March 1980
Tommy was reading Physics Today in his apartment when an article caught his eye.
"Quantum Computing: Theoretical Possibilities." Discussion of Richard Feynman's recent work on quantum mechanical computers. Machines that could solve problems exponentially faster than classical computers.
Still theoretical. Still decades away from practical implementation.
But the implications: computers powerful enough to crack any encryption. Simulate any complex system. Predict outcomes with unprecedented accuracy.
Tommy thought about his father's 1962 predictions. Rick had seen where computing was going when computers were primitive.
What would Rick have predicted about quantum computers?
Probably: tools for ultimate control. Perfect surveillance. Unbreakable encryption for those with access, complete transparency for those without.
Power concentrated in whoever controlled the most advanced technology.
Tommy closed the magazine.
Technology kept advancing. Exponentially. But human wisdom lagged. Maybe always would.
We were building tools we didn't have the wisdom to use ethically.
Like children with loaded guns.
June 1980
Sarah turned eleven.
Tommy picked her up for his weekend visit. She was growing up fast now. Starting to look less like a child, more like a young person.
They went to the California Science Center. Sarah's idea—she wanted to see the space exhibits.
They spent hours looking at Apollo capsules, Mars rover models, satellite mockups.
"Do you think we'll have space stations by the time I'm grown up?" Sarah asked.
"Probably. We already had Skylab. It'll get better."
"I want to work in space. Or help build spacecraft." She looked at him. "Like you build planes. But for exploring instead of fighting."
"You could do that."
"Daddy, can I ask you something serious?"
"Of course."
"Do you love your work more than you love me?"
Tommy felt his chest tighten. Not the first time she'd asked. But more direct now.
"No. I love you more than anything."
"Then why do you only see me one weekend a month?"
"Because... because I made mistakes. When you were little. I chose work over family. And by the time I realized my mistake, it was too late."
"Do you regret it?"
Tommy thought about the Skunk Works. About Have Blue. About the F-117 program that would change aviation history. About his name in the engineering reports. About legacy.
About quantum computers and networked warfare and all the technology humans were building without the wisdom to use it ethically.
About Prometheus Protocol and patterns he couldn't unsee and questions that made people disappear.
"I don't know," he admitted.
Sarah nodded. Like she'd expected that answer.
"Would you choose different now?"
Tommy looked at his eleven-year-old daughter. Smart. Perceptive. Asking the hard questions.
"I don't know that either."
They drove home in silence.
November 1980
Tommy was walking to his car after work when he noticed them.
Two men. Standing by a dark sedan. Watching him.
Not Hawkey security—he knew those guys. Not local police. Something else.
Professional. Alert. Focused on him specifically.
Tommy got in his car, drove home. Checked his rearview mirror.
The sedan followed. Not hiding it. Wanting to be seen.
Message received: We're watching you.
Tommy drove past his apartment, took side streets, doubled back. The sedan stayed with him.
Finally, Tommy drove to a police station. Pulled into the lot. The sedan drove past, disappeared.
Tommy sat in the parking lot for thirty minutes. Breathing hard. Hands shaking.
They knew. Someone knew he'd been looking into things. Knew he had his father's notebook. Knew he was asking questions.
Dave's warning: Or worse.
Dave's grave.
Tommy thought about Sarah. Eleven years old. Smart. Innocent. Vulnerable.
He drove to Linda's house. Broke their agreement—no unscheduled visits.
Linda answered the door, surprised. "Tommy? What's wrong?"
"Is Sarah here?"
"She's at a sleepover at Jessica's house. Why?"
"Has anyone been watching your house? Following you? Anyone suspicious?"
"What? No. Tommy, what's going on?"
"I don't know. Maybe nothing. But if you see anything odd—anyone watching Sarah, following her, anything—you call the police immediately. Understand?"
"You're scaring me."
"I'm sorry. Just... be careful. Keep Sarah safe."
"Tommy, what did you do?"
"Nothing. I didn't do anything." But even as he said it, Tommy knew it was a lie.
He'd asked questions. Seen patterns. Followed his father's path.
And now they'd noticed.
He left before Linda could ask more questions.
December 1980
The note arrived in Tommy's mailbox.
Plain envelope. No return address. Inside: a single sheet of paper with typed text.
Mr. Forsyth,
Your father made poor choices. Chose truth over safety. It cost him everything.
You're making similar choices. Asking similar questions. Following similar patterns.
We understand curiosity. But curiosity has limits.
Consider the physics. Systems seek equilibrium. Perturbations are corrected. Anomalies are eliminated.
Your daughter. Sarah. Eleven years old. Attends Oakwood Elementary. Interested in space science. Wants to be an astronaut. Lives with her mother at 847 Maple Drive, Pasadena.
Remarkable child. Bright future ahead of her.
Safety is a choice, Mr. Forsyth. Systems can be perturbed in many ways. Some perturbations are reversible. Others are not.
Choose wisely.
Tommy read it three times.
They knew where Sarah lived. Knew her school. Knew her aspirations. Were watching her.
The message was clear: stop asking questions or we hurt your daughter.
The physics metaphor was deliberate. They knew he was an engineer. Knew he thought in systems and equations.
And were threatening to solve the "Tommy problem" by creating a different perturbation.
Harming Sarah.
Tommy thought about his father. About Morrison. About David Coleman. About everyone who'd fought Prometheus Protocol.
All dead. All destroyed. All failed.
And now they were threatening Sarah.
Tommy had a choice.
Continue his father's fight and risk Sarah's life.
Or stay silent and keep her safe.
Not really a choice at all.
January 1981
Tommy destroyed everything.
Started with his father's notebook. Took it to the apartment complex dumpster. Burned it. Watched Rick's careful handwriting turn to ash.
Then his own files. Every document. Every contract analysis. Every pattern he'd documented.
His Apple II floppy disks. All of them. Burned them too. Watched the magnetic data melt away.
Emptied his safety deposit box. Destroyed those copies.
Took the New York key—the one from the 1980 envelope. Threw it off a bridge into a river. Didn't want to know what was in that box. Didn't want the temptation.
Destroyed everything except one thing: the original Baltimore vault key from 1967. That one he kept. Locked away. Just in case.
But everything else: gone.
Every question erased. Every pattern forgotten. Every investigation ended.
Tommy went to work Monday morning. Did his job. Built aircraft. Collected his paycheck.
Visited Sarah one weekend a month. Acted normal. Acted like nothing was wrong.
Because nothing was wrong. He was just an engineer. Building aircraft. Living his life. Raising his daughter as best he could with limited time.
Not fighting conspiracies. Not following his father's path. Not making his father's mistakes.
Choosing Sarah's safety over truth.
Choosing survival over sacrifice.
The way he should have chosen from the beginning.
February 1981
Sarah's school called.
"Mr. Forsyth, this is Principal Morrison from Oakwood Elementary. We wanted to let you know Sarah's been having nightmares. Bad ones. She mentioned seeing a car that's been parked near the school. Said it made her uncomfortable."
Tommy's blood ran cold. "What kind of car?"
"Dark sedan. She said she's seen it several times. We checked—there was no suspicious vehicle. But she's clearly anxious about something."
"Thank you for calling. I'll talk to her."
Tommy called Linda immediately. "Did Sarah mention a dark car to you?"
"Yes. Last week. She said she kept seeing it. I checked—didn't see anything. Thought she was just being dramatic." Linda paused. "Tommy, what's going on? First you show up panicked, now this?"
"I don't know. But keep watching. If Sarah mentions it again, take it seriously."
That weekend, Tommy asked Sarah about it.
"Honey, Mom said you saw a car near school?"
Sarah nodded. "Dark blue sedan. I saw it three times. Just... sitting there. Watching."
"Did you see who was in it?"
"No. Windows were tinted. But it was there. I'm not making it up."
"I believe you." Tommy pulled her close. "If you see it again, tell a teacher immediately. Or Mom. Or call me. Okay?"
"Okay. But why? What's going on?"
"Nothing. Just... being careful."
But Tommy knew: they were making their presence known. Letting him know they could get to Sarah anytime they wanted.
The threat was real.
And Tommy had made his choice.
Stop asking questions. Stop investigating. Stop seeing patterns.
Or lose his daughter.
He'd already lost her once through divorce. Through choosing work over family.
He wouldn't lose her a second time. Not like this. Not to people who made Dave Miller's car leave the road. Who made components fail at precise moments. Who engineered systems like Tommy engineered aircraft.
He would stay silent.
For Sarah.
Forever.