m. Friday night. While this is out of the ordinary for just about everyone else in the city, for United States Federal Marshal Thomas Coale, it was the same bitter routine he had endured for over two years, and things didn’t seem to be looking up.
“What the hell is going on with this
so-called coffee? I realize we are just a humble government agency but this is
just fucking pathetic.” Coale says as he looks at his mug in disgust.
“What is fucking pathetic is one of
my Marshals coming in an hour late to work on a Monday morning, then complaining
about the refreshments that uncle Sam has so generously seen fit to provide us,
you ungrateful son-of-a-bitch!” And with that Coale’s day just got a whole lot
worse.
Richard Scaia, head marshal for this
region of the U.S. and head of the territorial field office in Cleveland is a
short, thin man of thirty-four. Nattily attired in a well fit, custom made blue
pin-stripe suit, white cotton shirt, and beautiful gray silk tie, is in every
way possible the exact physical opposite of Tom Coale. Coale stands a hair of
six feet two, and weighs in the neighborhood of about 270 pounds. No one dares
to make fun of him as he has earned a reputation, and rightfully so, as one of
the strongest men to ever wear the silver shield of a United states Marshal.