Divergence

By Jeff E. Gregory

Jason Gregg awakes with a start - his heart is pounding, and he is sweating profusely. A series of cascading déjà vus is giving Jason a glimpse into the near future of events about to happen, but how can he know this?

The Republicans and Democrats are choosing their respective presumptive nominees for the coming election, with California governor Mitch Hepburn firmly in control with his eyes on the prize. He's got a lock on the California primary and the White House coronation awaits. But can events thousands of miles away change the outcome, and the future of humanity?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeff E. Gregory
• Release date: Jul 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9780986949241

Jeff E. Gregory

At 48, my first novel, Reversal of Redemption, based on an actual event, was published here at Smashwords. I have enjoyed a 24+ year career with the Canadian government and I am looking forward to my final 10+ years in government. I am married, with one daughter, and I have discovered writing is just as enjoyable as reading.

Book preview

Prologue

June 2011

"…And so, I am announcing today, that I WILL be a candidate for the Republican nomination."

And with that, Mitchell Hepburn, Mitch to his friends and family, announced his intention to the world via a web link, live from the Governor’s Mansion in Sacramento. It had been the world’s worst-kept secret, but that didn’t stop Mitch Hepburn from doing it in style; a new style that electrified the assembled audience. After a span of nearly thirty years, the governor was back at 1526 H Street in Sacramento. It had been a life-long dream of Mitch’s to grace the historic front steps of California’s most prestigious address, and now Mitch was bidding adieu, as his second term was beginning to draw to a close.

The mansion was built in 1877 to house local hardware merchant Albert Gallantin. For sixty-four years and thirteen governors, from George Pardee in 1903 to Pat Brown in 1967, governors had called the historic state site home, until Gerry Brown refused residency, and the mansion was sold in 1982, becoming a state historic site. It had been the refusal of Brown and successive governors, taking up residence all over Sacramento that spurred Hepburn to declare upon winning the election that the governor belongs in the Governor’s Mansion, and that mansion was to be 1526 H Street. The mansion site retained its historical significance, state historic site designation, and usefulness all in one shot, when Hepburn was inaugurated on the front steps of the mansion, heralding in a new era, or re-heralding in an older era, depending on one’s point of view.

At 53, Hepburn was close to fully serving his second of two terms, which the Constitution of California had limited governors since 1903. Mitch was still full of vim and vinegar, and now, the time was ripe for the next logical stepping stone: the presidency. Born of a modest local landowner in Palo Alto, Mitch may have earned his degree at Harvard and had graduated head of his class, but he exuded an aura of middle-America, with his genuine charm and concern for others.

There were countless stories of putting himself dead last, the most poignant being his graduation from Harvard. Rather than being presented his degree first, as had been the tradition at Harvard, Mitch insisted that the special graduates, those with physical limitations, be first in procession. There weren’t many; only five, but the mere suggestion had won him accolades throughout the campus, both within the student body, and all faculties. In the Great Hall of the Baker Library, the stunning panorama photograph of the moment leading to the first graduate receiving their diploma was mounted and displayed as a 3D holographic image, ever encapsulating the grace and humbleness of Mitchell Hepburn.

With his law degree almost in hand, he was immediately swept off his feet while exiting the bar exam to Ernst, Winnington & Hyatt in San Francisco, where he began a scintillating career. He was known throughout the state as, Mighty Mitch. The Republican Party was calling – beckoning him to end the drought in the governorship that had eluded five successive red elephant Republican challengers. In the election of 2004, Hepburn garnered 77% of the popular vote; the highest recorded percentage for a state governor in California history. He was re-elected with 68% - another landslide victory.

Mrs. Hepburn, the former Miss Lynn Lake, a California supermodel and former Miss World, had caught Mitch’s wandering eye during his pioneer days at Ernst, Winnington & Hyatt. The age difference back then was significant – nineteen years his junior, but as the years rolled on, the gap seemed to thin dramatically. California loved their first family, which had grown to five, with three daughters born in 2004, 2005 and 2007. Lynn was still quite a prize at 34, and stood by her husband during his candidacy announcement, smiling broadly. The three daughters were there as well: Amber, Kimberly, and Beth. Together, the first family was gearing up for a monumental challenge. The republican slate already included former Vice President Hayden Sinclair and media mogul Kyle Gilmour, each with pockets deep enough to hide billions. The party insiders frowned upon two financial heavyweights, alienating the party from the grassroots and Tea Party movements that had been amassing since the last election. Back in 2008, the Tea Party had been a backlash resulting from the party’s pick for president. The party desperately needed someone who could win back the common folk, someone who was well-connected with middle-America. The Republicans were united in the backroom in Washington: They wanted Mitch Hepburn.

The other heavyweights in the race were Kyle Gilmour and Hayden Sinclair. Gilmour, the effervescent-wannabe media mogul, was nothing more than an attention-seeking missile, viewed by many backroom boys as a loose cannon ready to implode at a moment’s notice. The debates had shown that, even though he was a hawkish, redneck conservative, his off-the-cuff remarks, and steerage away from the scripted text, was a recipe for disaster. The first of the debates had him attacking everyone and everything, and appearing to stand for nothing. The next debate was the complete opposite. At 68, he was viewed as nearly too old to serve two terms; a one-term wonder. His private life was just that: a private, impregnable fortress. None knew publicly what his private life was like, and Gilmour was only too happy to keep it that way. Whatever skeletons were in the Gilmour closet were likely to stay there. However, nothing was iron-clad.

Hayden Sinclair, the former vice president under the previous republican administration had served one term as vice. A falling out with the president eventually led Sinclair to head a government think tank, biding his time until the stars aligned for the great come-back. Sinclair was 61, and as vice president, enjoyed a folksy charm he had established during the run-up to the campaign. Sinclair was the backroom choice for nominee, until someone pushed to draft Mitch Hepburn. Then, everything changed.

On the Democrat side, the slap-fest was in full swing. The comedic revelry that was enigmatic of the Democratic slate was a target for character assassination that was unprecedented in American politics. Whoever was going to win the democratic nomination would be no match for the republican heavyweights waiting in the wings. The star candidate, Wynn Scott, the 5-time senator from New York, had as much baggage as all the other blue donkey candidates combined. There was the on-again, off-again dalliance with fabled Hollywood goddess Gretchen Findlay. It seemed every time Findlay was in New York, Scott was in the background, just out of camera range. He even sported a bad getup that a LNN reporter quickly exposed. There was a questionable business investment off-shore that reeked of a Ponzi scheme. If Scott was going to pull off the Democratic nomination, democrats would be going into hiding for four years. There was one bright star among the group, but rather out there, politically. Experience was everything, but no one really cared about a state representative from Alaska.

* * * * *

Nine months later

The ringing of the phone had spooked him out of his apparent slumber; his heart was hyper-beating. He was sweating profusely and red as a beet.

He was sitting in his office chair in his cubicle, facing his two flat screens, and he immediately felt a quick stab in his left buttock, and he lifted left his leg. Underneath his leg was his portable music device. He was sitting in his chair, on top of his music device, to which he had been listening; of that he was absolutely certain, but why was it underneath his buttock with the earplugs dangling over the side?

Jason Gregg always dreamed during REM, and he usually remembered those dreams, but not this time. In fact, Jason had never before fallen asleep at work; he always made sure he got his full 8 hours of slumber without fail. It certainly wasn’t like him to fall asleep at his desk, and he took that, as well as the night sweat, as a sign of a pending medical issue, so Jason feigned a headache that eluded even the greatest of medications. When Jason had a headache, he needed to be alone, away from work, and away from the constant hounding of colleagues requiring his talents to assist them with whatever the latest technological challenge offered, be it the information technology gang on the third floor, or Elsie McCraken over in Assessment Services. There was always someone at National Revenue hounding him for expertise; a fate that followed him all the way from Civil Aviation Canada, or CAC, as it was known, two years earlier.

Jason’s last recorded voice-mail message at CAC the day he left it far behind for National Revenue had been just such a plea; "Help me, help me…don’t leave…please, I need you! So much for Donna Rodway on the CAC switchboard; she would have to field her own calls, or find someone else who would drop what they were doing to answer questions no one else at CAC could answer. Jason’s regulatory expertise was a myriad of self-taught, self-interpreting genius that even the lawyers in Legal Services had called innovative. Now, here at National Revenue, it was happening again. Jason really didn’t mind it at all. He was always too willing to take on a challenge that confounded the front lines, frustrated the subject matter experts, or was just too much to take on for those that were busy".

Jason turned toward the ringing phone, paralyzed with fear.

Don’t forget your super favour, Jay!

Jason picked up the receiver off the cradle.

"Hi, Tori!" Jason opened, trembling in his chair

"Don’t forget your super favour, Jay," Tori cooed softly.

* * * * *

Jason started his planned headache at precisely 2:50, right after Tori’s call; a reminder that today was Super Tuesday, and he had better get those errands done. By his calculation, he could catch the 2:55 118 transit way bus to Chartres. Timing was everything ever since the bus company implemented the schedule changes back on September 4, 2011. Now, Jason had to compete with tens of others as overcrowding was the new norm in Canada’s capital. The bus company, Odeon, had slashed $25 million from its budget and the ramifications fell hardest on the suburban middle-class, the meat and potatoes of the primary income for Odeon. The express routes came from all over the city to downtown, but the Chartres crowd was by far, per capita, the most bus-happy gang of the city. Jason and Tori had attended the open house back in June, when the cuts and route changes had been announced. Jason voiced his concern out-of-turn by yelling at the moderator’s compliment of how good Chartres residents were by squawking, "WHY THE HELL ARE YOU WRECKING IT FOR US?"

The meeting became a mob-fest with unruly residents standing, jabbing their long, pointy fingers at the moderator, a city councilor, and head of the city transportation board. It took some skill but the crowd soon settled down when one of Chartres’ four councilors, Ward Kepler, stood and stated, Let them speak, but at the mike. The moderator had not mentioned about having concerned residents line up at the available audience microphone. Once Kepler had announced that, the crowd became subdued and orderly, and many, over fifty, lined up at the mike. The moderator tried to cut off the line after number thirty, but Kepler egged them on to stand their ground and voice their concern. That concern turned out to be the restoration of one of the key express routes – Route 118 through the heart of Chartres.

* * * * *

It was now 2:53, as Jason exited 750 Rockdale Street, the nerve centre for National Revenue, when a strange feeling overcame him once again. He stopped for a moment. It was eerie; yet another spine-tingling déjà vu. Jason had experienced déjà vu many times in the past, but these last few were exceptional. He didn’t quite know what to make of it. It was the third time within minutes that this had occurred – the first one was when the phone rang, and he knew it was Tori calling to remind him about those errands, the second one being in the elevator. The feeling finally passed, and Jason continued on, but he had been rattled just the same.

It was a beautiful late winter afternoon. The birds were returning from their wintry get-away, and the snow had melted away. The air was crisp and clean and smelled of an early spring, as Wellington Willie had corrected predicted back on February 2. Wellington Willie, the Canadian cousin of Punxsutawney Phil, correctly announced an early spring, having not seen his shadow at sunrise that morning. Wellington was no longer a town name unto itself, but rather Kitchener-Cambridge-Waterloo-Wellington-Wentworth, the longest hyphenated municipality in Canada, thanks to amalgamation and self-identity. Wellington Willie had retained his unique, self-identified name.

There was a clear, blue sky and the air temperature was in the mid-teens Celsius, a boon for eastern Ontario. Jason was in a great mood now. He and Tori had just plunked down $450 US on their favourite summer retreat in Virginia Beach.

Jason was looking forward to getting home early today; he had those errands to run. Nothing was going to prevent him from tuning in to Liberty News Network, or LNN as it was known, for the initial polls closing at 6:30 on this formidable day: Super Tuesday. It was going to be an extra busy night for the analysts on both sides of the spectrum. Both the Democrats and the Republicans were choosing their nominee for the upcoming presidential election in November.

The Democratic side still had a field of five candidates, including Wynn Scott, the 5-time senator from New York. The Republican field had narrowed to three, from the original fifteen. Among the three was Mitch Hepburn, the current governor of California.

Jason sported his favourite jacket, a camelhair jacket middle brother Rick and wife Johanna had purchased for him in Dubai, a grey, collarless shirt, new dark-blue denim jeans and his favourite outerwear – a pair of cheap, grey canvas runners, with white laces extending into large bows. His dirty blond mullet was approaching shoulder-length, and that was one more thing to add to the To Do list for Saturday.

Jason spotted the bus arriving two minutes early, as soon as he had let go of the door for a colleague of his, a colleague he knew was there, without having seen who it was.

See you tomorrow, Kyle, Jason blurted out, staring at the 118 across the way.

Wow, you really DO have eyes in the back of your head!

Kyle Freidman turned abruptly, eyebrow raised in incredulous awe; just how could Jason have known he was behind him?

The sidewalks were loading up, as were the streets; each filled with the daily commuters heading out a few minutes early to get the good seats on the express routes, or get to the suburbs along the Trans-Canada before everyone else. Jason went to break into a full sprint, but his eye was about to catch sight of something. He thought he felt it coming on when exiting the elevator, the first ride of 5 from the 5th floor to the home front door. He adjusted his walking stance for the unplanned event, determined to deny that the situation had occurred. He had not looked down while in the elevator.

Normally, this was not an issue. Normally, he would address the issue and be done with it, and be on his merry way, but this time was different. A strange feeling of dread overcame him once again. There would be no should I or shouldn’t I, he would usually ponder. He had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to steady himself, in an attempt to recover from the recurring eerie feeling that was overcoming him. He was blocking the path of an on-coming pedestrian, National Defence employee Susan Williams.

* * * * *

At 33, Williams had worked her way up through the civilian ranks to manager. She had faced discrimination at the onset of her career, but her ruthlessness at age 21 had proven to be a force to be suppressed, rather than engaged. She had caught the attention of some of the highers-up. The instigators were behind bars, thanks to Susan’s relentless pursuit of justice, as open as could possibly be. Her tactics were such that anyone who dared utter a single derogatory word second-guessed their strategy before speaking. Such was the way within the ranks anywhere Susan Williams worked; everyone on their guard, especially the men, and of those, the officers. No one wanted a future that awaited Williams’ last director, Stephen Calhoun. Calhoun was arrested and was awaiting trial for simply uttering a sexual innuendo. Williams had him arrested on the spot, and successfully sued him for $400,000, plus punitive damages.

Her sleek appearance was more cat-like than human – Eartha Kitt could have learned a few lessons from Susan Williams. Her high cheekbones and slanted eyes were the dominant features of her mysterious facial features. Her small, perfectly sculpted nose accentuated her Hollywood face. She had a long slender neck emulating and certainly rivalling the late Audrey Hepburn. Her long, auburn hair was usually loose, falling where it may behind her svelte, but rounded shoulders, or combed over to one side, revealing her tantalizing well-proportioned ears, able to pick up any off-the-cuff remark within earshot. She walked in spiked heels with a military rhythm; her arms straight as can be pumping the air in front with each stringent stride. Her attire was a crimson red short dress, rather tight-fitting to reveal her natural voluptuous breasts. She was hot stuff, and she worked it for all its worth to her own advantage, as well as for those highers-up.

Susan was on her way to the post office to mail a letter; that was the ruse anyway. The truth was much more sinister than that. The highers-up within National Defence had an ulterior motive, and Susan Williams was the perfect accomplice.

* * * * *

"Okay, we’re ready to move out," crackled the voice of the prime minister’s aide, doubling up as head of the entourage. The prime minister was now secure inside the black SUV near the end of the motorcade, along with his wife and their three children. The motorcade began lumbering down the semi-circular driveway of 2 Confederation Boulevard, on its way to the airport, where Canada 1, an Airbus A340, stood at the ready, taking Canada’s first family to Whistler-Blackcomb on a skiing holiday; that was the official line. The motorcade swung right leaving behind 2 Confederation Boulevard, the 1856 Victorian mansion every prime minister of Canada had called home since Canada’s birth in 1867. The lone occupant, Puddles, the family dog, was barking wildly in the front window and wetting the settee, as they bade him farewell. The motorcade began heading down Confederation Boulevard, flanked at either end with police constables on their motorcycles.

* * * * *

Susan Williams was strutting along while gazing up at the skyline, enjoying the beautiful sky and warm sun, but still regimented in her walking discipline. She was just steps away from Jason when he suddenly appeared; eyeing the bus arriving early, as he swung the door open, holding it for his colleague. He quickly glanced downward at his right shoelace, knowing his world of denial had vanished with the reality that reflected back at him.

Jason already knew what he had to do. With the bus already there, those errands to run, and a tight deadline, he knew he didn’t have a lot of time to fool around, but he would at the very least have to address in some way the issue at hand – the untied shoelace. He instantly winced, and uttered out loud a drawn-out sigh, along with the phrase, "Why me?" He thought he knew what was coming, as he made his decision.

Part I

Chapter 1

Tuesday, March 6, 2012, 2:53 PM

Jason bent down, fuming at himself, and began tying his shoelace, still eyeing the bus that was stopped across the street. 7-5-0 R-O-C-K-D-A-L-E, as it was, emblazoned in gothic marble letters across the grand archway was at the corner of Rockdale Street and Confederation Boulevard; although, the entrance to the National Revenue building was at the eastern end of the complex, not right at the street corner some thirty metres distant. The bus stop, where the 118 was boarding passengers, was