The Doomsday Box by Herbie Brennan

commandeered a table by the window with some vague thought of watching out for Agent Stratford, even though they had no idea what he looked like. A waitress appeared, and they all ordered coffees except Danny, who insisted on a supersize slice of apple pie with a double helping of whipped cream.
    â€œWhat?” he demanded when they stared at him. “I’m nervous, all right? I always eat when I’m nervous.”
    â€œWe don’t have very much money, Danny,” Opal whispered, as the waitress departed. In fact they had almost none. Mr. Carradine had had no way of supplying them with 1962 banknotes, so they were making do with a handful of coins. None of these was 1962 vintage either, but he’d assured them no one ever checked dates on a coin so long as it looked and felt right. But their little hoard was depleted by their bus fares, and at five cents the apple pie was one of the more expensive items on the menu.
    â€œCarradine said this Stratford character will pick up the bill,” Danny muttered as he tucked into his pie.
    â€œLet’s hope he arrives before they give it to us,” Opal told him.
    In fact, the predicted fifteen minutes came and went with no sign of Agent Stratford. After half an hour, the talk among the group shifted from worrying about the bill (“We can always leg it without paying,” Danny said. “Not the first time I’ve had to.”) to speculating about what Stratford looked like.
    â€œHe’s a CIA agent,” Fuchsia said. “He’s bound to be tall and handsome, like Mr. Carradine.”
    â€œDo you think Mr. Carradine is handsome?” Opal asked, surprised.
    Fuchsia nodded enthusiastically. “I think he looks like Nicolas Cage.”
    They were still discussing Carradine when a short, plump man in a rumpled suit materialized beside their table. “You the Chronos kids?” he asked in a strong Bronx accent. “I’m Jack Stratford.”

Chapter 20
Opal, McLean, 1962
    T hey’d expected to go back to CIA headquarters, but Agent Stratford took them shopping instead. “You stick out like sore thumbs in that gear,” he told them. “You girls are wearing pants , for chrissake!” He looked at Fuchsia. “You’re even wearing trousers and a skirt. I know kids like to dress batty, but I’m not just talking fashion statements here. Some of your clothes are made from stuff that hasn’t even been invented yet. You want people asking questions?”
    Stratford’s car was one of those monsters with fins that did about five miles to the gallon. “Best you go in the back and keep your head down,” Stratford said to Michael. “Johnson won’t sign the Civil Rights Act for a couple of years, so you’d attract attention being driven by a white man. Sorry about that.”
    â€œHardly your fault,” Michael said calmly. He climbed into the back of the car and slid across the leather upholstery. Danny climbed in beside him while both girls sat up front.
    â€œOkay,” Stratford said as they headed into town, “as I understand it, you’re looking for one of our field agents, code-named Cobra. This is your first time mission. You’ve had no CIA training and precious little preparation, but you’ve done stuff for our Limey cousins and you do have some very spooky talents the nature of which is classified information. That about it?”
    Opal looked at him with surprise. “How did you know all that?” A thought occurred to her, and she asked, “Are you in touch with Mr. Carradine?”
    â€œYour controller back in your own time? Naw, the energy requirements for verbal communication through time are off the scale. Even those little badges of yours are costly to run, and all they do is send a microsecond beep to signal the end of your mission.”
    â€œSo how did you know?”
    â€œIt was all on the piece of paper you sent