by Robert Moriyama
Nightwatch created by Jeff
Williams
Struggling to stay awake, Simon Litchfield, Ph.D. (Civil Engineering) studied the gleaming hand-rubbed teak surface of the massive table in the main conference room of the Nightwatch Institute for Strategic and Economic Studies. In spite of the efforts of the best housekeeping staff in Georgetown, the heavy wood was haunted by the ghosts of countless meetings past -- nicks, scratches, coffee-cup imprints, even traces of scribbled notes where too much pressure had made marks not only on paper but on the tabletop itself. Simon mused that some of those meetings, like this one, had probably seemed long enough to grow new trees to replace the ones used to make the table.
The main agenda items for this meeting of the Major Projects Committee had long since been covered, and Simon had copious notes in his PDA to ensure that he would not forget any of the tasks that had been assigned to him. Unfortunately, the meeting had refused to die gracefully. Now the committee members had lapsed into the usual excruciatingly long exchange of vague, high-toned declarations about the role of the Institute in preserving and promoting Civilization. Based on experience, Simon guessed that this would go on for at least another half hour.
Simon spread his hands on the tabletop, stifling a yawn and stretching his fingers as far apart as he could. Piano teachers had loved his hands -- in his younger days, more than one had said that it was a waste for someone with such long, supple, but powerful digits to play only for his own entertainment, and infrequently at that. But like the table, Simon’s hands had accumulated an impressive array of odd-looking scars.
Now Simon examined his hands, turning them, flexing them. The scars, lines and indentations and shiny areas, were like a shorthand summary of major incidents in his life. The jagged white line across the left palm was a souvenir from a knife fight in Mozambique while he was there troubleshooting a water treatment project. The pock marks on the back of the right hand (that extended to the elbow and had cousins on his torso and leg) came from a spray of shrapnel from an anti-personnel mine in Sri Lanka that had maimed two local workers during the reconstruction of a high-voltage transformer station. The pink, shiny patch at the base of the left thumb brought back memories of a near-miss molotov cocktail in Chechnya on a railway bridge project. The calluses on the knuckles were harder to read; they had been built on the jaws and noses of assorted thugs across five continents on a hundred different jobs. The list went on, and on, and on ...
Simon suspected that he had as many traces of his checkered, cross-hatched, and polka-dotted career on his hands and arms as he had hairs. He sighed as he noted that the aforementioned hairs were now as uniformly silvery-gray as those on his head. He was really getting too old for field work -- but anything was better than sitting through any more of these meetings than absolutely necessary.
The droning voice of Jared Molinski, the Chairman of the Major Projects Committee, finally signalled that the meeting was coming to an end.
“Gentlemen, as always, we have a great deal of work to do. Thank you all for attending -- now, let’s go save the world.”
Simon and his colleagues stood, returning PDA’s, microrecorders, and tablet computers to their respective holsters or cases. Molinski always tried to say something inspirational at the end of the meeting, and always inspired only relief that the ordeal was over. More than a few of the committee members looked like Simon felt: half asleep from the hours of forced inactivity, and anxious to get back to the urgent business of the day.
There was always urgent business for the Institute. The War on Terrorism had proved to be like a game of Whack-a-Mole played on an infinite field -- for every training camp or arms cache that was captured or destroyed, another one popped up somewhere else. In the process, vital infrastructure was damaged: generators destroyed, pipelines ruptured, water systems contaminated, roads and airports and rail lines bombed into uselessness. Somebody had to help to put the pieces together, and the engineering side of the Institute was often called upon to provide expertise. As a privately-funded organization, the Institute could go where government agencies could not; at the same time, the Institute staff had contacts in governments around the world, and could negotiate deals that money alone could not manage.
In addition to its efforts to “save the world”, as Molinski put it, the Institute provided expert analysis on strategic and economic issues to governments and to private industry (hence its name). Simon sometimes provided the analysts with information from the field; he often relied on their assessments of situations when planning projects. The methods the analysts used did not interest him at all, as long as the results were accurate.
Of course, the Institute also dealt with messes and mysteries that required Simon’s other skills ... speaking of which, he had another meeting to attend, thankfully one that was guaranteed to be both shorter and more interesting than the one just ended.
With “The Ride of The Valkyries” echoing in his head, Simon strolled through the corridors of the Institute, exchanging greetings with various staff members (mostly the females). He had a reputation as a ladies’ man, although his ex-wives had found that trait less charming when they learned that he flirted with other women regardless of his (or their) marital status.
Stephanie Keel, one of the Institute’s chief computer gurus, ran into him near the Library.
“Hey, Doc, nice outfit,” she said. “Kinda Great-White-Hunter meets Giorgio Armani.” Stephanie was dressed comfortably in her almost-uniform of khaki cargo pants with matching vest and contrasting sweater (a soft burgundy today); as a behind-the-scenes type, she rarely had to deal with what passed for “the public” in semi-official Washington / Georgetown / Arlington / Langley.
Simon sighed. “Some of us have to dress presentably for meetings with the brass,” he said. He pirouetted gracefully to give Stephanie a better look. “This ensemble was custom-tailored by a friend of mine at Tilley Endurables up in Canada,” he said. “It’s perfect for --”
“The desert, the jungle, or the boardroom,” Stephanie interrupted. “It looks good on you, Simon, don’t worry. Are we on for racquetball this weekend?”
Simon shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m not sure, my dear. Callow wanted to talk to me about something; who knows where I’ll be by then?”
“Ooh, another cloak-and-dagger job,” Stephanie said. “Guess you better not say any more, or you’ll have to kill me.” She was one of a handful of Institute staff who were sometimes called upon to provide support for the less-public activities ordered by the so-called Lower Echelon; however, enough rumors circulated among the rest that she felt comfortable making a joking reference where anyone might hear it. Still, Simon noted that she had taken a quick look around before she spoke. A light-hearted reference to a sub rosa mission might be acceptable with only Institute staff in earshot, but not if strangers were present.
Stephanie turned to leave, but looked back long enough to say, “Personally, I suspect you’re just ducking me because you don’t want to get slaughtered again.”
“I am not ducking you,” Simon protested. “If I’m not away on business, I’ll see you at the club.” But Stephanie had already disappeared into the office of the Information Technology Director.
It was true, she had beaten him several times over the last few months, her youth and agility more than compensating for his reach, strength and experience. But it was worth it to watch her play, regardless of the outcome; she looked damn fine in shorts and a tank top. Rock-climbing and kickboxing had given her a solid but decidedly feminine physique that was the subject of many locker-room conversations at the fitness club frequented by the Institute staff. Simon, of course, was too much a gentleman to participate in any such banter.
Anyway, he had noticed a few weaknesses in her game that he figured might put him back on the winning side ...
Callow was waiting at one of the smaller tables on the far side of the Library, surrounded by four-meter-tall shelves filled with part of the Institute’s Popular Culture section. Exactly why the Institute felt that it needed hundreds of volumes relating to such immortal works as the complete oeuvres of Daniel Steele, John Grisham, Madonna, Britney, and the like, Simon had never been able to guess, but there it was. It was deserted at this time of day, and probably empty most of the time, as most Institute staff would never admit to being interested in such things; that made it perfect for discussions that were, if not secret, better kept quiet.
Callow had his tablet computer set up with a larger fold-out screen attached, and a collection of other gadgets that Simon suspected were for whatever mission he wanted to propose. It was a good thing that Simon traveled on private Institute aircraft; most of the party favors that Callow handed out would never make it through security at any commercial airport. Callow got his often-illegal toys from Melvin Squibb; but how Squibb obtained items that were probably just behind the state of the art for NSA and CIA agents, Simon never wanted to know.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Litchfield,” Callow said. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me.”
“I needed an antidote for the monthly Major Projects meeting,” Simon said. “You have a job for me? I’d prefer one that comes without a body count, if you don’t mind.”
Callow gasped in mock horror. “Would I ask you to do anything dangerous? I am heartbroken that you would say that.”
“Your heart may be broken, but it’s usually my bones that get broken,” Simon said. He sat down beside the Lower Echelon functionary, peering at the map displayed on the fold-out display screen.
Recognizing a few place names, he said, “That’s Kabul province in Afghanistan, isn’t it?” He groaned and shook his head. “Wasn’t I just there a few months ago? I picked up a nice set of knives there -- after somebody threw them at me. I was sure I had those Taliban-wannabes convinced that harassing the crew on the irrigation project was a bad idea!”
Callow tapped the screen of his tablet computer and the map scrolled to show the area south of Kabul, then zoomed in to show a jumble of symbols clustered in a familiar configuration.
“That is the irrigation project,” Simon said. “What’s wrong now?”
“Nothing’s wrong -- exactly,” Callow said. “But something is strange.”
Simon sighed. “What is it this time? Did they find some lost proto-Persian underground city? Is Aladdin’s djinn stirring up labor unrest?”
Callow’s fingers danced across the surface of his tablet computer, bringing up a detailed map of the irrigation project Simon had worked on a few months ago. “They were using those baby backhoes we flew in last spring to do the excavation work for the pipeline to Hayat Khan Kaleh when they hit our ‘something strange’ here, about 20 klicks southwest of Chahar Qal’eh.”
“So what, exactly, is our ‘something strange’?” Simon asked.
Callow tapped his tablet screen again, and a photograph filled the fold-out display screen. The ‘something’ appeared to be almost as large as the machine beside it. The less-muddy parts appeared to be white and curved, almost like --
“If that’s an egg, I don’t want to meet the bird that laid it,” Simon said. “That’s the backhoe right next to it, isn’t it? I’m not misreading the scale?”
Callow shook his head. “Based on the curvature of the part they uncovered before the workers headed for the hills, if this thing is shaped like an egg, it’s at least two meters long and a meter wide.”
“The workers headed for the hills? I suppose they thought they’d found a roc’s egg,” Simon said. “Naturally, they didn’t want to meet the bird that laid it either!”
Callow snorted. “Simon, I’m surprised at you. I’d have thought you would have a better opinion of the Afghans than that, after living with them for months. The workers thought it was an unexploded bomb. Remember, most of them grew up with artillery shells and rockets falling out of the sky more often than raindrops.”
“It was a joke, Callow,” Simon said. “You do remember humor, don’t you? I’m sure you must have heard a joke sometime -- or perhaps downloaded one from the Internet.”
“If there was time, I’d sign you up for another sensitivity course before I let you go into the field again,” Callow said. “Obviously, the last one didn’t make much of an impression.”
“You should hear the jokes the Afghans tell about each other,” Simon said. “I’m rather fond of this one: a Tajik, a Pashtun, and a Hazara go into a temple, and the Tajik says --”
“It’s not an egg, and it’s not any kind of bomb or other military device we know of,” Callow interrupted. “We can’t even identify what it’s made of, let alone what it’s for.”
Simon frowned, peering closely at the screen. “The surface doesn’t look like metal -- unless it has about 10 coats of the world’s toughest paint covering it. Some kind of a composite plastic or ceramic, perhaps?”
“As I said, we couldn’t identify what it’s made of,” Callow said. “Once our people were sure that it wasn’t going to blow them up, they tried to take a sample of that white stuff for analysis. They went through a half-dozen diamond-tipped drill bits without making a mark; ten minutes with an acetylene torch barely raised the temperature of the thing by a degree or two.”
“Whatever it is, that shell material would make excellent armor,” Simon said. “And whatever’s inside is likely to be interesting, too.”
“Too interesting,” Callow said. “The Institute brass feel that it would be unwise to allow this thing to fall into the wrong hands.”
“Which is to say, any hands but ours?”
“Any nation -- including the U.S. -- able to study the object and eventually duplicate its properties would gain a tremendous advantage. A destabilizing advantage, that is. Unfortunately, that means that even our hands may be seen as ‘wrong hands’. The Institute is widely perceived as closely tied to the U.S. government, despite ample evidence that we don’t take orders from the government of any nation.”
Simon shook his head. “The find of the millennium -- and we can’t study it.”
“The U.S. is already the only military superpower,” Callow said. “If it were to be known that an agency even indirectly associated with it was developing materials that could make military hardware virtually indestructible, hostile forces would feel compelled to attack before the material could be widely used. Every terrorist and rogue power with the ability to do so would make a concentrated effort to do as much damage as possible as quickly as possible.”
“And it’s too late to keep the thing a secret,” Simon said. “Afghans do love to talk, and Kabul’s communications systems have been back online for years. I should know, I helped rebuild some of them ...”
“I can show you the simulations,” Callow said. “The damage and casualty estimates for projected terrorist acts within the first six months after the object’s potential becomes widely known are quite impressive. By comparison, the September 11 attacks would seem trivial.”
“Not if you lost somebody in them,” Simon said. “Numbers don’t matter much when your own family is involved.”
“I presume, then, that you appreciate the importance of this mission,” Callow said. “A great many families would be involved, as you put it, in the attacks on U.S. interests we have predicted.”
“As always, I’ll go where I’m needed,” Simon said. “I presume you have some kind of plan?”
“If we could, we’d destroy the object in a very visible way, so there would be no suspicion that anyone, and the U.S. in particular, had it available for study. Unfortunately, ...”
“We can’t even scratch it,” Simon said. “Which leaves us with what? If we simply snatch it, the U.S. will still be the most likely suspect for the deed. The Stars-and-Stripes decal on the Institute backhoe stands out beautifully, don’t you think?.”
“We have to make it inaccessible,” Callow said. “Our State Department contacts have been discussing the issue with representatives of the Russian and Chinese governments. The only acceptable alternative appears to be -- well, dropping the object into an active volcano, with observers for the major powers present to ensure that there is no attempt at deception.”
“I would guess that Mount St. Helens and Kilauea are out of the running,” Simon said. “It would have to be on what passes for neutral ground.”
“Indeed,” Callow said. “They are still trying to agree on a disposal site. In the meantime, however, you are to rendezvous with representatives of the other parties to prepare the object for transport.”
“And to watch each other to make sure nobody tries to abscond with the macguffin,” Simon said.
Callow sighed. “I would hardly compare an artifact of unknown origin and extraordinary properties to the Maltese Falcon.”
Simon grinned. “In that case, perhaps you should hold these meetings somewhere other than in the Popular Culture section of the Library.”
Callow pushed the collection of gadgets on the table over to Simon. “Our friend Squibb said these items may prove useful to you on this mission. I won’t insult you by describing them -- you’re an engineer, I’m sure you can figure them out.”
Simon picked up each object and glanced at it before stowing it in one of the many pockets of his jacket. “As long as none of them will kill me if I press the wrong button, I believe that I can manage.”
“On second thought, perhaps I should give you some instructions --”
****
Three hours later, Simon arrived at the Nightwatch Institute’s secure hangar at Manassas Airport about 30 kilometers southwest of D.C. He was surprised and displeased to find a representative from the State Department -- which he took to mean the CIA -- waiting in the Institute hangar to board the plane with him. He had to remind himself that the Institute was acting as a neutral entity in this situation, so the U.S. government needed its own man on the scene. Still, it wasn’t as if The Company couldn’t supply its own transportation.
“Jason McReady, State,” the man said, extending his hand.
“Simon Litchfield, Nightwatch Institute,” Simon said.
The handshake was brief, firm, and informative for both men. Simon noted a few interesting calluses and scars on McReady’s hand, and had no doubt that McReady had guessed the source of Simon’s souvenirs, as well: neither man was a stranger to the less genteel kind of conflict resolution.
From his appearance, Simon guessed that McReady normally worked out of an embassy as a “cultural attaché”. McReady’s clothing would have been appropriate for an informal party -- dark suit, blindingly white shirt, polished black shoes; presentable enough, but hardly appropriate for hiking around the Afghan countryside. Simon himself wore a variation on the Tilley Endurables suit he usually wore to the Nightwatch offices, cut to allow greater freedom of movement and with more pockets on the outside of the jacket. He had changed from his usual city shoes into hiking boots in anticipation of slogging around the pipeline dig site.
McReady was carrying a fair-sized duffle bag, which Simon hoped contained a change of clothes in addition to the inevitable complement of cloak-and-dagger toys. Squibb -- and Callow -- would probably have loved a chance to rummage through the no-doubt-innocuous-looking odds and ends in that bag ...
“Nice plane,” McReady said as they boarded. “Looks like one of those old Canadian regional jets -- aside from the paint job. Is that logo based on the Rembrandt painting?”
“It is,” Simon said. “Some ad agency made a lot of money adapting it. The plane itself is -- or was -- a CRJ-200, but the Institute has made a few changes.”
McReady whistled in admiration as he surveyed the main passenger cabin. “Looks like the Presidential cabin on Air Force One.”
“That’s the cosmetic side,” Simon said. “Nightbird One has three times the range it did when it belonged to an airline -- next-generation engines, plus a fuel tank that takes up a lot of the old baggage hold. We’ll be able to fly straight to Kabul without stopping. And the rear has room for cargo and specialized gear for any project the Institute takes on.”
The jet also had a number of hidden features that Simon had found useful on more than one occasion -- though he was damned if he was going to tell McReady about any of them. The kevlar and bioengineered spider silk armor protecting the cockpit, passenger cabin, fuel and avionics systems was particularly comforting when traveling to places where small arms fire was a frequent occurrence. Infrared and radar jamming systems provided protection from larger threats. Finally, the communications suite was just short of National Security Agency standards, allowing secure contact and data exchange between almost any point on the planet and the Institute.
“Gentlemen, if you’ll take your seats, we have clearance for takeoff,” the pilot’s voice said. Simon recognized the voice -- it was Bill Starsmore, the pilot the Institute generally assigned to more hazardous flights. Simon found himself wondering how much Callow had omitted from his little briefing session -- Kabul wasn’t the safest flight destination in the world, but he wouldn’t have thought they’d need an ex-Top Gun pilot for the trip.
“Been to Kabul before?” McReady asked as he settled into one of the lushly-upholstered seats. “Me, I’ve worked out of the consulate in Tehran, so I speak Farsi pretty well -- which, they tell me, should let me get by in Dari.”
“I spent three months working on the earlier stages of the irrigation project where they found the whatever-it-is,” Simon said. “I picked up a little Dari, some Tajik, some Hazara -- enough so the locals can have a good laugh when I order dinner, anyway.”
McReady laughed. “Between us, I guess we’ll get by. Speaking of -- whatever-it-is -- I’ve heard that the Nightwatch Institute has experts on just about everything. What do your people think this thing is?”
Simon shrugged. “They couldn’t even get a sample for analysis. The damn thing is pretty much impervious to anything short of a nuclear explosion, and nobody’s about to try that just to crack it open. So all we know is, it’s trouble.”
Nightbird One took to the air with a surge of acceleration that had McReady’s hands clutching the armrests of his seat.
“I see what you mean about new engines,” he said. “They can’t be military -- but they sure ain’t standard equipment. Does this thing have afterburners?”
Simon smiled, but said nothing.
****
After four hours in the air, McReady was either sleeping, or he had the best fake snore that Simon had ever heard. Simon glanced at McReady’s duffle bag, briefly considering a quick inspection of the contents, but decided against it. McReady might be feigning sleep, and even if he wasn’t, there was no point in confirming whatever suspicions he might have about Simon’s background.
Instead, Simon unlatched his seat belt and stood. He moved quietly but casually toward the rear of the passenger cabin, where a door led to the communications suite and the rear cargo area.
“Going somewhere?” McReady asked.
Simon suppressed the urge to find out just how good his traveling companion’s training had been. “I’m just going to check the equipment the Institute sent along,” he said. “There was supposed to be a dirt bike back there, in case we have to travel quickly. They may have sent two, if they knew you were coming along. But I’m mainly interested in seeing the scientific gear the Institute has sent with us. The University of Kabul is still rather behind the times in the instruments they have available, especially portable equipment; we’ll be taking one last shot at figuring out what the thing’s made of before we let your friends from Moscow and Beijing see it.”
McReady grunted. “I’ve ridden Harleys back in the States, but haven’t done much off-roading. If there is a bike for me back there, I hope it has a good suspension system. I guess you’ll be handling the scientific stuff -- I have trouble updating the appointment calendar in my PDA.”
Simon waited to see if McReady was going to follow him -- which would have interfered with his plans -- but the “State Department” agent slumped lower in his seat and closed his eyes again.
Once through the connecting door, Simon closed and locked it, then engaged a hidden switch. The white noise generator would render useless any listening gear McReady might have in his bag of tricks; metal mesh embedded in the bulkhead and door would block the signal from any bug planted on Simon’s clothing.
Reasonably certain that he was protected from McReady’s ill-concealed curiosity, Simon pulled a combination PDA / satellite phone from an inside pocket of his jacket. He inserted a memory card that Callow had included in the jumble of items he had provided during their meeting in the library, then called up the communications function.
The PDA loaded a one-time encryption scheme from the card and then linked to Nightbird One’s communications array.
After a few seconds, the display screen filled with a low-resolution video image of Stephanie Keel’s head and shoulders. “Hey, Simon. Enjoying your flight?”
Simon grinned. “I’d enjoy it more if you were with me instead of our friend from the -- ahem -- State Department.”
“I presume you want his background info?”
“Is the Pope Polish? No, wait, that was two pontiffs ago. Anyway, what can you tell me about our Mr. McReady?”
Stephanie’s image disappeared and the PDA screen filled with slowly-scrolling text. As Simon had expected, McReady was a CIA field operative. He had participated in a number of classified operations, the details of which Stephanie had extracted by means that neither the CIA nor the NSA would consider even slightly legal. But then, agencies that ran “wet” missions whose primary purpose was assassination were hardly in a position to quibble over morality.
“For someone who looks so young, our Mr. McReady has been a busy man,” Simon said.
“And not a particularly nice man, at that,” Stephanie said, as her face reappeared on the screen. “Kind of an interesting choice for a mission that is supposed to be a shining example of international cooperation in the cause of peace.”
“For that matter, so am I -- and so is our pilot,” Simon said. “Did you know that Bill Starsmore is flying Nightbird One tonight?”
“Yeah. He’d probably be happier if Nightbird had Sidewinders and Hellfires and such instead of just defensive gear.”
“Tsk, tsk,” Simon said. “We’re much too peace-loving for that sort of thing.”
“I’ll relay that message to the last couple of women you widowed,” Stephanie said.
Simon grimaced. For all that Stephanie was more than capable of putting a man in the hospital herself, she had never killed -- and was not happy to know that Simon had done so, more than once.
“Stephanie, you know I never set out to kill,” he said slowly. “But when it’s them or me -- or them or some other poor bugger who hasn’t done anything to deserve a bullet -- ”
“You do what you have to do,” Stephanie said. “I know that.”
Simon sighed. Doing ‘what he had to do’ had left him vulnerable to anyone who had the means to investigate the odd gaps in his official service records. Callow had Stephanie, and to Stephanie, missing or hidden data was an irresistible challenge. Stephanie, of course, would never use the information against him. Callow, on the other hand ...
“Have you checked out the other toys Callow gave you this afternoon?”
Grateful for the change of subject, Simon nodded. “I quite like the hand-held ultrasound imager. The taser disguised as a circuit tester is a bit silly -- I can imagine the reaction if you pulled it out in a dark alley. But I can’t imagine when or where I’d ever use some of the other knick-knacks.”
“R.T.F.M., Simon,” Stephanie said. “Read the freakin’ manuals. They usual provide A Few Useful Examples.”
Simon sniffed delicately. “My dear Ms. Keel, that would take all the fun out of it.”
Stephanie rolled her eyes. “Boys and their toys. Will you be checking in again before you land? If not, I’m going home. I’ve been here seventeen bloody hours, and I don’t get overtime on these jobs.”
“I’ll leave a message if there’s anything I need you to check into,” Simon said. “Have them mail any information they can find about the Russian and Chinese agents to the Nightbird comm station; I’ll download and decrypt it before we disembark.”
“Okay,” Stephanie said. “Be careful, Simon. It’s pretty obvious that both State, a.k.a. The Company, and Callow think that things are likely to get nasty.”
“I’ll try not to get killed,” Simon said. “For your sake, I’ll even try not to let anybody else get killed either.”
Stephanie shook her head in resignation, and then her image vanished from the screen.
Simon turned off the white noise generator, unlocked the door, and glanced out to see what McReady was doing. The CIA agent was apparently still asleep -- but Simon noticed that the file Callow had provided with all the photos and data regarding the object had been moved.
“Silly bugger,” Simon muttered. “Subtle as a .44 Magnum.”
Closing the door again, Simon walked to the rear cargo area. As he had guessed, Callow’s people had provided a matched pair of dirt bikes and helmets. For the scientific side of the mission, the Institute’s materials science specialists had sent a Mossbauer spectrometer (in a lead-shielded case), an alpha particle x-ray spectrometer, and a thermal emission spectrometer, all based on designs used in a couple of Mars robots. There were also various cutting tools, including a cutting laser with a high-density battery pack, stowed on shelves on either side of the chamber.
There was also a large crate at the very back, half-hidden by cargo netting that anchored an assortment of ropes, a motorized winch, and other gear.
The dimensions of the crate looked remarkably similar to those that Callow had mentioned for the ‘egg’, assuming that the thing actually was egg-shaped. If the crate was empty, presumably it was intended to hold the object for transport. If the crate was empty ...
Simon withdrew the ultrasound imager from one of the larger pockets on his jacket. He ran the probe over the exposed surface of the crate, then waited a few seconds while the imager translated the sonic data into graphic form.
The crate wasn’t empty. It contained a dense, egg-shaped object about two meters long and one meter in diameter.
“Well, isn’t that bloody interesting,” Simon said. “Callow, you bastard.” But then he noticed that the crate lacked the usual Nightwatch Institute brand. There was no reason to hide the Institute’s involvement in the disposal of the ‘egg’ -- although there was ample reason to hide a counterfeit version of it. Had the CIA placed this Maltese Chicken on board?
“What are the odds that either Mr. McReady or Mr. Callow will admit that one of them owns this counterfeit Pandora’s Box? Anorexic to none, I suspect.”
Simon looked at his watch. A little more than eight hours to go before they reached Kabul.
“All things considered, I think I’ll emulate Mr. McReady and at least pretend to get some sleep.”
****
By the time Nightbird One had made the steep descent into Kabul International Airport, McReady had changed into clothing that was better suited to a trip over rough terrain. The ‘State Department’ rep now wore a battered leather jacket (probably ‘distressed’ by the manufacturer ‘for that adventurous look’, Simon suspected) over a long-sleeved fleece T-shirt. Denim jeans and motorcycle boots completed the ensemble.
Simon himself had brought along a woollen pattu, the Afghan equivalent of a blanket, poncho, and makeshift tent in one length of cloth. It was a favorite souvenir of his earlier stay -- the throwing knives were useful, but heavy with memories of yet another attempt on his life. Arranged artfully over his jacket, the pattu provided the extra warmth that the mountain-chilled air demanded even in the warmer months, and also concealed some of the unsightly bulges that Callow’s gadgets made in his pockets.
“Going for the Spaghetti Western look?” McReady asked. “What is that, a serape?”
“You’ll see a lot of them here,” Simon said. “They call it a pattu.”
“Hey, no spitting on the plane,” McReady said.
Once again, Simon considered testing McReady’s combat skills. But from all indications, they were both likely to be thoroughly tested on this mission ...
On the tarmac outside the plane, Bill Starsmore and his co-pilot -- somebody Wilson, Simon seemed to recall -- were talking to someone that Simon recognized immediately.
“Massoud! It’s good to see you, old man,” Simon said. “But what have your people done to my lovely irrigation project?”
Massoud Khalili, the son of a mujaheddin fighter of considerable fame, grinned and drew Simon into a rib-straining embrace. “Simon, my friend! Billy said that you were here to see our little egg -- and then cook it.”
Simon groaned, wriggling free of Massoud’s grip. “I’m too old to wrestle you so soon after a long plane ride. Maybe later. This is Jason McReady, from the U.S. State Department. He’s here to witness the deed.”
Massoud looked at the younger American with amusement. “A fan of James Dean, I see. Or maybe the Fonz.”
McReady’s face reddened slightly, but he managed to say, “I’m honored to meet you, Mr. Khalili. I understand that your father was a great fighter in the war against the Russians.”
“The Russians,” Massoud said, then hawked and spat, considerately aiming downwind. “Yes, my father and his fellows showed the Cossack dogs that all their tanks and helicopters were no match for true Afghans. I wish we did not have to be civil to their ‘witness’, but it has taken half my lifetime to restore all that was destroyed by them, then the Taliban, then by you Americans and your allies. We are trying very hard to give no excuses to anyone to bomb us again ...”
Simon sighed. “Yes -- that’s pretty much our reason for ‘cooking’ the egg instead of keeping it to study, too. Anyone who tried to keep it would have a huge target painted on his back. Have our friends from Moscow and Beijing arrived?”
Massoud grinned again, showing an alarming number of teeth. “Yes. We have made them comfortable -- more or less -- while awaiting your arrival. You remember the old Nasruddin Hotel?”
Simon raised an eyebrow. “Surely they must have demolished it or rebuilt it? When I last saw it, it was dangerous just to stand too close to it.”
Massoud said nothing, but his smile grew even wider.
“I hope you won’t be quite so -- civil -- to me,” McReady said.
“Well -- not quite, but only because you are with Simon and Billy,” Massoud said. “We have transportation here for you and your gear -- an old Russian truck and a Humvee that Simon’s people brought in last year. Do you need to rest or eat before we set out?”
Simon shook his head. “You know what Nightbird One is like, Massoud. Would you like a nice hot shower on board before we go?”
“I’m a little confused,” McReady said. “Are we going to see the object without the Russian and Chinese representatives?”
“I told you we were going to take another shot at getting some information before we toss the thing into the fire,” Simon said. “What they don’t officially know can’t officially hurt us.”
“Meaning?”
“They’re not idiots,” Simon said. “They know that we must be making every attempt to learn what that thing is and what it’s made of before we let them near it. After all, they’d do the same. But if they actually see us doing it, they’ll have to make a fuss.”
“That seems rather -- silly,” McReady said. “Or maybe dangerous.”
“Are you sure you work for the State Department? I would have thought you’d be accustomed to thinking that way.”
They watched as a group of Afghan workers, directed by Massoud, loaded the dirt bikes, scientific equipment, and other gear into the truck. Simon noted that the crate was not among the items loaded -- which confirmed his suspicions that someone -- Callow or McReady -- was playing games. Evidently, his discovery of the crate had not been anticipated.
Finally, Massoud waved Simon and McReady aboard the Humvee, and the vehicles began the long trip through the streets of Kabul to reach the Kabul-Kandahar highway.
****
About 40 kilometers outside of Kabul, the highway crossed the river which was to supply water for the pipeline to Hayat Khan Kala. A dirt road had been scraped across the rocky soil parallel to the trench that was to contain the pipeline; the drivers of the Humvee and truck turned off the highway to follow it.
The ride got rough, even in the well-constructed and well-maintained Humvee. Simon hoped that the specialized scientific gear would survive the truly bone-jarring ride in the old Russian truck.
“Have they extracted the object from the trench?” McReady asked.
“Oh, yes, as soon as we were sure it was not a bomb, we dug it out,” Massoud said. “Scientists from the new University and from the Institute had learned little from testing it in place -- and they were not pleased at taking their toys down into the mud! It is in a tent now, a short distance from the place it was found.”
“Under guard?” McReady asked.
Massoud turned, his eyes narrowed. “We are neither fools nor thieves, Mr. McReady. While no Afghan would steal the thing, we posted guards to discourage any outsiders who might be tempted.”
“I -- of course that’s what I meant,” McReady said. “I would never suggest that you or any of your people would steal --”
“Of course, if it was a Russian egg, we would steal it as a matter of honor,” Massoud said. “It is not Russian, though. No Russian could make something so simple and strong. A shoe with a heel on both ends, yes. An egg that no blade can break, no.”
McReady blinked several times, then wisely closed his mouth and kept it closed.
“It’s not nice to torture a guest,” Simon said in fractured Pashto. Massoud grinned and shrugged.
Within minutes, a large white tent came into view. As Massoud had promised, several men appeared to block their way, pattu wrapped around their shoulders and AK-47’s and older rifles ready to fire. Massoud stood and shouted a greeting, and the men in the road visibly relaxed, smiling and waving the two vehicles through.
Simon, McReady and Massoud climbed out of the Humvee and started toward the tent. Before they could enter, a small, bespectacled man came out to greet them.
“Ah, Simon! You have returned!”
Simon sighed. “Professor Qadeer,” he said. “Splendid to see you again. But I wouldn’t have thought this sort of thing would interest you.”
Qadeer was the Curator of Antiquities at the New Afghan Cultural Museum. His insistence on examining even the smallest bit of debris that had been uncovered during the various excavations performed as part of the irrigation program had slowed things down considerably.
“The University asked me to perform some tests on the object,” Qadeer said. “I can not tell if I should be interested in the object in the professional sense, as our instruments have told us nothing about its age. But it is certainly intriguing.”
“Professor, this is Jason McReady, from the U.S. State Department,” Simon said. “He’s here to observe the -- disposal of the object.”
Qadeer shook his head. “A tragedy, to throw away something so wonderful and strange. I wish we were meeting under better circumstances, Mr. McReady.”
McReady nodded. “I agree -- from everything I’ve heard, we -- the world -- could learn a lot from it. But that’s the problem -- how much we might learn, and how the knowledge could be used.”
“Military value or financial value -- the world is ruled by those too greedy to allow any other to gain too much of either,” Qadeer said. “I understand, it has been explained to me at great length by my government.”
From the expression on the little academic’s face, Simon could tell that understanding and agreeing were entirely different things. He hoped that Qadeer wouldn’t make things any more complicated than they already were.
“May we see the object?” Simon asked. “I’ve brought along some specialized equipment that might allow us to glean a little more information about the object before it has to be put away.”
Qadeer sniffed as if holding back tears. “Of course, of course. No doubt your equipment is much more sophisticated than any we had available.”
At Massoud’s urging, a couple of the erstwhile guards carried the equipment cases into the tent. The Mossbauer spectrometer case, being lined with lead to contain any radiation leaks, required both men to carry it. Simon was sympathetic, as he had tried to lift the damn thing once while on another job and regretted it for days afterward.
They were surprised to see that the object was resting on a clean tarpaulin draped over what appeared to be two ordinary folding tables.
“Isn’t it kind of heavy for those tables?” McReady asked. “I mean, as tough as it is, it must weigh --”
“It weighs barely twenty kilos,” Qadeer said. “As you say, it is incredibly tough -- steel, even diamonds will not mark it; the heat of a cutting torch, even thermite will not burn or melt it. Acids -- ”
“You poured acid on it? And used a thermite charge?” Simon asked. “Weren’t you afraid that --”
“That I would damage it?” Qadeer laughed. “From the condition of the soil around it, the object has been buried for centuries. Polluted air, reacting with the rain -- and it does rain here sometimes -- would have bathed it in acid for weeks on end. I merely hoped that it would show some signs of a reaction, but even aqua regia failed to produce even a wisp of vapor.”
“Incredibly light, proof against impact, heat, acids --”
“I know what you’re thinking, McReady, and every military expert cleared to know about this thing has thought it, too,” Simon said. “And that’s precisely why the thing has to go into a live volcano, from which no one can retrieve it with current technology.”
“Actually, I was wondering what the hell could be so important that you would protect it like that,” McReady said. “I’m guessing it isn’t just the soiled diapers of the gods.”
Simon grinned. “Perhaps it’s somebody’s lunch. This may be the fabled Cosmic Lunchbox. Erich von Daniken would be thrilled.”
“Gentlemen, please do not make light of this,” Qadeer said. “This object -- whoever made it, whatever its purpose -- is of incalculable value to science. But we stand ready to destroy it, or at least put it out of our own reach for fear of what men might do with the knowledge it holds.”
Simon found himself placing a comforting hand on Qadeer’s shoulder. Like him or dislike him, the little man sincerely loved knowledge, and this situation was causing him pain.
“Qadeer, please excuse us pragmatic types,” he said. “Even ignorant sods like us understand what a waste this is. But in a case like this, you must laugh, or you must cry.”
“I wish I could laugh,” Qadeer said. He took a long, deep breath, shook his head, then walked to a small desk in the far corner of the tent.
“Copies of my notes are on this disk,” he said. “They include video and still photographs taken while the object was being extracted from the trench, analysis of core samples of the soils around the object, and my observations from other tests. We have no carbon- or other radio-dating results, of course, as we could not obtain a sample of the surface material.”
Simon nodded. “We will supply you with records of the tests we perform, of course, and you are more than welcome to observe while they are being done. I can’t promise that we’ll have any better luck than you at figuring out what this thing is made of, or what’s inside, but ...”
“Science does not promise,” Qadeer said. “It investigates, without expectations.”
Again, Simon felt twinges of regret for treating Qadeer with something less than respect in the past. If anybody could be trusted to study the thing for the sake of knowledge rather than power, it would be Qadeer or men like him. Of course, there would always be a McReady or a Callow or whoever pulled their strings standing by to snatch it away, and for them, power was everything.
“I guess I’d better get started,” Simon said. “Some of these instruments take hours to get a reading, and our friends back at the Hotel Nasruddin will be getting anxious.”
“The Hotel Nasruddin,” Qadeer said. “Surely that is not where the Russian and Chinese representatives are waiting? Massoud, surely -- ”
Massoud tilted his head slightly to one side, grinned so broadly that his wisdom teeth would have been visible if he had any, and shrugged.
Qadeer’s face turned so red that Simon thought the scientist’s head might explode. Then he laughed explosively, braying and whooping far louder than Simon could ever have imagined.
“Oh, Massoud,” Qadeer gasped, “When the government finds out, you will be in such trouble!”
“Who do you think made the arrangements?” Massoud said.
Qadeer howled. “And I thought them spineless! Oh, the president is a better man than I thought!”
Finally, Qadeer slumped against the desk, waved feebly in Simon’s direction, and wheezed, “Carry on, please. Mustn’t keep the Russian waiting.”
McReady looked at Simon and said, “The good professor got his wish -- he got to laugh.”
Opening the Mossbauer spectrometer case, Simon grunted, “Around here, any joke with a Russian as the victim is still a crowd-pleaser.”
It took about half an hour for Simon to set up the three instruments so that each had a clean surface to scan. A small diesel generator had been hooked up to provide power, although the battery packs included in the shipping cases would likely be sufficient for the job.
“The Mossbauer and the alpha particle x-ray spectrometer both take quite a while to get results,” Simon said. “Hours, actually. The thermal emission spectrometer should be quicker, but the problem is going to be raising the temperature of the thing enough to get a reading. Professor Qadeer, you said you barely managed to get a measurable change in temperature with a cutting torch?”
“It was like heating a superconducting material,” Qadeer said. “The energy was dissipated somehow, either distributed over the whole surface and radiated away as quickly as it was applied, or absorbed. But in the latter case, one would expect the overall temperature to increase eventually, and it did not.”
“Superconducting -- ” Simon mused.
“What? Oh, no. It is not superconductive, in the electrical sense, at least,” Qadeer said. “Electrical current will not flow through the material even across a gap so narrow that the energy would arc between the electrodes if they were any closer together. Mind you, we had no very high voltage sources to try -- perhaps something on the order of a 220 kilovolt line could push current through, but I suppose there will be no opportunity to test that proposition.”
Simon shook his head. “This thing gives me a headache. I’m a civil engineer by training, but I know a little basic materials science. Enough to know that this material breaks a lot of rules, anyway.”
Before he powered up the spectrometers, Simon paused and pulled the ultrasound imager from his jacket.
“Of all the toys the Institute provided for this job, this one is my favorite. This is a self-contained portable ultrasound scanner. You move this probe over the surface of an object; it generates ultrasonic pulses and picks up the reverberations. Then a quite clever computer interprets the data, including the position of the probe from moment to moment, and generates both an image and numerical data.”
Qadeer sighed. “I don’t suppose you could get one of those for the Museum,” he said. “It would be very useful for examining objects in a non-destructive way. Even x-rays sometimes accelerate decay of organics ...”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Simon said. “I suspect these things cost several arms and legs, but I’d say the world owes Afghanistan a few favors for cooperating in this situation. Now, let’s see what we can see -- or hear ...”
He activated the probe and ran it slowly along the upper curve of the egg. The image that appeared on the screen confirmed what he had deduced when Qadeer had mentioned the surprisingly low weight of the object -- the white surface was a thin shell over what seemed to be an empty space. There had to be something else in there -- why protect nothing with an indestructible shell? But the probe couldn’t resolve anything; sound, like heat, seemed to fall into an infinite void once it penetrated the shell. No echo, no image. He turned off the scanner after saving the images and data into the removable memory card.
“In Allah’s name, Simon, where did you go?” Massoud said.
“What? What do you mean?”
“You leaned toward the object, pushed a button on the box in your hand, and then -- you were gone!”
Simon shook his head, puzzled. “I didn’t go anywhere. I’ve been right here, walking around the object, taking readings, for the last few minutes.”
Now McReady interjected, “Simon, you turned that thing on not ten seconds ago.”
“Time,” Qadeer said. “The object affects time, somehow, in its immediate vicinity, at least. I think Simon was here all along -- for us a few seconds, for him a few minutes -- but moving through time at a different rate, so we could not perceive his presence.”
“I have to contact Washington,” McReady said. “When they hear this --”
“They’ll hear it later, McReady,” Simon said. “When this thing is sinking into a nice hot lava bath.”
McReady sighed. “You’re right. No point in making the thing too tempting to pass up -- there’d be a godawful mess if we tried to change the deal now.”
Simon handed the ultrasound imager to Qadeer. “Download the files from the memory card and make a few copies,” he said. “They’re interesting enough in themselves -- we don’t have to mention my disappearing act.”
McReady patted his pockets, raised his hands in apology, and said, “I really need a cigarette. Must have left them in my bag back in the Hummer. Hang on a second before you start any more tests -- I’ll be right back.”
Simon nodded, turning to make a few final adjustments to the Mossbauer spectrometer’s controls. Massoud moved aside to allow McReady to leave the tent.
As he checked the alignment of the gamma source, Simon frowned. He hadn’t seen -- or smelled -- any evidence that McReady was a smoker. If he did smoke, surely he would have lit one up as soon as they disembarked from Nightbird One; god knows most of the Afghans riding with them had been puffing away.
“Massoud, check on McReady,” he said. “I’m not sure I trust him out of my sight --”
The roar of a small engine interrupted Simon’s request.
“The bikes!” Simon snapped. “He’s making a run for it -- calling for backup!”
Simon emerged from the tent in time to see one of the Institute-supplied dirt bikes hurtling from the rear of the truck. The bike hit the ground, fishtailed in the loose, gravelly soil, then accelerated away.
Massoud’s men, startled, raised their guns.
“Don’t shoot!” Simon shouted in Dari. “I’ll get him.” He ran for the truck, fumbling in his pockets for the disguised taser.
The men looked to Massoud for confirmation, lowering their weapons when Massoud nodded and gestured toward the ground.
It took precious seconds for Simon to clamber into the truck and mount the second bike. There was no time for the helmet; all he could do was tighten the chin-strap of his Tilley hat and hope that the sailcloth would save at least some skin if he fell.
Then he was in the air, the bike screaming under him until its wheels slammed into the ground and caught hold.
McReady had a lead of perhaps fifteen seconds. If he really lacked off-road experience, it certainly wasn’t apparent in his handling of the bike so far; he was handling the rough, rock-strewn terrain like an expert.
Simon, however, was an expert. His skill on a dirt bike had saved his ass more than once when one faction or another had decided to visit one of the Institute’s work sites. Now it was allowing him to shave a few meters off McReady’s lead with every second that passed.
McReady must have heard Simon’s motor, because he turned his head to look for his pursuer. This turned out to be a serious error, as a sudden dip in the ground jerked the front of the bike to one side and threw him clear.
Simon was there in seconds, ditching his own bike and performing a jiu jitsu breakfall that brought him to his feet almost within arm’s reach of the CIA agent.
McReady had pulled something that looked like a cigarette case from his pocket and was trying to take aim when Simon pressed the hidden trigger on the circuit tester / taser and the electrodes launched themselves with a snap of compressed gas.
The 10,000 volt charge threw McReady off his feet and dropped him to the ground in a twitching heap. When McReady groaned and the cigarette case fell from his hand, Simon quickly snatched it up and aimed it at the battered CIA agent.
“You bastard,” McReady gasped. “You have to let me call this in.”
Simon glanced at the cigarette case. “What is this, a .10 caliber flechette gun? Neurotoxin loads to make up for the small slug, no doubt. I’d hate to see what you carry when you’re expecting a firefight.”
“You’re an American,” McReady said. “You owe it to your country --”
Simon shook his head. “I work for the Nightwatch Institute, not the U.S. government. And I owe it to my country to protect it from itself, sometimes, which is exactly what I’m trying to do here.”
“You’ll be executed as a traitor for this,” McReady said.
“I don’t think it’ll get that far,” Simon said. “I know where a lot of bodies are buried, literally and figuratively, and the Institute has influence in places that would scare even your bosses. But if my ass does wind up the main course at a federal barbecue, well, it won’t be like I never did anything to deserve it.”
“What are you talking about? You’re an engineer -- okay, you worked for The Company or one of our close relatives, I guess, since you seem to know our equipment -- but -- ”
Simon grinned. “Sonny, I’m surprised that your people don’t do better research. Hell, I can recite every black ops mission you’ve ever been on, complete with classified body counts. But apparently, you don’t know me very well.”
It wasn’t entirely a bluff. Simon wanted to scare the younger man -- after diving off the dirt bike, he wasn’t feeling up to a hand-to-hand fight -- so he was claiming a history even darker than the real thing. But as Stephanie -- and Callow, damn him -- knew, it was more than dark enough.
“Get up,” Simon said. “Unless you want me to test my theory about the lethality of your spook toy, here, we have some walking to do. Shame about the bikes -- the Institute will have to send The Company a bill.”
****
Massoud and one of the guards met them when they were half-way back to the tent. Simon was more than happy to let someone else hold a weapon on McReady; he could already feel the bruises he had sustained in his leap from the dirt bike stiffening up.
“Let’s pause for a moment and make sure that you have no more surprises hidden away,” Simon said. With McReady standing very still -- an AK-47 that has obviously seen a lot of use can be extremely persuasive -- Simon conducted a careful search of McReady’s clothes, including his boots. He was not terribly surprised to find an assortment of gadgets that Melvin Squibb would love to play with, some intended to kill, some merely to disable, distributed among McReady’s pockets and in less obvious places. McReady also had several thin, flat ceramic blades that felt nicely balanced for throwing strapped to various parts of his body.
In the present situation, however, Simon considered the last device he found to be the most dangerous: a satellite phone.
“No military satellites overhead right now, eh, Jason? Line of sight to anything closer to the horizon is terrible here, with these pesky mountains all over the place.”
“How can you do this?” McReady asked. “How can you throw away something that could give your country a bigger edge than anybody ever imagined?”
“The U.S. is already the only real superpower, in military and economic terms,” Simon said. “That’s enough to make us a target for everybody with a grievance, either because we’re involved in keeping them in misery, or because they think we should be involved in getting them out. Something like this -- technology light years ahead of our own -- would make things far worse.”
McReady tried to spit in Simon’s face, but neglected to account for the wind. The spittle traced a path through the dust covering McReady’s own leather jacket, prompting snickers from Massoud and his gun-wielding companion.
“You must learn to aim better, my friend, if you are to spit like an Afghan,” Massoud said. “But I would not practice too much in this company, as most would not be as forgiving as Simon.”
They arrived back at the tent after another ten minutes of trudging across the rolling, gravel-strewn terrain, and were thoroughly covered in wind-blown dust. Qadeer came out of the tent and insisted that they shake off the worst of the dust before they came near any of the scientific instruments.
“You, Simon, you are an engineer,” he said. “Dust is not good for delicate electronics. You should know this.”
Simon nodded. “You’re right as usual, Professor. I think I landed on my head out there and forgot everything I know about delicate instruments.”
They managed to shed at least some of the dirt from their clothes and hair on the downwind side of the tent, then moved inside before they could acquire a new layer.
“Will you behave yourself while I start the remaining tests, McReady?” Simon asked. “If not, Massoud can have someone tie you up and sit on you in the back of the truck ...”
“The least I can do for my country is observe and obtain as much information about this thing as I can,” McReady said.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes’,” Simon said. After a few minutes of minor adjustments, he started the three spectrometers. In an attempt to give the thermal emission spectrometer a better chance of working, he set up the cutting laser to heat (or try to heat) the area where the T.E.S. was focused.
He stepped away from the object, looked at Qadeer, and said, “Well?”
“Well what?”
“Did I disappear that time?”
Qadeer smiled. “No, no, you were fully visible at all times, even with all three instruments and the laser turned on.”
“Hmph. So ultrasound tickles whatever is in there, but gamma radiation and heat and kinetic energy -- the backhoe blade and whatever else that has bounced off without leaving a mark -- doesn’t.”
“That suggests an artificial mechanism rather than a natural phenomenon,” Qadeer said. “Inside the egg, I mean -- I think we would all agree that the shell is not something that formed spontaneously.”
“So what?” McReady said. “Whatever it is, you’re just gonna drop it into a volcano.”
“This man has no appreciation for science,” Qadeer said.
“If he can’t use it to spy on somebody or kill somebody, it’s irrelevant,” Simon said.
“That’s not true,” McReady said. “I want to know -- I want our country to know everything about that object. If it affects time somehow, who knows what it could do? It might be the basis for a real interstellar drive -- ”
Qadeer tilted his head to one side, peering at the CIA agent. “My apologies,” he said. “You are not entirely beyond hope.”
Simon made a quick check on each of the instruments, confirming that they were functioning properly. The Mossbauer and the alpha particle x-ray spectrometers would both require hours to accumulate enough data to provide meaningful readings; the thermal emission spectrometer was indicating that the surface of the object was still barely warmer than the surrounding air, in spite of the continuous heat input of the 300 watt cutting laser.
“It will be a while before we get anything,” he said. “Professor, if you would keep an eye on things, I think I’d better see what other toys Mr. McReady has in his bag.”
“Mr. McReady, please sit,” Massoud said, indicating a folding chair near Qadeer’s desk. “And please, do nothing foolish. It will be difficult enough to explain to the Russian and Chinese representatives the injuries you sustained when you fell from your motorbike. Bullet wounds would be too much, I think.”
****
As Simon had expected, McReady’s bag contained still more weapons, plus an assortment of what he guessed were surveillance and communications devices. He extracted all the ungimmicked clothing he could find, then used duct tape from his own bag to make it impossible for anyone to get at the potentially dangerous items quickly.
When he returned to the tent, he was disconcerted to find McReady unconscious.
“Did the silly git spit in your general direction, Massoud? Or did he do something even more foolish, and actually try to take Khan’s gun?”
Massoud laughed. “Worse. He insulted Qadeer’s museum.”
“Professor?”
Qadeer smiled sheepishly. “He was really quite insufferable, Simon. He called the Afghan people barbaric goatherders, and said that the Museum must be a collection of farm implements.”
Simon blinked several times, then said, “I’ve been to the Museum. There are a lot of farm implements in there, recovered from the excavation sites for the irrigation canals and pipelines.”
“But that is not all we have,” Qadeer said. “Poetry, paintings, statuary, pottery, weapons, armor -- we have the combined cultural heritage of Tajiks and Hazara and Persians and -- ”
Simon raised his hands in surrender. “All right, my dear fellow, I concede the point. Please don’t hit me. Speaking of which, what did you hit him with, and is it going to leave a mark we can’t explain?”
Khan raised his hand, holding his AK-47 up for examination.
“Qadeer took Khan’s gun away?”
“I wasn’t expecting it,” Khan said in Dari. “And I didn’t want to fight him.”
“Lovely,” Simon said. “I’m sure this isn’t going to have a detrimental effect on U.S. - Afghanistan relations.”
“Ow, damn it, what happened?” McReady groaned and raised his head.
“You have learned a valuable lesson in diplomacy,” Simon said. “Never assume it’s safe to piss off the little guy.”
“This assignment just keeps getting better and better,” McReady said. “Indiana Jones’s dad gets the drop on me, then his dad clobbers me with a rifle butt.”
“I think we’ve both been insulted, Professor,” Simon said. “Grab Khan’s rifle again and -- ”
“My friends, we have a problem,” Massoud said. “Listen ...”
Faintly, Simon could hear a rhythmic thupthupthupthup sound, growing perceptibly louder as the seconds passed.
“A helicopter?”
Massoud nodded. “On the positive side, I believe it is an Mi-17 -- a transport, not a gunship. But it is Russian.”
“Damn it, they must have gotten tired of waiting,” Simon said. “Massoud, Professor, can you stall them? I’ll try to stow this gear as quickly as I can.”
Massoud and Qadeer exited from the tent. Simon grabbed McReady’s arm and hauled him to his feet.
“Come on, Company Man, make yourself useful. We don’t want it to be too obvious that we’ve been studying the egg.”
The best the two could manage was to shut down and disconnect the instruments from the generator and move them into the corner. Simon threw a tarp over them and struck a casual pose, leaning on the corner of the Mossbauer main unit. He hoped that the gamma source chamber had closed properly, or that it was at least pointing away from him ...
“Simon Litchfield, it is good to see you!”
The Russian who strode into the tent was large, had the stereotypical bushy eyebrows over a face reddened by decades of vodka consumption, and was all too familiar.
“Alexei Yakonov, what are you doing here?” Simon said. “Aren’t you supposed to be negotiating with Chechen militants or something?”
“Finished! All finished!” the Russian roared. “The Chechens never listen, so talks broke off. You will probably have to go back and rebuild the things that get blown up this week.”
Almost unnoticed, a small woman in a People’s Liberation Army uniform had slipped in behind Yakonov. She tapped the Russian on the shoulder, and he turned, saw her and laughed.
“A poor excuse for a diplomat am I,” he said. “This is Major Bai Li Ying, of the People’s Liberation Army engineering corps. Major, this is Simon Litchfield, of the famous Nightwatch Institute.”
Simon shook hands with the woman, noting that she, like McReady, had some very interesting calluses. He suspected that she was an accomplished wu shu practitioner, likely able to kick him in the back of the head while balancing gracefully on one finger. She was also quite lovely, in an understated way, with deceptively delicate features under jet black hair.
Simon gestured to indicate McReady, who was trying to stand in the shadows to conceal his battered appearance. “This is Jason McReady, from the U.S. State Department.”
Yakonov peered into the darkness, and grinned. “A shy one. And a bit worse for wear. Have your hosts been treating you as badly as they have treated us?”
“I had a bit of an accident,” McReady said. “Fell off a dirt bike while touring the vicinity.”
“An accident,” Yakonov said. “Ha! Like the hotel with the ceiling falling in. There were no rats or insects, however. The vermin were too smart to stay there.”
The Major had moved unobtrusively from Yakonov’s side and was now running her hands over the surface of the egg. Simon blinked in surprise; she was disconcertingly good at being stealthy without seeming to make any special effort.
“It is -- beautiful,” she said, in flawless English. “A shame we must destroy it, or at least put it out of reach.”
“It should fit nicely in our helicopter,” Yakonov said. “A much smoother ride than that old truck you brought, I’m sure.”
“That old truck was one of yours,” McReady said.
“A gift to the people of Afghanistan from our brave advisers,” Yakonov said. “It is good to see that they have been able to use it.”
“We have a long journey ahead of us, first to Kabul airport, then to New Zealand,” the Major said. “I, for one, would like to leave as soon as possible, without returning to the hotel.”
Simon, knowing what the Hotel Nasruddin must have been like for its victims -- er, guests -- couldn’t argue. “Good idea. The sooner we finish this business, the sooner we can all go home.”
“We brought a crate,” Yakonov said. “It was designed based on the preliminary information we received, which was, I see, not quite correct. But it should still hold the object securely enough.”
Simon nodded. “If you’ll have someone bring it in, we can get things packed up and be on our way.”
The crate was similar to the one that had been half-hidden on Nightbird One, but not identical. As Yakonov had said, the interior had cross-members intended to cradle a truly egg-shaped object. They had to stuff pieces of cloth-wrapped scrap wood into the excess space to ensure that the artifact would not shift too much when the crate was moved.
“It is amazingly light for its size,” the Major said. “From its remarkable strength, one would expect it to be much more massive.”
“It must be empty, then,” Yakonov said. “The shell alone is valuable enough to make it worth a fight, though, which none of our nations want to happen. So, into the lava it must go.”
As they lifted the crate onto a dolly to load it onto Yakonov’s helicopter, Simon caught Qadeer’s eye and glanced at the hidden instruments. A gift for the Museum, he mouthed. Qadeer nodded, and managed a small smile; the loss of the egg was painful, and only slightly balanced by the acquisition of the state-of-the-art scientific gear. Simon suppressed a grin as he contemplated the fuss that the budget committee would make over his impromptu donation.
Simon, McReady, and Massoud joined Yakonov and Major Ying aboard the Mi-17, sitting on fold-down seats around the tied-down crate.
“We should be at the Kabul airport in about ten minutes,” Yakonov said. “Then we can transfer the crate to Simon’s plane for the trip to New Zealand.”
Simon was relieved to hear that Yakonov was not going to insist that they use a Russian plane (and, for that matter, that the Major did not demand that a Chinese aircraft be involved). Then again, there was still the matter of the fake egg on Nightbird One; it could be that subterfuge was more likely on board the Institute aircraft than on a Russian, Chinese, or American government plane.
They had been airborne for only a few minutes when Massoud looked out the window and said, “Another helicopter is approaching. And this one is a gunship.”
Simon looked at Yakonov. “Please tell me that this is an escort that you arranged.”
Grim-faced, the Russian said, “I wish it were so. But obtaining permission to bring an unarmed helicopter into Afghanistan was difficult enough.”
“It looks like a Havoc,” Massoud said. “There are no markings. Still, it is a Russian bird.”
“Dozens were sold on the black market when the Soviet Union collapsed,” Yakonov said. “Any fool with enough money could be flying that beast.”
There was nothing the pilot could do -- the Havoc was faster and far more maneuverable than the Mi-17, and had enough firepower to turn their ride into abstract sculpture before it hit the ground.
Yakonov held up his hand, listening to the pilot’s voice on his intercom headset. He spoke a few words in reply, then said, “We are making an unscheduled stop, my friends. It seems that someone wishes to relieve us of the burden of our cargo.”
“We should fight,” McReady said. “Simon, the stuff in my bag -- it can’t take down a gunship, but once we’re on the ground --”
“Your bag is back at the camp,” Simon said. “I brought your clothes along, but the rest I -- bequeathed to our hosts.”
“Yakonov -- what kind of weapons do you have on board?”
Yakonov shook his head. “Mr. McReady, what kind of diplomat do you think I am? This helicopter is unarmed, and so am I. Major?”
The Major spread her hands and shook her head.
Simon knew -- and no doubt McReady did as well -- that everyone on the helicopter was more than capable of putting up a good fight on the ground, with or without weapons. But if the occupants of the gunship were at all competent, martial arts and even small arms fire would be worse than useless.
“There must be another helicopter or a truck to take the crate,” he said. “There’s zero cargo space on a Havoc, barely enough room for the pilot and weapons officer. That means the gunship can stand off and cut us to pieces if we make a move against whoever comes to take the package.”
McReady cursed and slammed his fist into the bulkhead. “Crap. You’re right. You were so freaking adamant that the U.S. not get the egg -- congratulations! We’re not gonna get it. Some whacko terrorist or arms dealer is gonna get it instead!”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Simon said. “Open the crate, quickly, before we land.”
“What do you have in mind?” Yakonov asked as he pried the lid from the crate. “Something nasty, I hope.” The big Russian wrestled the lid around until he was able to stand it on end against the rear bulkhead of the cabin.
Simon rummaged through his pockets until he found two cell phone batteries from the assortment of items he had confiscated from McReady’s pockets a few hours before. He showed them to McReady, and asked, “Are these what I think they are?”
McReady nodded, his eyes suddenly bright. “If you’re thinking that they go boom, yes. Do you still have that fancy gold pen of mine, too?”
“The detonator? Of course.”
The Major frowned. “I don’t understand. What good are these things?”
“For a fight, none,” Simon said. “But if we plant them in the crate, and trigger them after it’s on the bad guys’ truck or helicopter --”
“The explosion won’t even scratch the egg,” Yakonov said. “It is practically indestructible, from the information we have received. But our friends will lose their transport -- and regrettably, whoever is on board will be killed.”
Simon grimaced. “Yeah. Too bad. I promised a friend I’d try not to let anybody die on this job.”
The Major nodded. “That is good, that the -- bad guys -- will not escape with the object. But their men on the gunship may not be pleased to see their comrades killed.”
Simon swallowed. “Heh. I completely forgot about that. Life would be simpler -- and probably longer -- if the Havoc could carry the egg itself. Then we could kill two birds with one bomb, so to speak.”
“There is another possibility,” the Major said. “They may kill us and take this helicopter.”
Seeing the expression on Simon’s face, Massoud thumped him on the shoulder and said, “So it was not a foolproof plan! It was better than the nothing the rest of us have proposed.”
“If there was somewhere to hide, we might survive,” the Major said. “But there is nothing – no trees, no large rocks. But of course there is nothing, or the helicopter could not land. Forgive my foolishness.”
Simon looked up, grabbed the Major’s face in his hands, and kissed her full on the lips. She was so startled that her reflexive palm strike glanced off his cheekbone instead of flattening his nose.
“There is somewhere to hide, or there might be …”
“Simon, whatever is in your head, do it quickly,” Massoud said. “We are landing!”
Simon pulled the ultrasound imager from his jacket, thanking Allah, Buddha, and any other gods who might be listening that he had taken it back from Qadeer after the Professor had copied the contents of the memory card. He adjusted the gain control to the highest volume the probe’s oscillator could produce, and pressed it against the exposed surface of the egg.
“The Havoc – it has stopped!” Massoud exclaimed. “The rotors are not even moving, but it does not fall!”
Simon laughed. “It’s working! Yakonov, tell the pilot to get us the hell out of here!”
Yakonov complied, but it was obvious that Simon would have a lot of explaining to do.
“What has happened?” the Major asked. “The Havoc seems to be caught like an insect in a web.”
“I get it!” McReady exclaimed. “You’re doing the time trick, but on a larger scale!”
Simon nodded. To Yakonov and the Major, he said, “We found out that the object responded to one thing only out of every test and probe we tried. When I used this ultrasound imaging device on it – it did something strange to time for a meter or two around it.”
“Simon disappeared, or seemed to,” McReady said. “He was still there, but he was moving faster through time than we were – out of phase, whatever – so several minutes passed for him, while only seconds went by for us.”
“But this effect is much larger,” Yakonov said. “The Havoc –”
“It is not the Havoc that is being affected,” Massoud said. “I understand now. You made the effect bigger, big enough to cover the whole helicopter. To the Havoc pilot, we have vanished in mid-air!”
“And to us, the Havoc has slowed down so much that it seems frozen,” Simon said. “I’m just hoping the time advantage is enough to get us to the Kabul airport, or at least out of sight.”
Yakonov drummed his fingers on the edge of the open crate. “You were not planning to tell us of this discovery,” he said.
“Didn’t want to make this thing any more tempting than it already was,” Simon said. “As long as we follow through on dropping this thing into the volcano, it doesn’t matter what it can do. And knowing that some doohickey can affect time like this sure as hell doesn’t mean that we’d be able to build something to do likewise.”
“Your actions were reasonable,” the Major said. “And you are correct – so long as the object is placed out of our reach, none of us will gain or lose anything from knowing or not knowing that it can affect time in this way.”
Simon smiled in gratitude. “Thank you. I’m glad someone on this bird is still thinking clearly.”
The Major raised her left eyebrow and said, “I would like to know why you kissed me, however.”
Turning on the charm, Simon said, “Why Major, I’m sure you must have a lot of men trying to kiss you.”
The Major was neither charmed nor amused.
Sighing, Simon said, “When you mentioned hiding as a way to survive, it gave me the idea to try this ‘time trick’ as McReady calls it. I was happy, grateful, and damn it, you are an attractive woman.”
This time, the Major almost smiled.
“We are landing,” Yakonov announced. “I told our pilot to set down as close to your plane as possible.”
Simon turned off the ultrasound imager, and the sounds of the world flooded in.
****
The distance from Kabul to Invercargill, New Zealand was over 7,000 nautical miles, beyond even Nightbird One’s capabilities. The U.S., Russian, and Chinese governments had agreed that Perth, Australia would be an acceptable refuelling stop, provided that personnel from all three nations were on hand to ensure that their cargo did not “go walkabout”.
After Simon reported the appearance of the unmarked helicopter gunship in Afghanistan, it was decided that the group should try to complete the mission as quickly as possible. A joint request from the three governments to the Australian government obtained permission for a refuelling-only stop in Perth, Australia, with no Customs or Immigration involvement.
“Welcome to beautiful Perth, Australia,” Starsmore said over the intercom. “If you look out the windows on the port side of the aircraft, you’ll see a number of gentlemen with automatic weapons. They’ve been sent by the Australian Army to make sure that we don’t have any unwanted visitors -- and to keep us riff-raff from wandering too far from the plane. We’ll be on the ground for about 30 minutes, while our hosts take care of the usual stuff -- black water out, fresh water, food, and fuel in.”
Starsmore and his co-pilot, Jim Wilson, opened the door and descended the airstairs to oversee the Aussies servicing the plane. Simon, Yakonov, and Major Ying soon followed, lured by the opportunity to stretch their legs and breathe unrecirculated air; even the luxurious cabin of Nightbird One felt too small after almost ten hours in the air.
“God. I just realized that I’ve spent more time on that plane than off it in the last two days,” Simon said. “I think my hindquarters are taking on the shape of the seat instead of the other way around.”
“The end is in sight, my friend,” Yakonov said, laughing. “Another few hours in the air to Invercargill, then a relatively short hop to overfly Mount Erebus and drop off our cargo.”
Simon nodded, groaning as he stretched and twisted to loosen muscles half-asleep from two long flights in quick succession. “One would hope that we won’t see anything like that gunship in Australian airspace. This place may not be as heavily populated as the States or western Europe, but it’s not as wild as Afghanistan.”
Both men were keeping one eye on the aircraft as ground crews went about their appointed tasks. With the Australian Army standing guard, anyone who tried to drive away with something large enough to be the egg would be in serious trouble. Of course, Simon had no objection at all to anyone pilfering the fake egg, as it would save him the trouble of explaining it to any of his traveling companions who happened to see it.
“It is a hell of a thing, this mission,” Yakonov said. “Not too many years ago, we would have been fighting each other to take the object for our respective nations. Now we work together to see that nobody gets it.”
“Progress, sort of,” Simon said. “Perhaps in another ten years, we’ll trust each other enough to really share something as potentially dangerous as this thing has turned out to be.”
“There will have to be some kind of surveillance on the drop zone,” Major Ying said. She had slipped in behind Simon without being noticed by either him or Yakonov. Simon barely managed to suppress his reflexive urge to reach for a weapon.
“Major, you really have to stop doing that,” Yakonov said. “I fear that you may give our American friend a heart attack.”
“I’m fine, really,” Simon said. “But perhaps the Major would consider wearing a bell around her neck? You are amazingly quiet for someone wearing actual army boots.”
Major Ying smiled demurely. “I am an officer and an engineer, not a cat, Mr. Simon. But I am sorry if I startled you.”
“Do you really think someone would try to retrieve the object from the lava lake?” Yakonov asked. “Our engineers tell me that none of our nations possess materials that could withstand the heat and corrosive gases long enough to find and extract the object.”
“A wise man once said that if many experts say that a thing can be done, they are probably right -- but if they say that a thing can not be done, they are probably wrong,” Major Ying said.
“Was that Arthur C. Clarke? Or am I thinking of something else?” Simon asked.
“In any case, it will only be a matter of time before suitable materials can be discovered or created,” Major Ying said. “Even before that time, desperate men may make the attempt.”
“In Antarctica, which is not easy to reach, and hellishly difficult to work in, for most of the year? Anytime conditions are tolerable, the scientific stations have cameras and probes running to study the volcano,” Simon said. “Anybody who tries to fish the egg out of that crater will have to be extremely rich as well as desperate.”
“Nonetheless ... perhaps our nations can jointly operate an observation post, linked to the existing vulcanology station.”
Simon shrugged. “Negotiating something like that would be more Mr. McReady’s territory. Like you, I’m mainly an engineer.”
“Ah -- I believe your pilot is signalling that we are ready to depart,” Yakonov said. “Perhaps they have loaded some nice Australian barbecued shrimp in the galley.”
“More likely cold mutton,” Simon said. “I think the Institute’s budget took a nasty hit with the stuff I had to leave in Afghanistan. The dirt bikes, probably half a million in scientific gear -- oops.”
“I didn’t hear that,” Yakonov said. “Major, did you hear anything after our friend Simon mentioned lost dirt bikes?”
“I was not listening,” Major Ying said.
Simon wiped mock sweat from his brow and nodded to acknowledge the favor that his companions were doing for him. As long as they did not officially know about the extra scientific tests, they would not have to protest. But then he frowned. “Major, did you happen to notice where Mr. McReady went?”
“I did not see him leave the plane,” she said. “And like both of you, I have been watching everyone approaching or leaving the vicinity.”
McReady was in his seat when they returned to the passenger cabin.
“I can’t believe you passed up the chance to get out and inhale some of that nice, fresh Aussie air,” Simon said.
“Seen one stretch of airport apron, seen ‘em all,” McReady said. “And if you really take a good whiff, you’ll notice that it isn’t Australia you smell out there -- it’s Jet B and diesel.”
Simon shrugged. “Your choice.” He turned toward Yakonov and Ying and said, “I’m going to check on our cargo. It’ll be a little tight back there, but in the interests of mutual trust, I think we should all go.”
“An excellent suggestion,” Yakonov said. “We were all watching carefully, but who knows what these tricky Australians might have accomplished!”
Simon was more concerned about what some tricky Americans might have accomplished, namely McReady, Starsmore, and Wilson. At least one of them had to know about the fake egg, and they had now had sufficient time to do something with it.
Everyone, including McReady, followed Simon toward the rear of the plane. He unlocked the door at the rear of the passenger cabin, noting that there were no signs of tampering, and led the group into the cargo bay.
“What is in that second crate, at the back?” Yakonov asked. “I noticed it before when we brought the object on board, but now I see that it is very similar to the one my government provided.”
Simon grinned while silently cursing the Russian’s alertness. “Good eye, Alexei. We built our own crate for the same purpose, but never got the chance to use it since you so kindly delivered yours to the excavation site.”
“It is empty, then,” Major Ying said. “Or should be.”
Simon nodded, watching McReady’s reaction. The CIA agent gave no indication that he knew what was or wasn’t in the crate, but that could simply be evidence of his skill as a field operative.
“The important thing is that the egg is safe and sound in your box,” Simon said. “McReady, will you do the honors?”
Again, McReady gave no sign that there was any problem. Grunting, he bent over and gripped the edge of the lid, then levered it open.
“It looks fine,” Major Ying said.
Indeed, the object looked exactly as it had when they last saw it. More importantly, it was clearly not the fake that Simon had scanned on the flight to Kabul.
“If we are all satisfied that everything is as it should be, I suggest we take our seats so Captain Starsmore can get us off the ground.”
Simon had suspected that whoever had brought the fake egg on board would have taken the opportunity to switch it with the real thing. Of course, the fake had been manufactured based on incomplete information, so its shape was significantly different from the actual object; maybe that had been enough to force a change in plans.
“It is fine, I agree,” Yakonov said. “Now, let us see if it is shrimp -- or mutton -- that awaits us in the galley.”
****
The flight to New Zealand proved to be mercifully uneventful, aside from minor disputes over what constituted a fair share of the seafood (including, as Yakonov had speculated, some “shrimp from the barbie”) loaded during their brief stop in Australia. Yakonov, being the largest of the passengers (as large as McReady or Simon plus the Major), asserted that shares should be calculated based on weight; Simon countered that age should be the deciding factor, as measured based on the amount of visible gray hair.
Bai Li Ying surprised and delighted Simon when she quietly suggested that she deserved the largest share as she had clearly been underfed as a child. “Otherwise, I would be at least as tall as Mr. McReady.”
Simon surrendered almost half of his share of the shrimp (initially divided equally among the passengers and crew) to her immediately.
The landing at Invercargill Airport signalled an end to the relative calm.
“This is where things might get interesting,” Simon said. “Here we have to transfer our cargo to a chartered aircraft with a rear cargo ramp, so we can drop the crate directly into the lava. The transfer, and the flight to Mount Erebus, will be the last opportunities for anyone who wants to grab the egg.”
A mixed security detail consisting of Nightwatch personnel, New Zealand army regulars, and guards from the Russian, Chinese, and U.S. consulates in Auckland, formed a cordon around the plane. Every man and woman in the detail had presumably been cleared by their respective agencies and governments, but Simon still found himself scrutinizing every face for signs of nervousness as he descended the airstairs to the pavement.
Yakonov, Major Ying, McReady, Starsmore, and Wilson followed, and they, too, were alert for anything out of place.
An unmarked van pulled up beside Nightbird One’s rear cargo hatch, and the party watched as the crate containing the egg was loaded into back. Two Nightwatch guards climbed in and closed the doors.
A Yiltis jeep-type vehicle had been provided for the passengers from Nightbird One; Starsmore and his copilot would be off duty now until the mission had been completed and Simon and McReady were ready to return to the U.S.
Once Simon, McReady, Yakonov and Major Ying had boarded the Yiltis, the van began to move slowly toward a turboprop plane that was standing by about a quarter-mile away, the Yiltis following closely behind. Simon spotted at least two armored personnel carriers parked a discreet distance away; passengers arriving on regular flights would likely never notice them, but they were close enough to move in if trouble occurred.
Within a few minutes, the party stood beside the cargo hatch of the aircraft that would carry them to Mount Erebus, watching as the crate was transferred from the van to the cargo hold and strapped down.
“Looks like we may have given the bad guys the slip,” Simon said. “I guess they’d have to have known where we were taking the egg to have arranged anything down here --”
The first bullet struck the fuselage of the cargo plane only inches from Simon’s head, nicking the brim of his Tilley hat. As Simon and his companions dove for cover, the single shot was followed by dozens more, some striking the plane, some the van and the Yiltis.
“Into the plane,” McReady shouted. “We have to get into the air and out of range!”
The sound of gunfire doubled in volume as the Nightwatch guards began to return fire toward their unseen attackers. The armored personnel carriers were now racing toward the source of the attack, tracer bullets streaming from their turret mounted guns.
With so many targets, the number of shots devoted to the area around the cargo plane had dropped. The Nightbird One passengers, all experienced in firefights, rose from the pavement and ran for the ramp-like cargo hatch.
With everyone on board, Simon slapped the button to close the hatch while bullets continued to punch through the thin metal of the fuselage. “God, I miss Nightbird’s armor,” he muttered.
“Get behind the crate!” the Major shouted. “No bullet can penetrate the egg.”
Simon hurried to follow the Major’s suggestion. Already, several bullets had made gaping holes in the wood of the crate, but not one had emerged from the other side.
The plane began to move, and the sound of gunfire diminished until it was lost in the roar of the engines and the rumble of the tires on the runway.
“I hope to God that nothing important got hit,” McReady said. “This plane’s going to be pretty uncomfortable over Antarctica with all this flow-through ventilation, but I can live with that as long as it can stay in the air.”
“Something important did get hit, I am afraid,” Yakonov said. “Important to me and my family, anyway.”
The Russian was bleeding heavily from a wound in his leg.
“Sometimes, size is a disadvantage,” he said. “I hid behind the indestructible egg, like any sensible person, but my legs were too long --”
“Crap,” Simon said. “I’ll get the first aid kit. From the way it’s bleeding, at least they didn’t hit an artery.” He went forward to the cockpit to get the kit and check with the pilot on the condition of the plane.
“Oh, yes, I am very lucky,” Yakonov said. “It is -- only a flesh wound, yes?”
Major Ying moved quickly and placed her hands on the Russian’s leg above the wound. She moved her hands slowly, measuring ...
“Major, please, my wife would not approve.”
The Chinese engineer’s fingers applied sudden pressure, drawing a grunt of pain from Yakonov.
“This will reduce the bleeding,” she said. “It may also help to prevent shock.”
“It makes me forget the wound, yes,” Yakonov said. “Mainly because it hurts more than the bullet.”
“Soft,” Major Ying muttered. “My comrades have always said you Russians were soft.”
“Move your hands higher, and that may change,” Yakonov said, leering.
McReady rolled his eyes. “Simon, get that first aid kit over here. I want to put a pressure bandage over Alexei’s mouth.”
Simon returned from the cockpit with the kit. He handed it to Major Ying, who expertly cut away part of Yakonov’s pant leg and began to clean the wound.
“I have good news and bad news,” Simon said. “The good news is, nothing important -- aside from you, Alexei -- got hit. The engines, fuel lines, and avionics are all okay.”
“What’s the bad news?” McReady asked.
“That flow-through ventilation you mentioned is making this thing fly like a pig,” Simon said. “If we are lucky, we will have enough fuel to make the drop and get back to Invercargill. If we’re not lucky ...”
“We go for a nice, refreshing swim on the way back?”
“Is good!” Yakonov said. “It will be just like a bath in a Moscow apartment!”
“I think Comrade Yakonov is dizzy from blood loss,” Major Ying said. “The sooner we finish this job, the better.”
With its speed reduced by the drag caused by the many perforations in its skin, the plane took almost twice as long as expected to reach Mount Erebus. They were able to tell when they were getting close because acrid fumes began to circulate in the cargo hold.
“Either Alexei has been eating borscht again, or we just crossed into the smoke plume from Erebus,” Simon said. “Better move him as far from the cargo hatch as possible.”
While McReady and Major Ying half-dragged the big Russian to the bulkhead separating the cargo hold from the cockpit, Simon unhooked the tie-down cables and slid the crate until one end rested on the joint between the floor and the cargo hatch. As an afterthought, he pried the lid off so they could all see the egg for one last time.
Yakonov, McReady, and Ying all stared at the milky white object with a mixture of awe and regret. They would never know who or what had made it, or how it ended up buried in the middle of an Afghan valley. They would never know what it contained, or how it could bend time.
The pilot’s voice crackled from the intercom. “We are beginning a pass over the lava bed. Stand by.”
Simon slapped the control button and the hatch opened, dropping until it sloped down and away from the crate.
“Are you sure about this?” McReady shouted, his voice almost lost in the roar of the engines and the howling of the air as the plane lumbered through the smoke-tinged sky.
“Of course not,” Simon said. “This thing saved our asses from that gunship near Kabul, and did it in style. I wish we could hang on to it.”
“Coming around for a second pass,” the pilot said. “Best bet for a bullseye will be to kick the package out just as we cross the crater wall inbound. Momentum should carry it in for a nice warm splashdown. Stand by – ready – steady – now!”
Simon gave the crate a solid kick that slid it past the edge of the cargo hold floor and down the sloping hatch. He watched as the open crate tumbled in a steep arc as wind resistance killed its forward momentum.
“Splashdown!” he shouted as the crate and its contents landed near the center of the lava bed. “The crate is burning – and the contents are sinking.”
He hit the control pad and the cargo hatch swung up and closed.
“That’s it then,” McReady said. “We have just heroically thrown away the most amazing piece of technology in the world. Our parents will be so proud.”
“My parents always proud of their Alexei!” Yakonov said. “Don’t know about yours, McReady.”
“Let us just go home, please,” Major Ying said. “I am afraid that my patience with Comrade Yakonov and Mr. McReady is nearing an end.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Simon said. He knocked on the cockpit door, opened it, and said, “Home, James. And forget about taking the scenic route – we’ve all had enough scenery for a while.”
****
Two days later, Simon was back in Georgetown. After spending most of the past several days flying, even a solid ten hours of sleep hadn’t quite restored his energy level. He had come in to Nightwatch headquarters for one purpose, and one purpose only: to speak to Callow.
With no meeting set, Simon had to track the Lower Echelon liaison to his lair in a small, plainly furnished office tucked away in one of the satellite buildings. A quick glance verified that Callow was at his desk, and alone.
Simon stepped through Callow’s door and closed it behind him.
“Simon! We weren’t expected you in the office for the rest of the week,” Callow said.
“Where is it?” Simon said.
Callow frowned. “I don’t understand. Where’s what?”
Simon leaned over the desk, glaring down at the smaller man. “Where’s the damn egg?”
Callow leaned back and rolled his chair away from the desk as far as the limited space would allow. “You should know – I heard that you dropped it into Mount Erebus yourself.”
Simon sneered, and dropped a splinter of shiny, milky white material on the desk. “I opened the crate just before I tossed it out of the plane,” he said. “Imagine my surprise when I found that a stray bullet had somehow chipped an indestructible object.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Callow said. “If that’s all you wanted to say, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me get back to work.”
“I saw the crate at the back of Nightbird One’s hold,” Simon said. “I was curious, so I tried the ultrasound imager on it. The crate had an egg in it. Not identical to the actual object, of course, since it must have been made before the whole thing had been uncovered.”
Callow said nothing, making a show of reading a memo from his in basket.
“Of course, you had better information when the second fake was being manufactured,” Simon continued. “When did they make the switch? It had to be done inside the van, with two Nightwatch Institute guards observing the deed. That means the Institute did it – not the CIA, not the Russians, not the Chinese, not terrorists or arms dealers.”
“Please go home, Simon,” Callow said. “You’re obviously still exhausted from your travels and the dangers of the mission. I’m sure when you’re better rested, you’ll see things that your suspicions are completely unjustified.”
“Something else just occurred to me,” Simon said. “With all that lead flying around at Invercargill, there was only one casualty -- Yakonov. And he wasn’t hit until he was out of sight inside the plane.”
“Would you have preferred a bloodbath?” Callow asked. “I thought you wanted things to be a bit less -- wet.”
Simon shook his head. “You’re a piece of work, Callow.” He turned to leave. The chip of glassy white material still glinted from its position near the center of Callow’s desktop.
“I’ll see you in a few days,” Callow said.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Simon said.
****
The waters of the Chesapeake and Ohio canal slapped against the stone walls with a sound like the rhythmic clapping of a child’s hands. Pattycake, pattycake, baker’s man …
Simon leaned against the iron railing at the canal’s edge and thought about the work that had gone into building the C&O, more than 150 years ago. Now there was a job for a civil engineer, surveying, planning, maybe even getting involved in the actual digging and the laying of stone and mortar. Working for the Nightwatch Institute, he seemed to spend almost as much time blowing things up as he did building them. All too often, lives were damaged or destroyed along the way, as well.
Callow and the rest of the Lower Echelon claimed to have the best interests of the world at heart, beyond the narrower interests of the United States alone. Most of the time, the missions Simon volunteered for (or was volunteered by Callow for) seemed to confirm that claim. But when they did something like this – stealing the artifact that they said was too dangerous for anyone to hold – it was difficult to have much faith in their bona fides.
There was no way out, though. The dirt that Callow had on his past would put him in prison for several lifetimes if the wrong people knew about it. If only Stephanie had thought about the consequences of handing over the data she had uncovered to Callow … but she hadn’t known either Callow or Simon then, and Simon’s secret past had made him seem far more dangerous than Callow could ever be.
Sometimes the things I do really are for the best, Simon told himself. And for now, ‘sometimes’ will have to be enough.
****
The technician set the timer on the oscillator and taped the output speaker to the surface of the egg. He stepped back several feet and released the brake on a ball-bearing-mounted carousel, then set the carousel spinning. As an afterthought, he pulled a set of safety goggles from the pocket of his lab coat and wrestled them on over his wire-framed glasses.
After a few seconds, the power indicator light on the oscillator came on, and a thin, high-pitched whine filled the air. This was just a side effect of the oscillator’s functioning, the casing and wires of the speaker vibrating at a fraction of the frequency of the ultrasonic tone now being directed into the egg. Still, it was annoying, like the buzz of an invisible mosquito.
The technician glanced down at his watch, noting the time, then quickly looked back at the carousel. If Simon’s report was accurate -- and the man was an engineer, so he tended to take measurements of any kind seriously -- something should be happening.
The egg, the oscillator, and the stand supporting both blurred, became transparent – were gone.
A moment later, the sound died, and everything reappeared. The technician brought the carousel to a stop and checked the timer readout against his wristwatch.
According to the electronic timer, almost five minutes had passed next to the egg, while only seconds had gone by a short distance away. A mechanical timer taped to the side of the oscillator confirmed this.
Calmly, the technician tapped out a code on his phone, and when he heard the familiar voice answering the call, he said simply, “I am pleased to report that we have confirmed Mr. Simon’s observations, sir. We’ll be able to produce predictable outputs from the device shortly.”
“Excellent work. Carry on.”
Callow hung up the phone, leaned back in his chair, and allowed himself the luxury of a genuine smile. With this technology, there might be no limits on what the Institute could accomplish …
Nightwatch created by Jeff Williams
The Metro car was at maximum capacity, all the seats taken and
the overflow passengers holding on to straps dangling from the ceiling. While the
"I'm sorry if he has a plane to catch," Simon remembered saying at the time, a memory that came to him even as he tried to ignore the substantial rear end hovering too close to his face for comfort, "but I've spent too many hours in too many cramped spaces to want to do so without at least being paid for it." Stephanie had merely turned on a local radio station, and reports of massive slowdowns on both 295 and 395 had simply reinforced her point.
"Van Dorn Extension," a voice announced over the PA as the subway train slowed rapidly. Even before the cars had stopped, Dr. Litchfield, dressed in a set of exquisitely tailored khaki clothes, had jumped from his seat. Stephanie caught sight of the harried look on his face then turned away long enough to allow a few chuckles to escape before quickly suppressing the rest.
When the doors opened, Stephanie didn't walk as much as she surfed the human wave that poured through, and then she was settled gently onto the platform. Simon emerged a few seconds later, and then he dove into the crowd to retrieve his hat, which was mounted on the point of a folded umbrella.
"This really isn't your element, is it?" she asked with a grin as Simon finished fluffing out the creases in his brim.
"Contrary
to what you're thinking," he said, "I've got nothing but the deepest
admiration for the Metro. I mean, I
understand better than you the difficulties involved in building tunnels under
a river. But," he waved in
various directions towards the crowd and towards the subway train, which was
rapidly receding into the tunnel, "
"Come on," Stephanie said, taking the Nightwatch civil engineer’s arm and leading him towards the escalator to the surface. "Tom's waiting, and time's wasting away." With one last look at the crowded station, Simon stepped onto the moving steps and ascended to the surface.
****
The L'Enfant Building stood on a corner near the Metro station. While the faux marble exterior and the fancy name--taken from the architect who designed Washington, DC--were designed to evoke a certain sense of majesty and grace, the dingy appearance of the three-story structure confirmed that it was not occupied by one of the higher-end clients of Arlington. While psychological counseling was certainly a noble and needed service, Arlington Counseling Group would never be mistaken for a high-profit venture, and the landlord didn't waste more money than was needed to keep the facility within the bounds of local code.
Indeed, when Simon and Stephanie entered the building, they were greeted by a pale green carpet that was at least four years passed its reasonable life. Ignoring the decor, they walked towards the elevators and entered the first one that arrived. As the car rose past the second floor, it was temporarily filled with the sound of screaming.
"Some of Dr. Janov's disciples," Simon said with a wink. Stephanie returned the wink and then shook her head.
"You're lucky you're not married," she said. "That wink would have had your butt in a sling."
"Occupational hazard," Litchfield said just as the doors opened to the third floor. "It's why I'm not currently seeking employment in that field." They emerged onto a floor that was, if not opulent, at least pleasant. Sky blue walls and dark blue carpeting greeted them, and all of this was complimented by soft lighting and polished wooden furniture, and framed prints of Monet's dreamy landscapes and Van Guilder's famed four-color studies adorned the walls. At least the counselor’s fixed this floor, Simon thought.
Almost as soon as the elevator doors closed, a large figure emerged from one of the offices. Even in strong lighting, he would have been imposing, possessing both the height and the girth of one well familiar with weight-rooms. In the reduced lighting of the floor, however, he was indescribably menacing. Simon's face, however, lit up into a smile.
"Tom," he said joyfully, "it's good to see you again, my friend!" The two of them shook hands heartily, and as Tom stepped into the light; his light blue eyes betrayed the man's friendliness. "You do realize that you're one of the few who could coax me onto the Metro this time of day."
"With the help of a kick in the rear from Stephanie, I suppose," he said, nudging Simon in the ribs and then walking past to embrace Stephanie in what quite literally looked like a bear hug.
"What's
it been," she said, "three month's since
"About that long," he said warmly. "I'm sorry," he said, looking at both of them. "I keep meaning to invite both of you for a drink some evening. But, between the practice and…and other things, I just haven't had much time." Simon held up his hands and shook his head.
"There's nothing to apologize about," he said. "I really haven't been home much. Business is booming for me these days, too, I'm sorry to say. I actually just got back from..."
"Look, Simon," Tom interrupted. "I really want to catch up with the both of you,” his gaze went from Simon to Stephanie and back again, “but I asked you here on business.”
"That's what Stephanie said," Simon muttered. He was annoyed, but puzzled. Tom wasn’t given to cutting other people off. "She couldn't give me any details."
"Only that you thought this might be something, um, Nightwatch might be interested in," Stephanie added. Tom nodded.
"Come on to my office," he said. "I've got something to tell both of you. Something, well…a little hard to swallow." He led the way into a small wood-paneled office. Inside was a desk and computer along with a gold and green colored desk lamp and a small selection of books. A smaller wooden table sat next to the desk, and on it was an older-model push-button intercom. Tom sat down in a somewhat worn leather rolling chair and motioned for the others to sit down on two smaller chairs. "Simon," he said, " have you ever heard of Sergei Illeyvich?"
Simon shook his head. "No, the name's not familiar. Should it be?"
Tom sighed and leaned back in his chair, which creaked under the strain. “What are they teaching them in school these days?” he asked with a wry grin. “I think it should be familiar," he said, "but then not everyone enjoys poetry. Even poetry by Nobel laureates."
"I've heard of him," Stephanie said. "One of my instructors in college had us calibrate our voice synthesizers with 'Basilica Dream.' I actually bought a copy of Under the Weight of Arctic Snow though I never actually read it."
"Just as well," Tom said as he leaned forward to straighten out his nameplate on his desk. 'Tom Weldon, Senior Counselor' gleamed in the yellow light of the desk lamp. "Arctic Snow's good, but it'll never top Gibson's All-Night Deli. I'm not afraid to tell you I've started more than one hopefully romantic evening reciting a few lines from 'Her Majesty Dreams of Evening Song.'"
"So," Litchfield said, "I take it he's very good, and very Russian from the sound of his name."
"Actually,"
Tom continued, "he's claimed by both
"Where exactly is this leading?" Simon said politely but with enough overtones of slight irritation to get the conversation moving. Tom looked down at his desk and lightly tapped the wood with his right hand. Stephanie suddenly stood up.
"Listen,"
she said, "before you get too involved, I need to make a couple of phone
calls. I just remembered I forgot to
tell Stetson to finish his project before the
"There's a phone just down the hall to the left," Tom said. "Dial 6 to get the outside line."
"Thanks," she said as she left. "Back in a couple of minutes."
"Okay." Tom glanced at Simon. “Do you want to wait for her?”
“No,” Simon said, not quite discourteously.
“Alright. Here's why I asked you to come. A few weeks ago, I saw a small blurb in the Post
that Sergei Illeyvich had been hospitalized in
"Hospitalized?" Simon asked. "What was it? Heart attack? Stroke?" Tom shook his head.
"Nervous
breakdown," he said. "He's in
the psych ward of
"I take it you found something noteworthy?" Simon said. Tom nodded and again leaned back in his chair.
"Sergei Illeyvich was hospitalized after suffering a psychotic episode," Tom said. "He stood in a public square and proclaimed that a beast was loose in the countryside, a creature that could tear the fabric of every human life apart. He eventually drew a knife and threatened to kill himself unless he was taken seriously."
"Alright," Litchfield said as he shrugged his shoulders. "A poet goes off the deep end in public. Nothing seems all that unusual. How much vodka and water had he had before he started howling at the moon?" Tom raised his hand.
"Just
hear me out," he said. "It
gets more interesting. In the days
before the incident in the square, he'd been trying desperately to arrange a
meeting with officials from the Internal Security Policy Council in
"Warning them about the beast," Simon added.
"Yes," Tom said, "but, I don't think Sergei's crazy, or at least I don't think this breakdown wasn't precipitated by something extraordinary. According to my sources, Sergei Illeyvich's father had worked for the Soviets, specifically in nonconventional weapons." Simon, who to the discerning eye had seemed on the verge of drifting off, suddenly perked up.
"Nonconventional weapons," he said, leaning forward in his chair. "This sounds disturbingly familiar."
"Sergei," Tom said, "was trying to warn the authorities about something related to his father's work." Simon took off his hat and ran a hand through his silver-gray hair.
"Do your sources know what this weapon was?" he asked. "Bio-warfare agents? Neutron radiation?"
"Apathy," Tom said in a deep, serious voice. "According Sergei, the weapon is unchecked apathy." Simon's expression fell.
"Tom," he said after an uncomfortably long pause, "you've called me here to tell me about a half-crazed poet trying to warn the world that apathy is coming?"
"I
know what it sounds like," Tom said, leaning forward so that his eyes
shown in the lamplight. "If I'd
never seen the things I've seen with you, like...like in
Simon sighed and shook his head. "I don't buy it,"
he said. "It's ludicrous." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on
the desk. "I mean, even granting - which I don't - that you could somehow
induce apathy in people, how is that different from what we have in the world
now? Did you see the statistics for voter turnout in the last election?"
Tom shook his head. "You're not really thinking this through," he
said. "I did some research. Stephanie is setting it up for me. Call her in
here, would you?"
Simon sighed and shook his head sadly. "I should have smelled a set-up. Stetson's a royal pain in the ass. I couldn't figure out why she'd be doing him any favors." Tom pointed to the intercom on a small table.
Simon
pressed a button. The call buzzer rang for several long seconds, then
Stephanie's voice came through the speaker, tinny and unreal.
"Yeah?"
"Stephanie, it's Simon. Could you go ahead and bring the presentation
you're doing for him?"
There was a pause. "The presentation?"
"Yes. He said you were setting it up for him."
"Oh, right. That one. Well, I didn't quite get around to finishing
it."
"How long will it be?" Tom asked.
"Well, I didn't quite get around to starting it," Stephanie's voice
said. "It didn't seem that important, really."
Simon grinned wryly at Tom. "Nice," he said. "I get it. Thank
you Stephanie."
"Right," Stephanie said crisply.
Simon broke the connection. "Very cute," he said.
Tom shook his head. "You still aren't seeing it," he said. "Not
really. You see this as one big joke, as some crazy man crying out for
attention in his old age, but imagine if everyone here felt like that. Imagine
if the maintenance crew at the hanger really didn't care if their job got done
at all, much less if it got done well or not. Imagine if the doctor in the
emergency room simply didn't care whether her patients lived or died." Tom
leaned forward. Simon was startled by the passion in his voice. "Imagine
if you didn't care what happened to anyone anywhere in the world. What would
this world be like if everything that Nightwatch has ever done remained undone
just because we simply couldn't be bothered? Don't you get it, Simon? What
could one dedicated serial killer do if no one in law enforcement cared whether
the crimes were solved or not? What could a terrorist organization do to us if
our people didn't care whether they were stopped or not? If we don't accept
that this is a real threat and act on it, we're screwed."
Simon shook his head and stared intently at Tom. "So what do you want me to do?"
"From what I know of Nightwatch," Tom said, "they don't have a hotline for this sort of thing." Simon grinned and stared at yellowing stain on the ceiling.
"You
want me to use the...the more unorthodox channels to report this." Simon stood up, lifting a small metal
medallion from the desk. "I'm
leaving in three days for
Tom stood up and stared down into Simon's eyes. "Please," he said, "as a personal favor to me. If I'm wrong, then I'm wrong. From what you've said this Callow person isn't going to treat you any differently than he already does." Before Simon could react, Tom grabbed the medallion, polished it on his shirt, and then placed it back onto the desk.
Simon shook his head and laughed. "Okay," he said. "I'll go back tonight. He should be there; bats are always more active at night." Tom reached over the desk and shook Simon's hand.
"Thanks," Tom said heartily. "I really appreciate this." He turned around and picked up a suitcase. "Listen, I hate to beg and run, but..."
"Yeah," Simon said, "Stephanie mentioned that you had a flight to catch at National. Vacation? Conference?"
"Business," Tom said. An uncomfortable pause hung in the air while Simon waited for clarification that never came. "I'll be back in less than forty-eight hours, though," Tom finally said. "I want to know what happened."
"I'll
probably be looking at crop circles in
****
Two days later, Simon found himself staring at a retouched picture of Britney Spears on the cover of Entertainment Weekly. While he had as much of an interest in entertainment as anyone else, the sheer volume of printed treacle in the Popular Culture section of the Nightwatch Institute’s library was oppressive. Despite himself, he reached out and picked up a bound volume of the previous year’s Rolling Stones and began flipping through the music ratings.
“Difficult to keep up when you can literally be anywhere at any time,” Callow said as he strolled into the area and placed a number of items on a table. “How many classic movies have you missed?”
“As many as you,” Litchfield said without missing a beat. “Anyway, that’s what DigiRent’s for.” Litchfield replaced the volume on the shelf and strode confidently to the table, or at least as confidently as he could given his low expectations for the meeting. While Simon would never be truly intimidated by Callow, the man still had an uncomfortable measure of control over his life.
“Have a seat,” Callow said, pushing the closest chair out with his foot. Simon sat and placed his left hand on the table’s surface. Callow’s laptop computer made various low beeps and whirs as it warmed up.
“So,
Dr. Litchfield,” Callow said without ever taking his eyes from the screen, “how
well do you know Mr. Weldon?” Here
it goes, Simon thought, the martinet gets to screw a subordinate. Visions of various icy or desert wastes ran
through his head. What’ll it be?
“We’ve worked together on occasion,” Simon said confidently. “He’s been extremely helpful during previous,” he looked around for anyone else, “during previous operations. As you know.”
“Ah
yes, I’d forgotten,” Callow said disingenuously. “Nightwatch spent a great deal of time covering Mr. Weldon’s
considerable tracks in
“We wouldn’t have had as much trouble if you’d bothered to tell us about the Phantom!” Simon hissed. “If Tom hadn’t been there, I’m damn sure we wouldn’t be talking now!” Callow smiled, and Simon kicked himself inwardly for falling into the Lower Echelon’s functionary’s trap. Callow had been trying to get a rise out of him and had succeeded marvelously.
“Still,” Callow said, “how much do you know about him? About his motivations? About any agendas he might have.”
“Enough,” Litchfield muttered. “Besides,” he added, gesturing at the computer, “don’t tell me you don’t have our whole history together there. If we could get on with this…”
“Certainly,”
Callow said as he chuckled lightly to himself.
“We checked Mr. Weldon’s preposterous story. Checked our contacts in
“How much?”
“Enough, at least, for us to need more information.”
“Really,” Simon stammered. Callow nodded, and he slid a legal envelope over to Dr. Litchfield. “And what are these?” he asked as he started opening it.
“Press credentials for you and whoever you deem necessary,” Callow said. “You’re now a reporter for Ars Poetica magazine, coming to write an article on the great Sergei Illeyvich. According to the psychiatric ward’s staff, he’s actually in fairly good spirits for the most part, as long as you avoid certain subjects.”
“Subjects which I’m going to bring up,” Simon added. “That could be difficult, especially if he becomes agitated.”
“He
knows you’re coming,” Callow added. “He
thinks you’re CIA undercover, which suits him perfectly well. Nikita Egorov, who works for us as a
translator, popped in this morning to talk with him and to secure permission
for the interview. Fortunately, he normally works in the
“How efficient,” Simon said. “You moved quickly on this one. A little too quickly.” Callow sat back in his chair.
“Have you ever heard of a village named Taralma?”
“It doesn’t ring a bell,” Litchfield said. “Sounds Eastern European.”
“
“Sounds like a perfect place if you have something to hide,” Litchfield added. Callow nodded.
“So perfect, that something happened there, something remarkable, and yet it’s barely been reported at all. Several weeks ago, a small fire broke out at a stockyard. There’s nothing unusual about that. Nothing unusual except that no one did anything about it. No one at all. It burned, it spread. Business to business, house to house. A couple, in fact, were spotted in their living room doing nothing while their house burned down around them. When the first response came, it was over an hour after the blaze started, and over 70% of the village had been destroyed.”
Simon
ran his hands through his hair.
“Nothing at all. Sounds like a
very apathetic response.
“It does,” Callow said.
“And the Baikonur’s there as well,” Simon added. Callow nodded.
“Between Illeyvich’s claims and this little piece of news, well, it seems prudent to check this out.” Simon looked again in the envelope.
“I’d better put a team together then,” he said. “Is Nightbird One an option?”
“To
“Lucky me,” he said. “And this man, Egorov?”
“At
your disposal,” Callow said. “At least
in
“I’d
better get everything together,” he said, “and probably stop by Mel’s office
for some ‘just in case’ items. You’ll
notify
“The flight plan’s being filed now,” Callow said as he stood up. “Talk to Illeyvich. Get as much of the story as you can, and then take whatever actions you deem necessary, using the normal precautions of course. And, as always, remember that if you or any of your team are caught or killed…”
“Very funny,” Simon said as he was walking away. Suddenly, he stopped and looked back. “That was actually funny. You must be practicing in front of the mirror during those long, lonely nights.”
“Have a nice day, Dr. Litchfield,” Callow said cheerlessly. He looked down again at his computer, tracing his finger over the Taralma report.
****
Melvin Squibb, Nightwatch's Senior Inventory Control Manager, examined the flat, plasma screen monitor. Exactly as programmed, Nightwatch's inventory control system was compiling a quarterly report on equipment, hardware, software, and sensitive documentation within the main buildings of the institute's campus. His brown eyes lit up as every computer reported in, as every RFID tag reported its current disposition, as, in short, everything that was supposed to be there (officially at least) presented itself on Squibb's spreadsheet. Without taking more than a small amount of attention from the screen, he slid over in his plush rolling chair to another computer so that he could answer a requisition from a field unit. Several times he brushed back his paisley tie.
"Got
to buy another clip," he said to himself.
His perfectly manicured fingers finished typing in the appropriate
codes, and a warehouse in
"You're too impressed with all this, you know," Simon muttered from the door, and Melvin jumped slightly.
"Give me a break, Dr. Litchfield," he said as he smiled despite himself. "Molinski won't stop sending you jackasses out, and Dr. MacMillian wanted these damn reports yesterday evening. Multitasking...yeppers...multitasking's the only way to go."
"I'm sorry that those of us in the field are such a burden," Dr. Litchfield said jokingly. "Speaking of burdens...I need to talk to you about a Form 71X request." Squibb, who had been absently running his hand through his thick bob of gray-brown hair, suddenly experienced a complete change in demeanor.
"Form 71X," he said as he stood up, "yes indeedy. Well," he said as he walked across the room to close his office door, "let's just preserve the confidentiality of that client government, shall we?" Melvin had spoken just loudly enough for his voice to drift into the hall.
"
"On the Nightbird?" Squibb asked. Simon nodded. "Well, at least those goodies are covered. You have a translator?"
"For verbal communications, yes." Simon sat down in one of the plush faux-leather chairs in front of Melvin's desk. "If we have to interface with any electronics, no. We're going to be somewhat handicapped anyway since Ms. Keel is stuck here helping with your great inventory scavenger hunt."
Squibb nodded. “That’s your fault, of course.”
Simon’s eyebrows lifted. “I beg your pardon?”
“If you could manage to do your tasks without actually using up any inventory, then we wouldn’t have to keep track of it all, would we?”
Simon laughed. Melvin’s innocent-innocent voice had been perfect.
From beneath his desk, Squibb pulled up what appeared to be a standard leather briefcase. However, as he opened it, a compact wireless computer mounted within came to life.
"Let's see what we've got in the ole cupboard," Melvin said as his fingers slid over the keys. "'kay, we've got a translation matrix card in and...aah, yes...a wireless software patch system too."
"For the cell phone?" Simon asked, and Melvin nodded. "That matrix handle Russian?" Litchfield said. "I'd hate pulling information from a Russian computer using Maltese." Squibb tapped a few keys.
“Let’s just have a looksee…Russian, most of the regional
Slavic languages, Romanian, Armenian…this’ll get you a cup of coffee pretty
much anywhere in
"I'll take that," Simon murmured. "If that TASER's in, I wouldn't mind having it as well. Also, I'm supposed to be working for Ars Poetica magazine."
Melvin tapped the keys. "Let's see, two PDAs with as much official looking information as possible about Ars Poetica magazine. Callow have that info in the usual place?"
"Should," Simon affirmed.
"Anything else I can do for you?" Melvin queried. Simon laughed.
"Good question," he said. "I really don't know what I'm heading for. This could even turn into the mother of all wild-goose chases."
"Alrighty then," Melvin said with a smile. "If that's the case, would ya mind if I sent along a little care package?"
"Depends on what the package is," Simon uttered with great suspicion.
"It's a bio-signature masking system," Melvin said as he pulled the information up on the computer. "'This state-of-the-art personal protection system adds additional levels of personal security to field operatives. The system works through the application of...’"
"Edited highlights, please," Simon said as he held up both hands. "I don't need the damn sales brochure."
"Well, in the trials at least, this little American dream successfully blocked 90% of the user's biological and infrared signatures, plus, video cameras look at you but only see a blank space" Melvin said. "But, you know the way things are with prototypes. Everything needs to be tested under field conditions. If you don't mind taking it along..."
"Okay, Mr. Squibb," Simon said with some amusement. "Just for you, I'll take the little bugger along and give you a full report when we get back." The doctor stood up. “As far as you know, Nightbird One has all of the standard packages?”
“Yessiree,” Melvin said cheerfully. He patted the plasma screen. “Boys in
“Good. Right. Excellent. Well, wish me luck.” As he walked for the door, he turned around with a mischievous smile on his face. “I take it you don’t actually want 71X filled out and submitted in triplicate?”
“Not on your damn ass!” Melvin said as he packed away the suitcase and returned his attention to the inventory. “I got enough flotsam and jetsam floatin’ through here as it is. Besides, this isn’t a paper trail I want to keep, if you catch my meaning.”
“Right,” the doctor said as he opened the door. “I’ll get that fax to Addis Ababba by the morning. Thanks for your help.” Melvin waived his hand and then quickly moved to answer another far-flung request.
Once in the hall, Simon reached for his cell phone, turned on a device to secure the signal, and then speed-dialed a number. After a brief pause, during which he performed a quick mental inventory on an attractive brunette as she walked by, he finally spoke.
“Tom! You are home! Good. I can’t say much right now, but start packing, and pack lightly.” Simon nodded. “Yeah…yeah…usual precautions, just like last time. I’ll pick you up when it’s time to leave.”
****
Nightbird One, Nightwatch’s modified Canadair Regional Jet,
descended into Pulkovo II International Airport during a rainstorm and then
immediately taxied to the part of the facility normally reserved for diplomatic
traffic. Arrangements worked out in
advance with the Russian government allowed Nightwatch staff to transit through
the airport with little in the way of the usual customs issues. In truth, the discounts provided by
Nightwatch for economic consulting with the Russian Federation as well as the
cache the institute was able to lend when Russia dealt with its former and
often unstable republics were worth the blind eye cast by customs. Once Simon and Tom cleared the terminal,
they were immediately met by a new model, deep blue Lada driven by Nikita
Egorov, a translator for the
"Aren't we going a little low-tech?" Simon asked as he got into the car. He waited while Tom tried his best to squeeze into the back.
"AvtoVAZ is much better than it used to be,"
Egorov replied in a voice that was only lightly accented. The Russian was a lanky man of medium height
and was beginning to bald though his sandy blond hair, after being
strategically combed forward, hid this to the casual observer. "Nightwatch had enough faith in the
Lada to buy three of them for the
"Quid pro quo, and you know it," Litchfield
said. "
"But AvtoVAZ is much better than it used to be," Egorov said after a pause. "Renault is better, but there you go." Simon pulled out a pen and small notebook.
"So," Litchfield said, "you're the one who made the arrangements. Who does Sergei Illeyvich think we are?"
"CIA, as planned," Egorov said. "I was told to tell him you're a couple of spooks. That seemed to make him feel a little better, like someone was taking him seriously." Simon nodded.
"And our names?"
"Mike Green and Terry Wilcox," Egorov said. "If you don't like them, don't blame me. That was what I was told to say. Can I speak candidly?" Simon smiled as he wrote down the names. "I've never met Callow. I've never even heard his voice. But he sounds like a total prick."
"That's one way of putting it," Simon said with a grim laugh. "Imagine sitting face to face with him." Simon put the notebook back into his pocket.
"Mr. Egorov," Tom said from the backseat as he arranged himself to move closer.
"Nick," Egorov said. "Egorov's too formal. And Nikita always sounds like a James Bond villain when spoken by Westerners."
"Nick, then," Tom said with a professional smile. "You've met Mr. Illeyvich. What can you tell me about him?" Egorov suddenly moved from one lane of traffic to another, passing a UPS delivery van.
"Sad man, very sad man," Egorov said. "Pleasant enough, but you can see the hollowness in his eyes. You ever met someone who came back from a war zone?" Tom nodded sadly, and Simon scrolled through the options on a PDA he pulled from another pocket.
"Too many times," Tom said. "Too many times."
"When I was young," Egorov continued, "a
friend of mine went to
"Tell me," Tom continued, "personal impression. Did Illeyvich seem psychotic too you?"
"There's a poem I read once, an English poem,"
Egorov said. "'The world is too
much with me, late and soon,' something like that." Simon pulled up the information on Ars
Poetica one more time. "If
anything, he's too aware, the world’s too much with him. Or at least that's how it seemed to me, but
what hell do I know, eh?" With
that, the car pulled onto the road leading to
****
Upon reaching the hospital, the three of them gathered their materials and entered the building. They found the entrance to the psychiatric ward with very little difficulty--it was the one sitting immediately in front of a strong, metal-screened door. Nick spoke to the nurse, who appeared to Simon to be quite disdainful of the three of them.
"She says that Sergei is a gentle soul," Nick spoke. "He's a very sick man, and she doesn't want us to upset him." The nurse, a woman of stern demeanor and even sterner black-colored eyes, crossed her arms and let loose a stream of additional words. "If she had been on duty yesterday," Nick continued, "she would never have let us even speak with the doctor."
Simon moved and stood between Nick and the nurse. "I promise you," he said, "we will treat Mr. Illeyvich with only the utmost care and respect. He is one of the finest living poets, and Ars Poetica would be remiss if it didn't help support Mr. Illeyvich in his time of need." The nurse's expression remained the same as Nick translated. "Let us talk to him in his hour of need, remind him through our interview that he is still revered by thousands of individuals, people who wish him only the best. Billy Collins just yesterday urged us to pass on his deepest wishes for a speedy recovery, and Louise Glűck was practically in tears when she told us to convey on her best wishes." The nurse tightened her arms. "Surely a woman of your obvious intelligence and understanding, not to mention beauty, can see we mean him no harm." Simon generated his most charming smile.
Nick repeated the words in Russian. The nurse looked to the floor and shook her head. She turned to the guard at the ward's entrance and spoke to him, and he pressed a button on an intercom. Then, she spoke to Litchfield.
"You men think you can charm anyone with your silly words," Nick repeated. "If it wasn't for the permission forms from Dr. Yakolev, I wouldn't let you use the lavatory on the way out. Anyway...anyway..." Nick paused, but before he could continue, the guard motioned for them to go through the now open door. As the three of them entered, they were met by another guard on the other side of a steel antechamber. He opened an identical door, let them through, and then began escorting them to Sergei.
"Anyway, what?" Simon questioned. Nick laughed, and the laughter was repeated in a more sinister form by an unseen patient.
"I was only trying to figure out the right English words. The most accurate translation would be, 'Anyway, you're not man enough to handle me.'"
Simon arched his eyebrow. "Really." He broke into a wide smile. "How intriguing!" The guard took them past several locked metal doors before knocking on a wooden door. As it opened, a nurse looked first at the guard and then at the three newcomers. The guard spoke and the nurse nodded her head. She walked out of view, but her voice could be heard speaking to someone. A moment later she returned and motioned for everyone to enter.
It was immediately apparent that Sergei Illeyvich was not an ordinary patient. While his room was somewhat bare, it seemed substantially larger than a normal hospital room, and the bed, while still made with the usual hospital corners, seemed fluffier and more comfortable than standard fare thanks in part to extra blankets and to a green-checked quilt. Tom was somewhat alarmed until he noticed a complete absence of overhanging areas from which to lower a homemade noose. On a table nearby were several get-well cards in multiple languages, and a plate of pirogues sat waiting to be eaten. Sergei, dressed in pale blue dressing gown, was staring out the window at the rainy courtyard, and then he turned to see who had entered.
It was something of a shock for Tom to compare the reality to the pictures on the books on his shelves. Without the help of a professional photographer, Sergei Illeyvich looked withered and worn. His eyes were sunken deeply into his skull though they burned with a fierce light. His skin was pale and papery looking. When he saw the trio enter his room, he looked up and smiled very slightly.
Simon turned to Nick. "Can you ask them," he said pointing to the nurse and guard while reaching for the digital recorder with his other hand, "if we can have a little time alone with Mr. Illeyvich? I know we're not in an informal setting, but it'd be great if we could do this in the most relaxed manner possible."
Egorov turned and spoke with them. They, in turn, talked with each other, and finally the nurse spoke to Sergei, who nodded his head.
"Call us if..." the nurse started to say to Simon before she found herself at a loss for English words. Simon smiled reassuringly and nodded his head.
"Da!" Simon said reassuringly as he smiled. "Yes! No problem." The nurse returned the smile, and then she and the guard left the room. Finally, Egorov turned to address Sergei directly.
“Dobriy den,” Nick said, smiling politely.
“Good afternoon,” Sergei said as he sat down. His voice was very quiet and somehow smoother than Simon had expected. His English was excellent, flavored with a slight accent.
“We are…” Simon began, but Sergei interrupted him.
“The gentlemen from Ars Poetica?”
There was a slight pause before the name of the magazine, and Sergei’s smile had a slightly mocking quality to it that made Simon shake his head ruefully.
“Please, sit down.”
There were two chairs in the room other than the one that Sergei was using. Simon and Nick took those while Tom perched on the bed.
“You will,” Sergei continued, “understand that I have spent much of my life dealing with the security apparatus in one form or another. I have learned to recognize its variations and faces in its many guises. You are not from Ars Poetica.”
It was a flat and unassailable statement of fact.
Simon shook his head again. “Can we speak freely here?”
“Of course.” Sergei’s smile seemed genuine, but sadness underlay his every gesture. “I am a harmless old lunatic. No one bothers to keep an eye on me except to see that I do not kill myself because of the coming terror.” The faint note of mocking was back in his voice, but it had a gentleness to it that was oddly comforting.
“Sergei,” Tom said. The old man looked at him. “My name is…Terry. It’s an honor to meet you.”
“A fan?” Sergei asked.
“For many years,” Tom said with a smile.
Sergei sighed. “Those were different days.” There was a pause. “I am pleased that you have enjoyed my writing. I wish…” He shook his head. “Those were different days.”
“Are you working on anything now?”
Sergei blinked at him. “You are not from Ars Poetica,” he said again.
“No,” Tom agreed. “We aren’t. But I’m still a fan. I’ve read everything you’ve ever published.”
“You will forgive me,” Sergei said, “if I say that you do not look like someone who would read poetry.”
Tom laughed. “I get that a lot,” he said, flexing his shoulders. “But poetry is about what is below the surface at least as much as what is on the surface, isn’t it?”
“Touché,” Sergei said with a touch a genuine humor, though it still didn’t touch his eyes.
“Are you working on anything now?”
Sergei sighed. “No,” he said. “Not now. Not again.” He looked at Tom. “It takes a certain…fire to goad me into writing. That fire is gone. The life is gone. Not even a spark remains. I can’t write anymore.” He smiled sadly. “It doesn’t happen to us all, but it has happened to me.” He sighed. “But I do not think that you have come all this way to ask about my poetry. You came to ask me about the beast.”
“Yes. What can you tell us?”
“That it will rip the fabric of existence to shreds. That it will drag its claws through every human life and suck the marrow out of us all. That it will leaves us all as dry and withered as I am now.”
Sergei’s voice was rising slightly, and Tom stirred uneasily on his perch. His eyes were fixed on the old man’s face, and something that he was seeing was worrying him.
“I don’t expect you to believe me,” Sergei said.
“We’re here,” Tom interjected quietly.
Sergei blinked at him. “So you are,” he said.
“But we need something more than hyperbole,” Simon said. “We need some concrete information.”
“Concrete?” Sergei said. “Concrete?! What about Taralma? You know about Taralma? You know what happened there?”
“Yes,” Simon said.
“People sat in their homes, heedlessly, while they burned to death because they couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it? Have you thought about that with your concrete? Have you considered the thought of parents who couldn’t be bothered to walk into the back room and save their own infant son from the most hideous death imaginable? Is that concrete enough for you?”
“Sergei,” Tom said quietly.
“Oh, he wants concrete!” The old man rose to his feet and moved toward Simon. “What will it take for you, then? Will you need the surgeon to stand idly by while his patient hemorrhages? Perhaps you’ll need to find yourself not caring whether you live or die when the simplest of efforts would save your own life!” Sergei’s voice had risen steadily, and now he was starting to shout. “Is that what you need with your concrete? Would that convince you?”
The old man threw his arms into the air, whirled around once, started at Nick and then began to pour forth a volatile torrent of Russian. Nick stared at him, wide eyes. Simon braced himself against his chair. Sergei was clearly out of control, the words gushing out of him in an acid stream. His face was turning crimson and his arms were waving wildly around.
Tom rose quickly and approached the old man.
“Sergei,” he said, gently but insistently. “Seryozha.”
“Tom,” Simon said.
“Lock the door, Simon,” Tom said, not taking his eyes off of Sergei. “If they find him like this, they’ll probably kick us out.”
“All right.”
“Sergei,” Tom said, and then he began to speak easily in Russian.
Simon, on his way to the door, froze and looked back. Then he looked at Nick, who was listening, open-mouthed. Simon shook himself awake and then moved toward the door.
Tom kept up a steady stream of Russian as Sergei moved agitatedly around the room, waving his arms. He wasn’t shouting anymore although he was still talking rapidly and loudly.
Simon, after locking the door, moved toward Nick.
“He is speaking Russian?” he asked.
“Perfectly,” Nick said. “Did you know he could do that?”
“Not a clue,” Simon said. “What’s he saying?”
“He’s talking to him calmly, trying to distract him from what is agitating him. He has been saying some soothing things, but now he is talking about poetry. He is discussing meter and rhythm. Who is Tchelinko?”
Simon shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Neither do I. He…no…she is apparently a poetry critic?”
Gradually, as Tom talked, Sergei began to grow calmer. Suddenly, a moment came when Sergei froze and stared at Tom.
“What’s he saying now?” Simon asked.
“He is reciting part of a poem,” Nick said. “It is called 'Black Pearls.'” He cocked his head to one side, and then he began to recite:
"I am a poor man on a ship of fools
a ship in mud sailing a greasy circle.
But even on this doomed little tramp,
I have hope. Yes, I have hope,
for I have seen the march of time,
seen little steps and little faces covered
in licorice and lime, smiling at the sun.
Even black pearls were once grains of sand,
so shall our children change us
to black jewels of the land."
Sergei hung on Tom's words, the poet’s own words, and as Tom neared the end of the piece, the psychologist switched from Russian to English.
Sergei spoke dreamily. "You know me well. That one has never been published."
"Blogs," Tom said gently. "You spoke in
"'Black Pearls,'" he said. "A good germ. I always meant to come back to it, to make it a proper thing. But now..."
"Now," Tom said, "you can do something, something to help us understand the beast. Maybe then you'll feel that fire again pushing you to write." Sergei looked up, tears welling in the corners of his eyes.
"If only I could believe again," he said softly. "You are CIA? You will believe me?" Simon, finally recovered from the outburst and from Tom's sudden display of linguistic skill, moved closer.
"Tell us," he said. "Help us understand what we're fighting. Without you, we'll never understand what happened in Taralma." Sergei lifted a bony finger and wiped the tears away.
"It all started seven years ago," he said quietly and slowly, "when word came that my father, Piotr, was being eaten away by cancer." Tom and Simon quickly took their seats and moved closer. Simon switched on the digital recorder. "Piotr was in terrible pain, more terrible than I could understand. In dying, you see, you enter a journey that allows few companions. It is a lonely time."
"Piotr used to work for the Soviets," Simon added, "helping design weapons. He told you something, didn't he?” Sergei looked at Simon.
"Yes," Sergei said. "What you say is true. He was a stern man, a rigid brute for much of his life." Sergei's hands began moving more and more as he spoke. "One had to be in those days. The bureaus were very unforgiving of failure. One of my father's friends went to work one day only to never be seen again, to never even be acknowledged. I thought for years he'd defected, or had been killed for failure on the job." Sergei looked at Tom. "I was wrong, young man, so very wrong." Sergei stood up and walked with difficulty towards an old porcelain sink in the back of the room.
"Go on, Sergei," Tom said. "What did Piotr tell you?" Sergei splashed his face with cold water, and then he stood over the basin as droplets fell from his face. His lower lip was quivering.
"The man's name, my father's friend," Sergei continued, "was Kovalenko. He was the first." Sergei's eyes widened, and as he turned his head, strays drops of water flew off. "He was the first victim of the beast...of the monster...the monster my papa helped create."
The poet sat again on the bed and folded his arms on his lap. Simon sat and moved as close as he could while Tom stood, his back against the wall, in front of Sergei. Nick sat in the other chair but stayed back some distance.
"Piotr Illeyvich worked, so I thought, with Tupolev Design Bureau, doing something or other with bombers. I remember that he was always fascinated by the contra-rotating propellers on the big one, the one you call the Bear I think. When I was a teenager, however, I heard him speaking in the living room of our apartment. Comrade Kovalenko was there." His scratched his throat. "I wonder if I could have a glass of water." Nick jumped up and moved to the sink.
"What were they talking about?" Simon asked.
"It took me a few minutes, a few minutes bought by the obliviousness grown men sometimes show towards children, to understand they weren't talking about aeroplanes." Nick handed him the glass of water. "Weapons. They spoke of weapons. Fiercesome devices of fire and..." Sergei drank nearly all of the water in one long gulp. "They spoke of yields, of flashpoints, all of the nasty things war brings. Papa and Kovalenko were taking a great risk talking about these things. Even then I knew our phones were under surveillance, that our apartment was sometimes watched."
"Was the apartment ever bugged?" Tom asked.
"Not to my knowledge, and not to my father's. We spoke of this late in his life, after the
"They spoke of weapons," Simon continued. "I know that would have been interesting enough, but they must have spoken of something else too, something that caused you to remember the conversation." Sergei closed his eyes and shook his head.
"It was something they didn't say that stuck with me, that came flashing back into my mind when Papa spoke from his deathbed." Sergei continued, "Comrade Kovalenko said one word, and my papa, who was never fazed by anything, suddenly turned white as a ghost and begged--practically begged--for him to speak no more."
"And the word was?" prompted Tom.
Sergei opened his mouth, but the sounds seemed to take a long time to organize themselves before they finally came out in a voice little more than a whisper. "Alconost," he breathed.
"The myth-bird?" Nick asked almost in spite of himself. "The Siren of Sorrow?"
"Sorrow," Sergei said, "or joy, a patron of the sciences...too many things in Russian mythology to catalog. But I don't think that was what Papa was talking about. According to legend, those who hear Alconost's song forget everything, leave everything, follow the sound of her voice and of her religious recitations. Forget everything. You see? No more cares...nothing concrete...descent into ephemeral abstraction..." Sergei's eyes were starting to flutter. "Alconost!"
"Seryozha," Tom said quietly, "stay with us. You said you talked with your father before he died. Is that what he told you about? Alconost?" Sergei closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He opened his eyes again and stared at Tom. Sergei began speaking again, but his words were in Russian.
"Translate, Nick," Tom said as he kneeled in front of Sergei. "I think he's using me to maintain concentration." Nick moved forward, and tried to catch up.
"My son," Nick said, "you must go to the Patriarch. Beg him, beg him, if you ever loved your father, to let me in. To put in a good word, to tell Him I'm so sorry for the evil I've done." Nick licked his lips while Sergei paused. "Simon, I think these are his father's words."
"That's what I was thinking, too," Simon repeated. He looked to see that his recorder was still running, and then Sergei started speaking again.
"Papa, I know what you were doing," Nick said. "You worked in service of your homeland. God does not brand such people with the mark of Cain." Nick sat on his knees. "Sergei, you don't understand. Kovalenko. I'm responsible...I unhooked the leash, I let it loose upon him. Let what loose, Papa? The beast, Apathy, Alconost! Papa, that word, I remember..." Sergei stood up, and Tom stood up with him, moving closer and touching the old man's shoulders. Sergei's breathing was slow and rhythmic. Tom spoke in Russian.
"I remember Alconost, Papa," Nick said, translating Tom. "Comrade Kovalenko spoke it that time in the apartment." Sergei's lips started to move, but it was a second before his voice caught wind.
"Poor Kovalenko," Sergei was saying as Nick
repeated the words, "I told him to run, but he didn't care. He couldn't care! The beast had him in its claws!
I tried to rein it in, I pulled hard to put it back in the cage, but
there was nothing left of Kovalenko, nothing to send home. I damned his wife and children to
"But Papa," Tom said, this time in English, "what happened to Alconost? To Apathy?"
"We put it back in its cage, my son, slammed shut the gate," Sergei said in English as well. "May it be damned! But I fear it lives, Sergei. My god, I fear it still lives!" Sergei slowly slipped to the bed, and Tom laid him down, covering him with one of the quilts.
"We'll let him rest for a minute," Tom said firmly, "and then we'll have to leave. He wasn't just mimicking, Piotr. He was Piotr. That memory is starting to subsume him, and it will if he doesn't rest."
"Do you have enough to go by?" Nick asked Simon. Simon stopped the recorder.
"I don't know," he said. He looked up at Tom. "How medicated do you think Piotr was?"
"Probably quite a bit," Tom said as he stared down at Sergei. "Enough that he may not have been able to speak clearly. At least I hope so. Otherwise, the Soviets were literally engineering some sort of apathy beast." Simon stood up.
"Whatever it was, Kovalenko got in the way and paid the price for it," Simon said. "Tom?"
"Don't even think it," he said, anticipating Simon's question. "I'm going to wake him in a second, but I'll be damned if I'll let you ask any more questions. He can't handle it." Simon nodded. Pressing a button on the recorder, he ejected the digital cassette, placed it in one of his coat pockets, and replaced the cassette with another one. Lifting the recorder, he pressed 'play.'
"My first garret, if you will," Sergei's voice said, "was near the Sunshine Motel on the Bowery. The place was littered with the refuse of the world, but in those wandering souls were so many kernels of golden truth." Simon stopped the cassette.
"On the flight over," Simon spoke, "I made a tape from several of Sergei's older interviews. Just in case anyone wanted to hear a sample. Okay Tom, wake him up." Tom nodded.
"Sergei," he said quietly. "Seryozha, it's To...Terry. We have to go. The interview went well. Remember, the interview went well."
"Only if Ars Poetica has gone into intelligence gathering," he said in a weak but mocking voice. Suddenly, he bolted upright, and Tom reached down to settle him. "Mr. Green," he said to Simon. "My apartment. There is a loose floorboard, and a shoebox. A small notebook from Sharper Image. A small notebook...do you understand?"
"We understand," Tom said soothingly. "Go ahead. Go back to sleep. Lord knows you deserve the rest." With that, Sergei Illeyvich fell back onto the pillow and was asleep before Tom switched off the light, and the three of them walked into the hallway and called for the guard.
****
There was a long moment of silence in the car, broken only by the sound of Nick starting the engine and putting it in gear. He and Simon kept glancing sidelong at each other. Finally, Nick cleared his throat.
“So. Tom.” He glanced into the back seat. “Rather than approach the topic with the delicacy and tact for which I am so well known, I will ask why the hell you didn’t say you could speak Russian.”
Tom raised one eyebrow and smiled slightly. “It didn’t seem to matter,” he said. “We weren’t planning on relying on my language skills. We had you.”
“Who is now superfluous,” Nick said.
“No,” Tom said. “Not at all. It’s true I know the language, but I don’t have your breadth of knowledge of the people, the culture. We still need you, Nick.” Tom glanced at Simon. “Look, Simon, it didn’t seem that important. When I was in college, I encountered Sergei’s poetry. The ones written in English were…moving. The ones translated from Russian were unsatisfactory. I wanted to be able to read them, so I started studying the language and ended up with a minor in Russian before I was done.” He shrugged. “Each of us is a mass of hidden talents and traps. It’s human nature to be that way.” He grinned. “You, for example, have never told me how you managed to get that Arabian dancer to--”
“Yes,” Simon interrupted quickly. “Speaking of hidden talents…” He cleared his throat. “Well,” he glanced at Nick. “What say you drive us to Sergei’s apartment to see what we can find.”
****
What they found was exactly what Sergei had described. Simon stared at it in disgust. “What is this?” he asked.
“Um…poetry,” Tom said, thumbing through the pages of the notebook. “Some in English, some in Russian, some in…”
“Finnish,” Nick said, glancing over Tom’s massive shoulder.
“Finnish?” Tom asked.
“Everybody’s full of secrets,” Simon said dryly. Tom glanced at him, but Simon’s smile robbed the words of any offense.
“What’s that?” Nick asked suddenly.
Tom glanced at the page. “Ah…” he said quietly.
“What is it?” Simon asked, moving in for a closer look.
“It’s a name and address,” Tom told him, “and above it: ‘the song that steals the heart.’”
“That’s good enough for me,” Simon said. “Let’s go see the…” he glanced at the name, “Man?”
“Yes,” Nick replied after looking at the name.
“Let’s go.”
****
“Yes, my name is Vyacheslov Yevtushenko.” The old man nodded his head slowly and then invited the three strangers into his home. It was small, but the furnishings were of good quality, though simple. “Would you care for some tea?”
“Yes, thank you,” Simon said, smiling.
The old man was gone for a few minutes, but he came back with a tray. Tom got up to take it from him, and Yevtushenko said, “Did me getting the tea give you enough time to think up the reason that you are going to tell to explain your presence here?”
Simon and Tom looked at each other. Simon frowned, but Tom grinned and set down the tray. There was something inexpressibly sad about Yevtushenko, something about his eyes and the tone of his voice, but there was a spark of gentle humor that had not quite been extinguished. Something about this business, Tom thought, must do this to these people.
“What do you mean?” Simon asked.
Yevtushenko looked at him and spoke gently. “Your friend,” he gestured at Nick, “is
clearly Russian. You two are, just as
clearly, not. You yourself are
American, but I would say that you grew up in
Simon blinked. “Until I was ten,” he said quietly.
The old man glanced at Tom. “You are also American.” He smiled. “If you would like, I could tell you from what part.”
“That’s not necessary,” Tom said with a grin. “That’s a remarkable gift.”
“It is both a gift and a talent.”
“What’s the difference?” Simon asked.
“A talent is acquired through work and effort, a gift is merely possessed. We are using your language, young man. You should learn its nuances better.” Yevtushenko’s voice was tart, but there was still that veneer of sadness covering every other aspect of him.
Tom’s grin grew wider. “I like this man,” he said.
Simon cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said.
As he spoke, Yevtushenko had been pouring the tea. “So,” he said. “Why have two Americans and a Russian…their translator, yes?…come to see me.” He looked up, waiting.
Tom looked at Simon, who nodded slightly, then he turned his gaze back to the old man. “Well,” he said. “This is about something that took place many years ago. We--”
“Ah…” It was more of an exhalation than a word. “Finally. You have not come too early.”
Tom frowned. “What do you…”
“What can you tell us about the beast?” Simon interrupted.
The old man nodded heavily. “The beast,” he said. He looked Simon in the eye. “I know the voice of the beast. I know what will happen if the beast is ever allowed to run loose. The world will wither and die.” His eyes were rheumy and gray. “Wither and die,” he said again.
“How do you know the voice of the beast?” Simon asked. “Have you heard it? Have you seen the beast?”
Yevtushenko sat quietly for a long moment, not speaking. The sound of his breathing was the sound of dried leaves rustling in the winter wind. “I have not heard the beast,” he said. “Not all six trumpets. But I have heard part of its voice.” He nodded heavily. “And I know its face.” The water eyes looked at Simon again. “I see it in my dreams. Every night.”
“Can you describe it to me?”
“No.” The word was flat, emotionless, and final. “That is what I cannot do. Had you come earlier, I could not even have told you so much.”
“Why not? If you’ve seen it…”
“No.”
Simon opened his mouth to speak, but Tom leaned forward. “Vyacheslov,” he said gently.
“Yes?” There was real misery in his eyes now.
“There are things that you can tell us and things that you cannot.” Tom’s voice somehow made Simon think of a cradle.
“That is true.”
“You would tell us these things if you could.”
“Yes.” The old man nodded. “They need to be told to someone who will do something about it. That is you?”
“It is. But you’re unable to tell us.”
“I am unable to tell you.” He smiled wistfully and his fingers brushed the thin, wispy hair on top of his scalp.
Simon saw something in Tom’s face tighten imperceptibly, then it passed and was gone. “What were you trained in?” he asked with infinite gentleness.
“I worked as an engineer.”
Tom nodded. “If you could have gone to school for whatever you wanted, what would it have been?”
The old man smiled, and this time it touched his eyes. “Well done,” he said. “I would have trained in…to work for a recording company.”
“Doing the actual recording?”
“No.”
“As a musician?”
“No.”
Something shifted in Tom’s face. Simon couldn’t follow it.
“Designing the studios?”
Yevtushenko smiled again but didn’t answer.
Tom glanced at Simon, excitement in his face. Simon returned the glance blankly.
“You were…an acoustical engineer?” Tom asked.
“That is an excellent guess,” Yevtushenko said. “That is what it says in my file.”
“I haven’t seen your file,” Tom said.
“But you know about those files?”
Tom nodded. “I know about them.”
Simon almost frowned. There was something swirling in the air around him, but he didn’t know what it was. It was almost as if there were two conversations going on - one that he could hear and one that he couldn’t.
“The cochlea is fascinating,” Yevtushenko said suddenly.
“Ah…” Tom said quietly. It was almost an exact copy of Yevtushenko’s earlier exhalation.
“Yes.” The old man’s eyes widened, as if he were surprised at himself. “It is indeed.”
“And is it there that the beast bites?”
The old man stared at Tom. He seemed friendly, but he said nothing.
Tom nodded. “Thank you,” he said.
“You can hear me, then?”
“I can.”
“Then go. Do something.”
Tom touched Simon on the shoulder and then rose to his feet. Simon waited until they were in the hallway before asking, “What the hell was that all about?”
“I was wondering the same thing,” Nick said. “Never was a translator so useless!”
Tom shook his head. “Bastards,” he said tightly.
“What is it?” Simon asked. Tom was walking very rapidly, every line of his body tight. He looked like what he dearly wanted at the moment was to break something. Or someone.
“Bastards,” he said again.
“Tom!” Simon said. “What is going on?”
Tom stopped suddenly and whirled on Simon, who recoiled from the anger in his friend’s face. Tom was usually so easygoing that it was utterly astonishing to see such naked fury radiating from him.
“That man in there…” he pointed back toward the room they had just left, his hand shaking with rage. “That man has been operated on.” He touched his scalp where Yevtushenko had touched his. “It was a technique attempted during the Cold War era and earlier. They’ve tried to alter the inhibition centers in brain through a combination of surgery and noninvasive…” He broke off to laugh sharply. “Noninvasive! My God!”
“Tom…” Simon said softly.
“Sorry. Through a combination of surgery and noninvasive techniques, you can, if you know what you’re doing, prevent someone from accessing or revealing certain information. He was telling me that it had been done to him. After so much time, some of the control is slipping, but not enough that he could come right out and tell us what he wanted to. The man doesn’t even have control over his own will! Can you imagine!”
Tom’s hands were clenched so hard that his sleeves were in some danger of ripping as the muscles in his arms flexed. Simon could easily imagine what would happen to the people responsible for Yevtushenko’s condition if Tom could get hold of them at that moment.
“Tom,” he said softly.
Tom relaxed slightly and attempted a smile. “His last reference was to the cochlea - the organ of hearing. The man was an acoustical engineer.”
Simon froze, motionless for a long instant, and this he suddenly took in a deep breath. “Acoustics,” he said. “Damn. It’s an acoustical weapon.” He looked at Tom. “Is that possible?”
“Certainly,” Tom said. “Why not? What better way to get directly into the brain of a lot of people all at once.”
“All six trumpets?” Simon asked suddenly. “What was that?”
“I’m not sure,” Tom said. “It might have been a biblical reference. There are…let’s see…seven trumpets in the book of Revelations. The sounding of the last one signals the coming of the Kingdom, but the first six signal coming destruction.”
“So when he said that he hadn’t heard all six trumpets, he meant that he didn’t hear the complete sound, only part of it!” Simon said quickly.
“But where does that lead us?” Tom asked.
Simon shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “It gives us information, but we need more. I think we need to have a chat with Stephanie.”
****
Ten minutes elapsed as Simon sat at the communications station. Right after getting up to refill his cup, a chime rang as information began to arrive. Quickly, he returned to his seat and stared at the data on the screen. Damn, he thought, how does she find these things? He sipped his black coffee and read the scant information available for Project Alconost.
"Well
well," he said, "six participants confirmed, Tom, out of an estimated
thirty-four." Tom, who was sitting
in one of the plane's plush chairs, stood up and walked behind Litchfield. "Illeyvich, Piotr. Kovalenko, Zahkary. Nikolaevich, Andrei. Ivanovna, Tatyana. Yevtushenko,
Vyacheslov. Fedorov, Rufina."
"Well, we can account for Piotr, Zahkary,
and Vyacheslov," Tom said. Simon shook his head and pointed to the
words on the screen.
"Only two," he said firmly. "We only have Piotr's account of what
happened to Kovalenko to go by.
Stephanie hasn't been able to find anything confirming his death. Of course, we don't have anything on
Nikolaevich, Ivanovna, or Fedorov either."
"Not to mention the other twenty-eight
people," Tom added.
"Twenty-eight little dust motes dancing
around who knows where," Litchfield said.
"I think we're looking for the proverbial diamonds in the
fertilizer pile." A bit of
additional information popped up in a separate window. "Well, that'll help a little. The Alconost project was discontinued in
1989. She can't find an explanation, or
even a description of what Alconost is, but at least we could start
there."
"Anything on the disposition of
the equipment?" Tom asked. Simon
shook his head, and Tom headed back for the seat, dropping three cubes of sugar
into his mug of Earl Grey tea.
"Simon," Stephanie said over the
audio channel, "I think I've found as much as I can for now. It looks like the Russians spent a lot of
time covering their tracks. I'll keep
looking, but you boys might have better luck if you headed to
"Keep trying," Litchfield said. "Stand by. I've got some thinking to do.
Thanks for your help so far, though!"
"Por nada, Doc," Stephanie said
brightly, and the channel went silent.
Simon stared at the blank panel and tapped his fingers on the control
board. He turned and smiled sadly at Tom.
"Stab the werewolf with the silver
dagger," Litchfield muttered, "or don't stab the werewolf. Shoot the man with the control box, or don't
shoot the man. These kinds of decisions
are easy." Tom laughed, and he
reached for his super-sweet cup of Earl Grey.
"You know we have two possible choices of where to go, and both of
them could lead to a dead end.”
"Let me guess," Tom said between sips
of the hot liquid, "
"
"
"Probably there," Simon
emphasized. "The Soviets had bases
all over the country. Once the project ended,
all of the information and equipment could have been transferred to any damn
place in the whole nation. Remember, in
1989, the
"Okay," Tom said, "in Taralma's
favor, we’re nearly certain that an Alconost was tested there. We could check with the locals and find out
as much as we can, providing they aren’t either too traumatized or too whacked
out by whatever it was to talk."
"If we can get there,"
Litchfield said as he tapped the arm of his chair. "I don't know that Nightwatch would have any plausible
reason for being in the area."
Simon pushed a button on the control panel, and the audio channel
flickered to life again.
"Stephanie, does Nightwatch have anything going on in eastern
"Let me see," she said over the
channel, followed by a brief pause.
"No. Doesn't look like
it."
"Thanks.
Stand by." Simon pushed the
button. "KGB's in
"In other words," Tom said with a
grin, "we check with Egorov to see if he knows any way to sneak us into
"Them’s the facts," Simon said as he
stood up, a mischievous gleam in his eyes.
"I'll need to dream up a cover story for us staying in
"Positive," Tom said as he walked
towards the cargo bay and the cot where Egorov was sleeping. "I can't say I wasn't wishing it was
"I was right!" Stephanie said with a
laugh. "I just finished writing
Taralma on a Post-It."
"Tell Callow to be patient, for all the
good that'll do. On second thought,
don’t tell him anything. Let him stay
in the dark for awhile. That could be
fun!” Stephanie laughed. “We'll be back as soon as we can get our
little butts out of
"Okay Simon," she said. "Will do."
"Nightbird out," Simon said, and he
turned off the communications suite and closed up the system. "Nothing like the smell of sheep crap
in the morning," he said as he walked back to talk with Egorov.
"Actually," he said, "I know of a way there. I'm not really sure you'd want to take it though. I know of a pilot, Aleksandr Mikhailov. Not sure if that's his real name." Simon nodded, but Tom looked confused.
"What exactly does he do?" Tom asked.
"Cargo," Nick replied. "Occasional ferrying of passengers. I think his main line of work is, well," Nick paused and shot Tom an 'I-told-you-you-might-not-want-to-take-it' look, "the trafficking of narcotics." Tom's expression fell.
"He's a drug runner!" Tom explained. "Well, that's just terrific! Why do you know him, then?" Nick grinned.
"There
are two economies in
"The black market," Simon added. "Well, neither Tom nor myself have any right to talk, considering..." He cast his eyes around him at Nightbird One, and Nick nodded.
"He's
brought many items to some people I know in
"Let me have the number, then," Simon added as he handed the pen and pad to Nick.
"I hope you have some dollars stashed in here," Nick added as he scribbled the number. "Aleksandr's not fond of rubles."
"I wonder why," Simon said knowingly as he stood up and headed for the front of the plane. "I wonder why."
****
The Be-103 flew uncomfortably close to the Kazakh steppes, occasionally passing close enough to startled sheep to allow the passengers a look into the creatures' frightened eyes. At times, the air to ground clearance seemed to be less than 10 feet.
"You do this all the time?" Simon yelled over the roar of the engine noise, a roar increased two fold because the noise of the plane was also being reflected up from the ground. The pilot, seeing Simon's lips move, motioned to him to pick up a headset, and the pilot did the same. Simon repeated the question.
"Da!" he said enthusiastically. "Take out the, uh, the, uh, weather radar from the raydome. Put in terrain following one instead." Aleksandr pointed to the computer and the radar display on the dash. "Old Soviet Air Force map software is cheaper than good Thai porn! The hardware is even less. Run it to the autopilot, and, boom, plane flies itself." To prove the point, Aleksandr took his hands from the controls and made a terrified screaming sound. The plane continued on.
"How very resourceful," Simon said with a mixture of respect and disgust. The difference between the toys Mel gives me, he thought, and the stuff on the market shrinks every day. "How long have you had this plane?"
"Two years," the pilot said. "I had An-2 before, but customs started to wonder why crop duster kept crossing the border." The plane made an abrupt turn, catching Simon completely by surprise. Looking into the back, he saw Tom just as he reached for the bucket that the pilot had said the psychologist might need. The noise was loud enough that even Aleksandr noticed.
"Back seat good for making chunks," he said. "At this altitude, you need front view to adjust. He spills that, and the price doubles!" Aleksandr raised his right hand and made a gun-cocking motion with his fingers. He smiled a wide, toothy, white smile.
****
"Victor," he said in a thin wisp of a voice. "Victor Lomantsov. You've...you've come?" Tom shook Victor's hand, and then Simon moved in to do the same.
"Yes," Tom said as confidently as he could, "we've come to talk." A lonely, distant smile began to grow on Victor's face as tears welled up in his eyes. He shook Tom's hand again, this time more vigorously.
"You will listen?" Victor asked. "You will hear?" A combination of sobbing and laughter erupted from him, and before Tom knew what had happened, he found himself embracing Lomantsov as the man sobbed into his chest. Simon walked over and touched the man's shoulder.
"Listen," he said in English with a smile. "Listen, da!" The three of them stood there and seemed to vanish as the wind swirled ashes and dust around them.
****
Daniyal Marchenko, one of the villagers Victor introduced to Tom and Simon, stood over the grave stones, two hastily erected quartz-granite slabs with names and dates of birth and death carved into them. The first said simply "Tamara" followed by dates that equaled less than a year. Next to that stone, a similar one said "Irina Marchenko," who had lived twenty-seven years.
"Wife and daughter," the man said, his gray-red beard waving slightly in the breeze.
"I'm so sorry, " Tom said, but his words struck him as hollow and completely inadequate. Daniyal simply stared at the stones, his bloodshot eyes the only thing betraying any emotion.
"I was outside," Daniyal said. "The truck...the belt needed to be mended. And then, it called...called and bellowed. I looked to the sky, afraid that the day of reckoning had come, and then..." He looked at Tom and Simon, his face still expressionless save for the haunted eyes. "It was not the Savior. I thought, 'Well, whatever it is is not important.' And then I thought, 'why should I even move?' Moving wasn't important. And breathing, if I'd had to do anything to keep breathing, I would have stopped." He looked back down at the stones as four other men approached the gravesite. "When the fire came..."
"The priest forgave us," one of the approaching men said. Far from being expressionless, thin streams of tears were rolling along his cheeks. "God forgives...the Christ is the good news." He held his hands and looked to the sky. "The priest said God knew that those who died...were not responsible. They carried no stain of mortal sin. They, too, were forgiven." Daniyal sank to his knees.
"I," he said, as his own tears began to flow, "cannot forgive myself...CANNOT." One of the other men stood over Daniyal and tried to comfort him. However, as Simon noted to himself, no one there was really in a position to console anyone. They were wounded souls in the truest sense of the word.
****
Victor, who came and retrieved them from the cemetery, took Simon and Tom through the village. All along the dirt streets were burned out homes and shops along with piles of burnt or nearly burnt wood. Ashes were scattered everywhere, blown away from the piles that seemed to be stacked everywhere. Sheep and goats wandered the streets as they were nominally if unenthusiastically herded by several teens.
"How long do you think it's been?" Tom asked Simon. Simon looked around in dismal wonder, and he saw a woman staring back at him from the burned out hole on the side of her home. She looked down and, half-heartedly, began sweeping the debris.
"Callow's report," Simon spoke, "said two months. Two months?" Simon shook his head. "And this is the most they've done."
"Depression," Tom said, and then he said a few words in Russian to Victor, who simply nodded. "And survivor's guilt. I just asked if any of them wish they could take the place of those who'd died. Victor said that all of them do." Simon nodded. “Think of the burden you have to carry to unload your worries on a couple of strangers. They’ve told us everything, Simon. Everything. We’ve hardly had to ask any questions.”
"The apathy itself must withdraw fairly quickly," he said to himself as much as anyone else, "but the trauma lingers. It's effective if you think about it."
"You call this effective?" Tom asked incredulously. "This is a crime against humanity! This is the stuff war-crimes commissions are built to investigate!" Simon nodded and motioned for Tom to keep his voice down.
"I'm not saying I admire it," Simon said. "The apathy lasts long enough to subdue the area, but a completely apathetic populace couldn't be effectively controlled. Most of them would simply starve to death because they had no motivation to eat." Simon took off his hat. "No, the apathy has to recede, but depression. With enough effort, you could motivate people to do what you need to, but they'd be in no condition to fight back." Tom's breathing became shallower, and the veins on his forehead started to bulge.
"Nuclear weapons aren't enough," he said angrily. "Bombs aren't enough! Germ warfare's not enough! Let's just crawl inside someone's head and rob him of his dignity!" The three of them came to the stockyard as a woman walked by. She was carrying a crying child and held the baby so tightly that it looked as if she was trying to fuse him to her body.
"This where it began," Victor said quietly, and Tom relayed the information to Simon. Victor pointed weakly at the remains of a shack on the edge of the yard. "I saw the smoke rising, and then the flames, but the ground, it was such an inviting bed." Victor absently rubbed the side of his face.
"Do you know how it started?" Tom asked. Victor shook his head. Tom looked into the air and tried to calm his emotions. Tears were starting to appear in his eyes as well.
"Blind alley," he said with some difficulty to Simon. "It's the same story. We've talked to ten people, and we keep hearing the same damn story!"
"We don't know that yet," Simon said though he wasn't feeling particularly confident.
Victor looked hard at Tom. "You will tell others?" he asked, almost pleadingly. "We sent word about what happened, but no one but a fourth-rate agricultural official came. This," Victor said, more forcefully this time, "is our shame." Victor grabbed Tom by the shoulders. “Tell them,” he said, this time in quiet, heavily-accented English.
"We'll tell others, Victor," Tom said, "I promise." Simon put his hat back on and looked towards the thin stratus clouds. Suddenly, his eyes lit up.
"Tom," Simon said, "ask Victor if there were any strangers around before the fire." Tom looked at Simon.
"You actually think they would have shown themselves?" he asked.
"You'd think they'd want to scout out the lay of the land," Simon replied. Tom turned to Victor and spoke. Victor, who was staring at the remains of the stockyard, did not immediately answer, and Tom asked the question again. Finally, Victor looked at Tom.
"Da," he said.
"Do you know who they were?" Tom asked, his face suddenly brightening.
"Just an oil company," Victor said weakly. "Some company or another comes every year. No one accepts the Soviets long ago sucked out the supply from this area." Tom looked at Simon and gave a thumbs up sign. Simon moved closer.
"Do you remember the company's name?" Tom asked. Victor again stared at the stockyard. "Victor! This is important, very important. Do you remember the company's name?"
"I don't know," Victor said in a tired voice. "They come. They look. They go." He grabbed the sides of his head. "Kazakh," he said, "Kazakh... Kazakh Reserve...Oil & Gas." Victor dropped his hands and nodded. "Kazakh Reserve Oil & Gas." He looked at Tom. "Six of them, maybe. I only saw two most of the time. And then they left. They always leave."
"Kazakh Reserve Oil & Gas ring a bell?" Tom asked Simon. He shook his head but then started scratching his chin.
"Not with me," Litchfield said. "But I know someone who might be able to help."
"You will tell others?" Victor asked pleadingly as he took Tom's hand. "You must. You must! You must!"
****
"Kazakh Reserve Oil & Gas," Simon repeated to himself as he inserted a small disk into his cell phone.
"Let's hope they left some sort of paper trail," Tom said as he looked towards the rapidly setting sun. A chilly breeze began to blow over the Kazakh plains. "Let's hope we can find it quickly. I've heard there're wolves out in these parts."
"Oh yes," Litchfield said as he held the phone towards the sky, "large wolves with long memories, back to when they were the head honchos around here. Sharp, nasty teeth, ravenous appetite..."
"Just shut up and dial," Tom said in an agitated voice. Simon depressed a small black button on the side of the phone.
"I'll be happy to just as soon as I can find the signal." He held the phone higher into the air. "It usually doesn't take this long."
"How are you transmitting?" Tom walked next to Simon and stared at the small display screen on the phone.
"Long story," Simon said, "illegal story. If Nightbird One was even in the air near us, I'd just run the transmission through it using my PDA. Right now, I just need the damn satellite to shake hands with this thing. I know there's coverage here." Simon shook the phone and then let his hand fall dejectedly by his side. "I should've asked Melvin for a SatSynch. Maybe they've just taken the thing offline for maintenance."
"So," Tom said, "what you're saying is that
we're flying blind. We're stuck in
"If we can't get one of those nice people in the village to lend us a room," he said with a cheerful voice, "dibs on second shift for wolf watch. Don't worry, I'll gather plenty of wood for the fire before I go to sleep."
"From where?" Tom asked. "I don't see many trees anywhere near here. I suppose we could raid some of the rubble, but a lot of it's already been burned." Simon smiled a resigned smile and then crouched.
"This could be a problem," he said in a suddenly serious voice. "Every second we waste out here is a second closer to...to whatever the hell they're going to do. They could be building a singing hydra for all we know."
"Okay," Tom said, "think hard. I know you've been in worse situations than this. Aren't there any other means of communication you could use?"
"A landline if we had to," Simon murmured. "I'm not sure that I could secure it, though, and then there's the matter of all those villagers orbiting around, listening in." Simon's eyes suddenly grew wide, and he jumped up. "Here's one I owe to Mr. Illeyvich."
"What is it?" Tom asked. "I'm not following."
"'Even black pearls were once grains of sand,'" he said as he began making adjustments on the phone. "Iridium!" He started pressing a series of numbers onto the keypad, which responded with soft, welcoming tones.
"The element?" Tom asked. "Isn't that why they think a comet killed the dinosaurs?"
"The Iridium network," Simon replied cheerfully. "It was a satellite communications system. They launched a whole cluster of satellites and then tried getting customers to buy bulky handsets while charging very high rates. Went over like an iron butterfly."
"How's that going to help?" Tom said, a confused and slightly alarmed look crossing his face. "Is the jet lag starting to get to you?" Simon held the phone to his ear.
"Those were the grains of sand," Simon spoke. "It took the
"I'm assuming Nightwatch doesn't have an agreement with them." Simon grinned. "You're stealing bandwidth."
"Stealing is such a harsh word," Simon said as he hit the encryption button. "I'm a taxpayer, I help pay for the service. I'd prefer to think of this as a time-share...YES! Ms. Keel, we need your help. I'm glad you were answering."
Nightbird One pilot Ed Wendell looked at the GPS indicator on one of the LCD screens in Nightbird One. A red circle was getting close, relatively speaking. He looked over at his co-pilot, Allison Corwyn, and nodded, and she nodded back and pressed a button. A second later, a warning alarm began to sound.
“Astana, Nightbird 1-3-7-7,” Wendell spoke.
“Nightbird 1-3-7-7, go,” a woman replied over the radio.
“Astana, Nightbird 1-3-7-7, I’m declaring an emergency,” the pilot said calmly. “I have three fault warnings on cabin pressurization, hydraulics, and oil pressure.”
“Roger, Nightbird 1-3-7-7, cabin pressure, hydraulics, and oil pressure. Descend and maintain 9,000 feet at your discretion.”
“Roger, Astana,” Wendell said, and he quickly descended to the lower altitude. The pilot put on his oxygen mask and plugged its comm system into Nightbird’s. “Nightbird 1-3-7-7, requesting landing at first available.” He cut off the mike and removed the mask. “I hope whoever Nightwatch sends to ‘repair’ the plane doesn’t really screw the thing up. You sure you can make it look like the sensors failed on their own?”
Allison grinned evilly. “Those boys used to fuck up their F-15s when I was a crew chief, doing things they weren’t supposed to do.”
“Nightbird 1-3-7-7,” the woman said on the radio, “cleared to land at the following co-ordinates.”
“It’s amazing,” Allison said, “how much money a frightened pilot will pay his mechanic to make it look like an accident.”
****
Baikonur Cosmodrome was a giant testing and launch facility spanning dozens of miles deep in the Kazakh plain. Nearly every Russian launch program had operations there, and many small and large towns dotted the facility. While the land was in Kazakhstan, a special leasing arrangement placed all of Baikonur in Russian administration.
After a day and a half, Nightbird One was certified safe to fly, and the crew finally made it to Baikonur. A worker from Russian Booster Systems DeepSpace greeted them at Krainly Airport. He ferried them to the Hotel Sputnik, helped them check into the hotel, and then left them both the car and directions to DeepSpace’s launch facility.
Once they had freshened up and had a drink in the remarkably cozy and well-stocked hotel bar, they drove the considerable distance on the long road from the former cities of Leninsk and Tyuratum to DeepSpace’s complex. There, Dr. Kirill Vichinsky and his assistant, Stepan Gogol, met them. The two of them then led Simon and Tom to the cleanroom facility where TransCom 3 was being prepared.
The communications satellite sat on its test stand as technicians quickly but methodically checked all of the systems. As with nearly all satellites on the ground, it looked singularly unimpressive, more of a reflective box than a graceful bird that would soar high above the Earth.
"TransCom 3," Dr. Vichinsky said in perfect English, "is in the final stages of checkout. Within the next fortnight, we'll begin mating the satellite with a Firebird 3 Upper Stage in preparation for transit to a DeepSpace pad." Vichinsky looked proudly upon the satellite. "If all goes well, she goes up in one month."
"Unless, of course," Vichinsky's assistant, Gogol, said, "our downrange neighbors decide to up their fees again."
"Our guest isn't interested in geopolitics," Vichinsky snapped. Suddenly, however, he started to laugh. "I'm sorry, Dr. Litchfield. I forgot I was dealing with a representative from Nightwatch!" Simon made a reassuring gesture, all the while wishing he could get out of the constrictive cleanroom suit. In particular, the facemask seemed particularly keen on boring into his skin.
"It's easy to get caught up in your job," Simon said with some degree of difficulty. "Again, I truly thank you for giving us this tour on such short notice. You must have a million different things to think about without having to worry about guests."
"Why did Nightwatch send you?" Vichinsky asked in a friendly yet pointed tone. "None of the other TransCom shareholders have sent anyone besides an occasional launch consultant."
"Well, that's simple," Simon said breezily. "Surely, you deal with bureaucrats. Well, Nightwatch has some of the worst on the face of the Earth. Money's been spent, and, damnit, they want to make sure everything's going well!" Simon laughed easily.
"Damn bureaucrats," Dr. Vichinsky hissed. He dismissively waved his hand towards the ceiling. "I'm only fortunate that my superiors stay away most of the time. Well, have you seen enough to satisfy them?" Litchfield turned to look at his equally uncomfortable colleague.
"Do you have any questions or concerns, Mr. Wharton?" Simon asked Tom. Tom looked around.
“How,” he said, “do you move the satellites to their rockets?”
“Boosters,” Vichinsky corrected. “This wall behind you, in addition to providing passage from this cleanroom to the next for personnel, can be opened considerably to allow for easy transport of the satellites.”
"Is there anything scheduled ahead of our flight?" Tom asked through the facemask. "If, for instance, there was a delay with that launch, would ours be pushed back?"
"We are mating three satellites with a Firebird 4 Upper Stage at this moment," Gogol said briskly. "We have two pads for Firebird launches. Unless the preceding flight blows up on the pad, very little could prevent the timely launch of TransCom. And, may I remind you," he said with a small degree of irritation, "Firebirds have a perfect launch record. We are, I think you'll agree, justly proud of..."
"Thank you," Dr. Vichinsky interrupted as he placed a hand on his assistant's arm. "Forgive Gogol. We are very proud of Firebird, and occasionally some are carried away with that enthusiasm." Tom nodded.
"Oh, I wasn't offended at all," Tom said pleasantly. "Three satellites on one rocket, huh? That's got to be pushing the envelope a little. What kind of satellites are they, anyway?"
"Communications," Vichinsky said. "I'm precluded, of course, from telling you who the customer is. Naturally, though, if you check the trade publications, you should be able to deduce it." Tom nodded and then carefully looked around one more time. "Plus, if you like, we can go up to the viewing gallery and look in on the work. I'd offer to take you in, of course, but we have Class 10,000 conditions in there. No chances that close to launch, eh, my friend?"
"Well, Dr. Litchfield," Tom said as he scratched his hip, "I can't think of anything else. Why don't we take a look at the proceedings?" Simon nodded.
"Very good," Vichinsky said, motioning towards an airlock. "If you'll head back this way, we'll get you out of these lovely suits and back into fresh air." Simon began walking towards the exit.
"Couldn't they have issued better suits for you?" Litchfield said as he resisted the urge to tear off the hood. "These are just about the most uncomfortable things I've worn in a very long time."
Vichinsky laughed.
"The Firebird was expensive to develop," he said, "and it
takes many launches to recoup costs.
The hope was that the
****
The gallery was small but provided an excellent vista over the assembly room. In clear view was the Firebird 4 Upper Stage, its sleeping engines covered in orange dust caps. On its otherwise plain, white, painted surface was a deep red insignia in the shape of the legendary firebird. Below it was the much more utilitarian logo of Russian Booster Systems DeepSpace, the Russian version of the company’s initials . The three communications satellites were mounted in their cradles near the top of the upper stage, and technicians worked to secure the various connections to the booster and its control systems.
"Beginning tomorrow," Vichinsky said between pointing at various parts of the assembly process, "we shift to round-the-clock operations. The satellites will be completely secured, and then the fairings and nose cone added. Finally," he said as he pointed to the concrete and steel tracks on the floor underneath the flight stage, "we'll roll it out, mate it with the rest of the booster, and send it to the pad for final checks."
"Impressive," Litchfield said as he looked down, childhood visions of model rockets dancing through his head. "Those tracks must cause a big headache in such clean conditions."
"No end of trouble," Gogol said. "We're lobbying for this end of the spur to be replaced with tracks made of plastic or ceramic. The rails now must be completely scrubbed and polished before we seal the chamber and begin processing the next payload."
"We raised similar question," a heavily accented female voice said from behind them. Vichinsky turned around and smiled.
"Dr. Filatov," he said. "Good to see you! I must admit I wasn't expecting you here until the pace picks up tomorrow." Filatov, an older yet striking woman, moved forward and looked down upon the assembly process, her gold and burgundy dress and jacket swaying slightly. Of slight build and height, no more than five foot five, the woman moved past Simon and stood before the window, her gray-brown hair glinting in the bright light pouring in from the assembly room.
"Excitement," she said as her hazel eyes lit up. Her hand reached up and touched the nametag clipped to her jacket. "Enthusism. Excuse me. Enthusiasm. Waited long time for launch." Litchfield wasted no time in positioning himself near Dr. Filatov, and he gave her his most beguiling smile.
"Madam," he said, "allow me to introduce myself. Dr. Simon Litchfield of the Nightwatch Institute." He pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. Filatov's expression was one of extreme embarrassment, irritation, and genuine pleasure, and she lowered her hand to her belly.
"Well," she said quietly, "a charmer. Nightwatch...Nightwatch...
"This tour," he said as he looked at Filatov and then down into the cleanroom, "grows more and more interesting by the minute. So, Dr. Filatov, you work with the company that owns those satellites?"
"Managing partners," she said, suddenly stiffening. "Not owners. Dr. Vichinsky, we come here tomorrow at third shift, eh?" Vichinsky nodded, and then the two of them exchanged a few words in Russian before she left the room. Finally, he turned back to Tom and Simon.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I'm afraid the time has come for me to show you out. We have, as you can imagine, a great deal to finish, and I have meetings with potential launch customers to attend to. If you'd like, I can probably find someone to show you where we assemble the other stages of the Firebird."
"Thank you for the offer," Simon said. "I'd love to, but we should get back to
the city and phone in what we've found.
If you need to get in touch with us, Mr. Wharton and I are staying at
the Hotel Sputnik. I'll contact my
people back in
"No bother at all," Gogol said in a faux-friendly voice that indicated that it was, indeed, a terrific bother. With that, the four of them started to leave the gallery. "Be sure to leave your name tags at the front desk."
****
Tom was laughing to himself as the two of them climbed into the car.
"What's so funny?" Litchfield asked as he turned the car on and pulled onto the main road. Tom made a tsk tsk sound and shook his head.
"You are," he said. "We're in the middle of something horrible, and you still find time to come on to the locals!" He looked out the window at the passing landscape, a combination of bleak meadow and industrial complex. In the distance, from one of the pads on the far side of the sprawling cosmodrome, a booster quickly lifted into the air, leaving behind a silver-orange fire trail followed a few seconds later by a dull roar. "I mean, the women at the hotel bar aren't good enough; no, you find some scientist looking at a rocket assembly." Tom laughed out loud. "No wonder your ex-wives divorced you!"
"Well," Simon said with a grin, "Dr. Filatov's a beautiful woman. Why shouldn't a suave gentleman like me do her the service of noticing?" Simon reached forward and adjusted the air. "Besides, I needed a cover for looking closely at her name tag." Tom looked over.
"Name tag, huh," he said. "So, what did you find?" Simon laughed and took off his hat.
"Not much," Litchfield said. The car stopped at a T-intersection, and Simon turned right and paralleled the railroad tracks. "No company information. Just her name. I know just enough Russian to translate names fairly well."
"Dr. Filatov," Tom said.
"Dr. Raisa Filatov," Simon added. The plume from the distant launch caught the sun, causing a myriad of colors to shine through the smoke trail.
"It's a pretty name," Tom mentioned. "So, are you going to strike up a correspondence with her?" Simon scratched his chin and smiled a knowing smile.
"Think about it, Tom," Simon said in a more serious tone. "Raisa Filatov." He placed special emphasis on the first letter of each name. Tom shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't..." he started to say. However, he stopped mid-breath, eyes wide, and banged his hand into the roof of the car. "RF. It couldn't be. Rufina Fedorov?"
"No need to stray too far from home," Litchfield said, "if you really aren't expecting someone to be looking for you." He looked at Tom. "She's the right age, she's fascinated by a rack of communications satellites. It has to be her." Tom smiled.
"So what are we going to do?" Tom asked
"I'm still trying to figure out how we're going to breach the cleanrooms," Simon replied. "Unless Dr. Vichinsky was lying, we know there’s at least one connector between the two rooms. At least we'll only have to disable one lock." Simon stared out onto the Baikonur steppes. "After that is still fuzzy. This is going to take some thinking."
"I wonder how easily the devices on the satellites can be accessed," Tom said. "If we can figure a way in, I can't imagine us having that much time."
"Keep in mind Fedorov, too," Simon added. "I'm sure she's not alone out here. They must be renting office space or one of the customer bungalows near the launch facility. We need to handle them as well." The psychologist looked towards the rocket plume. The rocket that made it was no longer visible.
"We're gonna need a bigger boat," Tom said quietly.
"Excuse me?" Simon asked, but Tom just shook his head.
"Nothing important," he said. "I was wondering if that was a Zenit launch." Simon made another turn, placing the car in the direction of both the hotel and Krainly Airport.
****
“The important thing,” Simon told Nick, “is to delay the launch in case Tom and I don’t manage to take care of the problem.”
Nick nodded. “I know,” he said. “You are trying to tell me that it is more important than my own life.”
The two men looked at each other, and then Simon nodded. “You know what to do?”
Nick grinned. “I have ten bags of corn starch with squibs in them. I get them into the cleanrooms where the components are and detonate them.” He grinned. “I would hate the see the faces of the technicians in the morning.” His grin faded. “How certain are you that the scientists and their device are in the building that you have chosen to enter?”
Simon shrugged. “That’s where Filatov is. That’s good enough for me. Try not to get yourself killed or captured, okay?”
“I am very fond of myself,” Nick said as he picked up one of Nightbird’s special packages. “You do the same.”
They watched Nick leave, and then Simon picked up a flat black box and started to strap it on. “Well, I hope this toy Melvin gave me works out. He wanted a field test, and he’s going to get one.”
“I just wish we weren’t the guinea pigs,” Tom said.
“Think of it as doing your bit to advance the cause of science,” Simon said, clapping him on the shoulder. Simon turned on the system, and a few seconds later both Simon and Tom found themselves clutching their heads.
“I never did like lab work,” Tom said.
“Report Point One,” Simon said as he shook off the pain and headed down the stairs, “device causes considerable headache when first activated.”
****
The warehouse was primarily dark though a few weak lights were scattered here and there in corners throughout. And while there was a significant amount of space within the facility, its very emptiness produced a startling sense of oppression, so Tom quickly checked to see if the masking device was still on. In truth, the headache the flat black box caused for both of them should have told the story.
Simon pulled the pistol from his pocket.
"You'd think someone would be here," Simon whispered, "since they start assembling round-the-clock tomorrow." Tom nodded and looked up towards the dark spaces where the ceiling lay.
"Maybe they are here," Tom spoke. "Maybe this thing really is doing its job." He tightened the strap, making sure there was no possibility that it would fall, and Simon tried to catch his breath through the extra constriction. "Simon," he said quietly, "did you ever decide what we're going to do when we find them?"
Simon pushed his hat back. "I'm guessing something'll come to me."
"Guessing?" Tom said incredulously.
"Has so far when I've needed it," Simon replied with a grin. A door opened on the far side of the warehouse, and, quickly, the two of them pushed up against the wall, something which was a considerable effort for Tom. In the distance, a man entered the room. He wore a white shirt and a brown vest, which was unbuttoned. Brown pants seemingly a size too big flapped beneath him as he walked. In his hand was a mug, and steam rose from the liquid within. His balding head was covered with wisps of silver hair.
"Another dust mote?" Tom asked quietly.
"Right age," Simon said. "What are the odds that all of the ones involved in the old program are here?"
"Slim," Tom said. "Some of them must have died. Some of them must be like Yevtushenko." The old man stopped at a desk and pulled out a chair. Sitting down, he slowly slumped over some paperwork. "Why am I having so much trouble envisioning it?"
"Envisioning what?" Simon asked. "Oh...envisioning elderly people being capable of something so damn despicable? In my line of work, you learn things." Simon looked around the room again, looking for any sign that they'd been detected. "Evil is ageless," he said. "It can be the oldest fart in the world, or it can be a snot-nosed brat."
"Very poetic," Tom whispered.
"I try," Simon replied. At that moment, another person entered the room, this time a slightly younger woman dressed in pajamas and covered with a light green bathrobe. Her silver waist-length hair dangled in a braided rope. "Well well. Either we have another winner, or she's that man's wife."
"Or both," Tom added.
"Yeah," Simon said. "Or both." He took a deep breath. "Well, we either wait here, or we try something more proactive." Simon released the safety on the pistol. "I vote for proactive."
"You're the boss," Tom said somewhat sarcastically.
"Well," Simon retorted, "you're the reason we're here in the first place. Next time you read about a crazy poet, keep it to yourself.” Tom chuckled quietly.
"Ready?" Tom asked. Simon nodded, and still staying close to the wall, the two of them began inching their way towards the two figures by the desk. Each was mindful to move carefully enough to avoid either banging the wall or making a telltale squeak on the floor with their shoes.
The older couple spoke to each other in rapid bursts of Russian, and the woman settled into a stooped position to better view the documents on the desk. As Simon and Tom moved closer, a couple of large objects covered in blue tarpaulin came into clearer view. Simon stopped and then motioned for the two of them to take refuge as soon as possible behind the objects. As they started moving, however, the warehouse was suddenly flooded with light.
Simon and Tom froze as, first, their eyes tried to make the change from darkness to light, and, second, they tried to understand what went wrong.
The older couple jumped up and began calling out in Russian, the man aiming his comments into the warehouse, and the woman yelling towards the door.
"Well," Simon said gravely, "shit." Four others came into the room, two older people including Dr. Filatov, and two younger individuals carrying large pistols. One of the younger men was wearing only a loose-fitting pair of boxer shorts. Litchfield and Weldon started to bolt for cover behind one of the tarp-covered objects, but they were stopped by a shot that struck the floor and ricocheted around them. Quickly, they ran back for the wall and the small cover offered by beige filing cabinet.
The man in boxer shorts called out in Russian, but Filatov raised her hand and said, with some difficulty, "English...English." She spoke again in Russian, but the word Litchfield was easy to understand.
"Dr. Litchfield," the young man called. "I advise you to bring yourselves into
the open."
"All the better to shoot us, my dear," Litchfield called back.
"This, I do not understand," the man called back. "Some American saying?"
"'Little Red Riding Hood,'" Litchfield replied. "I think we'll stay here where it's nice and warm." The young man laughed. He turned to his fully clothed colleague and spoke. The man nodded and then left the room.
"If he's going for drinks," Tom said, "I could really use a Coke right now."
"No drinks," the man replied, "just a trip to the catwalks." He pointed with his free hand towards the roof, and a series of criss-crossing catwalks could be plainly seen. Filatov and her colleagues moved behind one of the covered objects. "He has to find the key, first. That could take time, or it could take only a second or two. Think of it. A clear view of everything in the room. I urge you to reconsider."
"We'll think about it," Simon yelled. He turned to Tom. "I'm done thinking. No way. Now, we just need Plan B."
"Let me guess," Tom replied, "Plan B hasn't come to you yet." Simon shrugged his shoulders and then looked around. Dangling from the ceiling and pointing towards the central to mid-central area of the warehouse was a set of motion detectors. "Damn. It figures." He showed the sensors to Tom. "I bet not a single camera in this place can see us. But there's no hiding motion." Simon clutched at his temples. "I'm thinking this box wasn't worth the headache."
"I'll cut it off," Tom said as he started for the switch.
"Don't," Simon replied. "Don’t. If we can get out of here, it might just buy us enough time to get away from the warehouse." A click echoed from the vicinity of the roof.
"I think our friend has arrived," Tom said, and both began scanning for any signs of the gunman. Reaching into one of his pockets, Simon pulled out the TASER and handed it to Tom.
“I’m afraid I didn’t read the manual,” Simon spoke. “I don’t know its range. Close-up, it packs a mighty wallop.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Tom replied just as the first bullet whizzed past their heads. Quickly, Simon returned fire and then positioned the cabinet to provide a small degree of cover from both angles.
“The good news,” he said, “is that cabinet’s pretty heavy. If it’s loaded, it might stop some of the bullets.” As if to prove the point, the cabinet suddenly rang as a bullet penetrated it.
“That would be the bad news,” Tom said.
“Come out,” the man in boxer shorts called. “We don’t really wish to have to clean up a tremendous mess.”
Simon replied with a suggestion that would have been, at best, anatomically improbable.
Two more bullets rang off of the filing cabinet.
“This isn’t good,” Tom said quietly.
“You have a profound grasp of the situation,” Simon told him.
Suddenly, a female voice called out in Russian.
“Filatov,” Simon muttered. “What’s she doing?”
“She’s calling the man down from the roof.”
More Russian followed rapidly.
“I don’t think I like that,” Simon said.
“Don’t worry,” Tom told him grimly. “In a moment you won’t care.”
“Eh?”
“In a moment, you won’t care about anything.”
There was a moment of silence while the two men looked at each other.
“I don’t particularly want to die here, Simon,” Tom said quietly.
“Neither do I, but you can’t think that surrendering will help us any.”
Tom sighed. “No.”
They could hear the echoing sounds of the man climbing down from the catwalk.
“We could do a Butch and Sundance,” Simon said.
“A what?”
“We could charge out of here, guns blazing…well, gun blazing, before they…”
Something hit them. They couldn’t see it; they could barely hear something at the distant edge of sound, but they felt a jolt, deep in their chests. Each felt the vibrations tearing through them, and Simon fully expected to lose all sense of himself. They looked at each other.
“Are you okay?” Tom asked.
Simon nodded. “They turned it on, didn’t they? I can feel it.”
“I think so.”
“Then why…” He trailed off, and both men looked down at the masking device, then they grinned at each other. “Maybe this thing was worth a damn after all. We go now,” Simon said. Without another word, they raced from around the filing cabinet. The gunman was still halfway across the building. The tarpaulin had been pulled back, revealing a complex device with a dish, which had been pointed toward the filing cabinet behind which the two men had taken refuge. Filatov, the older couple, and the man in boxer shorts were behind the device, with thick, padded headphones covering their ears. They looked wide-eyed at the two men who were charging them. The man in boxer shorts reached for his gun, and Tom fired the TASER. The man twitched spastically and fell to the ground, dropping his gun. Before he had a chance to recover, Tom had reached him and scooped up the weapon. The older couple froze, but Filatov had darted off into the darkness at the sound of the shot.
The distant gunman, drawing rapidly nearer, loosed off a shot which Simon returned, causing the man to duck for cover.
Simon glanced at Tom. “Go,” Tom said, gesturing after Filatov. “I’ll hold the fort.”
Tom looked at the older couple, then he ducked as the distant gunman fired again. “Drop your gun,” he called in Russian, “or I will turn the machine on you. You have five seconds.” As Tom spoke, he glanced quickly at the controls. He noted with some joy that the machine had been set to it’s lowest setting.
While Tom’s attention was on the distant gunman, the man in boxer shorts climbed to his feet and launched himself at Tom’s back. He hit Tom with a vicious double kidney punch. Tom grunted and swung backhanded, catching the man directly in the face and knocking him off his feet. The distant man had frozen, but Tom stretched his back and then called, “Your time is up.” He made a pretence of reaching for the machine to swing it around, but the man dropped his pistol and held up his hands, speaking quickly.
“Get over here,” Tom called to him. Then he looked at the older couple “Turn it off,” he said, gesturing at the device.
The man took one look at his fallen comrade, whose face was masked in blood and whose nose was not so much broken as obliterated, and he hurried to comply.
The second man drew near, and Tom gestured at him to join the older couple.
“He needs help,” the man said, gesturing at his fallen colleague.
“Help him, then,” Tom said indifferently, “But don’t try anything stupid. You people have just about used up my patience.”
Some distance away, Simon was running as quietly as he could. In the darkened building, he was following Filatov by the sound of her running feet, but he had lost her. He found her again quite suddenly, as he rounded a corner and she drove her fist into the side of his neck. He grunted and staggered backward, dropping the gun. She dove for it, and he lashed out with his foot, catching her in the gut. She fell short of the weapon, and they both dived for it. The fight that followed was short, but extraordinarily violent. She was stronger than she looked and well trained in the sort of fighting that the Marquis of Queensbury had tried so hard to eradicate, but so was Simon, and he knew more tricks than she did.
The fight ended with both of them in pain and both bleeding. Three of the fingers on Simon’s left hand were broken, but so were two of Filatov’s ribs, and Simon was pretty sure that her right shoulder was dislocated. She was lying on the ground, breathing heavily and looking up at him. He had the gun and was just out of her reach. “That’s enough,” he told her.
She didn’t say anything. She simply breathed and looked at him. He stared back at her for a long moment and then said, “Get up, Madame Federov.”
“My…shoulder…” she began and then stopped, and her eyes widened. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I am Filatov,” she said hastily. “My…”
Simon shook his head. “Don’t waste your breath,” he told her. “I know all about you.” It was a blatant lie, but, Simon figured once you’ve got your enemy demoralized, press your advantage. “Why do you think I’m here?”
Something inside her tightened and then relaxed utterly. Still lying on the floor, her body somehow sagged. It was as if she had lost something. “How did you find out?” she asked.
Simon shook his head again. “You don’t really think you would have gotten away with it, do you?”
Her body tightened up again, and something flickered in her eyes. “Almost, I did,” she said proudly.
Simon noted the I. “Almost counts for nothing,” he told her. “You’re a weak subordinate.”
“I am not a sub-” she began, and the stopped, a stricken look on her face.
Simon smiled at her. “You are not a subordinate,” he said. “You are in charge.”
Whatever reserves she had left visibly drained out of her. “That is true. The days of…of…glory gone.”
“Empire building by force,” he said.
Her brow wrinkled. “What?” she asked. “I do not…”
“Never mind. Get up.”
“My…shoulder…” she said again.
“You’ll have to do it yourself,” he told her. He gingerly lifted his left hand, showing the three broken fingers. “I’m not getting close enough to you for you to do any more damage. I have a sneaking suspicion you were a commissioned officer in the Red Army.”
She nodded once, closed her eyes, and then wrenched her body upright with a tight hiss of pain. Then she climbed unsteadily to her feet. Simon gestured with the gun, and she began to walk. Slowly, they made their way back to the group by the Alconost device. Both Simon and Filatov stopped and stared. The older couple was sitting on the floor, back to back. One man, the one in boxer shorts, was lying on the ground, his face bathed in blood. The second man was kneeling over him, trying to staunch the flow of blood. Simon raised an eyebrow at Tom, who shrugged. Simon nodded and gestured Filatov over to join the group.
“What now?” Tom asked. “Is there anyone else?”
Simon looked at Filatov, and then he said, “I don’t think so. I think she’s it. There were six in Taralma, but I think one of them may be have been hired with the oil exploration equipment.”
“So, what do we do with them?”
Simon glanced down at the gun in his hand, and then he said, “What we have to.”
There was a moment before Tom got it, then he said, “You can’t.”
Simon looked at him. “This cannot be allowed to go any farther. You know that.” He gestured at the device. “That thing is far too dangerous.”
“We could…we could turn the device on them,” Tom said helplessly.
“We don’t know how long the effect lasts,” Simon pointed out. “What if, a year from now, she’s fine?”
Tom stared at Simon.
“We can’t just lock them up,” Simon said. “First of all, we don’t have the facilities, and, second of all, what would stop her from communicating the information with someone, anyone, and us having to do this all over again?”
Tom sighed. He looked at the prisoners. He looked down at the gun in his own hand. Then a slow and evil smile began to spread across his face. Something about the look set the prisoners chattering among themselves.
“What is it?” Simon asked.
Tom said, “Do you suppose there’s a truck…or, better yet, an ambulance anywhere around here that we could commandeer?”
Simon shrugged. “I suppose so. Why?”
“I have an idea,” he said.
Simon looked at him for a long moment, and then he said, “Well, you got us into this, I suppose you can get us out.” He looked around. “Let’s tie them up and this place cleaned up.”
The cleanup was a relatively simple matter. With a combination of ropes, cable and chains – whatever was around – the prisoners were trussed like turkeys. The two men then found themselves starting at the Alconost device.
“We can’t let anyone have this,” Simon said.
“I know,” Tom said. “We have to dismantle it totally. Destroy it. I can do that.” He flexed his shoulders.
Tom watched the muscles ripple beneath his friend’s shirt and said, “Yeah, I imagine you can. Let’s do it.”
Tom set to work with a glee that Simon found disturbing. He also found the demonstration of brute strength unsettling. It was obvious to anyone that Tom was strong, but, with that strength motivated by the pleasure he was taking in destroying the device and his determination to make certain that it was never used again, he seemed almost inhuman.
“Wait,” Simon said suddenly. “What is that?”
Tom looked at the component he held in his hands. “I don’t know,” he said.
“It’s an electromagnet,” Simon said. “Let me have it.”
Tom shrugged, passed the magnet over and picked up something else to break.
Simon looked down at the electromagnet and said, “Let me have that battery over there. I’m going to tend to the computers. No, don’t toss it to me, are you insane? Thank you.”
“Where are you going?” Tom asked.
“To visit every computer in the building,” Simon said. He looked at the pile of debris. “Carry on.”
Simon stopped at a computer, pulled out his phone and translation matrix, and then started scanning the files. Quickly, he realized that each scan was going to take and interminable amount of time. “Screw it,” he said, “I’ll just zap them all.” He ran the magnet several times over the sensitive areas of the computer, insuring that the data would be wiped, and repeated the process with every other computer he found.
Tom carried on with such a will that, by the time Simon returned, no component of the device remained intact. He glanced at the prisoners. They were staring at Tom, wide-eyed and white faced. Simon dropped the magnet on the floor and then said, “All right. I’ll go find us some transportation. Do you think you can do to the building what you did to the device?”
Tom looked at Simon, puzzled. “No,” he said.
“Well, burn it down, then.”
Tom looked around. “I can’t do that. Maybe I can even see why it’s a good idea, but, I don’t want anyone else around here to get hurt…”
Simon shook his head. “First of all, eliminating every trace of that device and those people is more important than the risk of someone else getting hurt. Second, this building is fairly isolated, so the odds of the fire spreading are pretty poor. Third, this place has its own fire fighters onsite.”
Tom shrugged. “All right,” he said. I’ll take care of it.”
Combustibles were not in short supply, and for good measure several gas lines within the building were relatively easy to reach, so Tom had everything ready to go by the time Simon returned. Together, they loaded their prisoners into the back of a covered truck. Tom grunted in surprise to see Nick sitting in the back.
Simon heard the sound and looked over. “I picked up a hitch-hiker,” he said. He glanced at the building. “Do you want to do the honors?”
“Not really, no,” Tom told him.
Simon nodded, lit match and dropped it into a puddle of fuel on the floor just inside the door. It caught instantly, and he and Tom climbed into the truck and drove off.
“Well,” Simon spoke, “with any luck, that device in the warehouse and whatever they had mounted on the satellites have been completely destroyed.” Simon scratched his leg. “So, what is your plan for dealing with our guests?” Simon asked. Tom looked over and rubbed the top of his head.
“I’m reasonably sure someone can repeat the procedure that was done to Yevtushenko,” Tom said coldly. “Most of them will be dead before the effects start to break down. As for the guards, I doubt they’re anything but hired help. Even when they remember, it won’t do them any good.” Simon nodded, smiled grimly, and patted Tom on the shoulder as the truck headed further into the darkness.
****
It was a cold day. A bitter wind was blowing, and the sun, what little there was, was weak and watery. Tom stood, the wind whipping his hair and coat, but he seemed oblivious to the cold. He was standing next to a car, watching a door. His face was calm and patient. There was no way to tell how long he had been standing there.
After a long moment, the door opened, and three people came out. A man and woman, both in white, stood at the sides of an old man. The old man stood straight and looked around him. He breathed deeply, feeling the wind bite at his lungs, and then he smiled. The smile transformed his face. The lines spread and smoothed out, and the years dropped away from him.
With a bright grin of his own, Tom walked toward the group. “Sergei,” he said. “Welcome back to the world.”
Sergei grinned at Tom, and then he laughed. He grinned at the doctor and the nurse who stood at his side. “Perhaps I should not smile so much, or you might think me in need of further time in the hospital, eh?”
“No, Sergei,” the doctor told him. “Smile all that you want.”
Sergei stepped forward and grasped Tom’s hand. “Thank you for coming to meet me,” he said.
“It’s my privilege,” Tom told him. Laying a hand across Sergei’s shoulders, Tom escorted him to the car and ushered him into the passenger seat. Then he walked around the car and climbed into the driver’s seat. Sergei was holding out a notebook.
“What is this?” Tom asked.
“Take it,” Sergei told him. “Read it.” He grinned. “You can be my first new critic.”
Tom took the book and opened it. He flipped through it quickly. The first twenty pages had been filled with a liquid flow of words. Tom flipped back to the first page and began to read. “This is beautiful,” he said after a moment.
“Life is beautiful,” Sergei said. He laughed. “But I do not wish to spend what is left of mine in this hospital parking lot, my friend.”
Tom grinned and handed him back the notebook. “Where to?” he asked, starting the engine.
“I believe,” Sergei said happily, “That I am ready to go home.”
Nightwatch:
Rogue Harvest
by Ralph Benedetto, Jr.
The thing about
bureaucracy," Tom Weldon said as the ambulance stopped in front of a sign
reading Good Hope Evangelical Hospital, "is that, if you know what
you're doing, it's easy to manipulate."
He was a stocky man dressed in black shoes, black slacks, and a black
shirt, all of it topped off by a white lab coat and the obligatory stethoscope,
but his bearing and physiognomy were not those of a doctor.
The ambulance driver
looked at Weldon and asked, "Do we know what we're doing?"
Weldon grinned back at
him. "It doesn't matter," he
said, opening the passenger side door.
"That’s the beauty of it.
Reality isn't what's important.
It's what people think reality to be that determines their
behavior." He swung himself out of
his seat and down to the asphalt and shut the door.
"Swell," the
driver said to himself, pocketing the keys and opening his door. "I don't even know what that means, and
I'm not too sure he does, either.” He
shook his head. “Why do I do these
things to myself?”
Weldon gave the
ambulance doors a rhythmic knock as he crossed behind the vehicle and looked
around as he crossed the parking lot and headed into the hospital.
It wasn't Weldon's first
time in Nigeria, but it was his first visit to Jos, and he liked what he'd seen
of the city so far. When Simon had
called him and asked him to perform "a simple little job – a cakewalk,"
he had been a little reluctant to put his own affairs on hold, but Simon had
impressed him with the job's urgency, so he'd agreed in the end. Besides, how often did he get a chance to
play doctor?
"We've got one man
there,” Simon had told him, “but we don't think he could pull it off
alone. It would take too long for us to
get anyone else over there. You're
close by and could just nip over and do this little thing tomorrow,
Tom..."
The woman at the
information desk looked up as two men entered, both of them white. One was a tall, gaunt man with hollow
cheeks, unruly hair that seemed to stick out randomly in all directions, and a
bushy moustache. The other was dressed
as if he were a doctor, but he looked more like a rugby player. In fact, he looked as if the Good Lord had
started out to make two rugby players and then changed his mind at the last
moment and decided to just make one.
"May I help
you?" she asked politely as the two men stopped in front of her.
Weldon glanced at her
name tag. "Thank you, Ms.
Ola," he said. "I'm Dr. O'Grady.
I'm here to pick up Mr. Tamagawa."
The woman turned to her
computer and clicked the keys quietly for a moment. "I'm sorry," she said, turning back to Weldon. "We don't..." the her eyes widened. "The man without a name!” she
said. "You're the people for the
man without a name!"
Weldon smiled. "Yes," he said. "When Mr. Tamagawa was brought in, I
understand that he was in no condition to give his name."
"Dr. Okoko is
expecting you." She gestured to
her right. "Please follow the
orange line until you pass through the double door. Dr. Okoko's office will be the second door on the left."
Weldon smiled. "Thank you," he said politely.
"Mr.
Tamagawa," the woman said musingly.
Weldon simply smiled
again in reply. The man without a name
now had name. In fact, he had two
names: the false one that Weldon has
just given the receptionist and the real one that Simon hadn’t felt a need to
burden him with. Simon hadn’t actually
said that the name Tamagawa was false, but Tom knew Simon more than well enough
to work that one out for himself. He
was equally certain that the numerous documents in his possession giving him
permission to remove the patient from the hospital and from the country were
equally false. That didn’t trouble him,
as long as everyone else accepted them as genuine.
Weldon and his companion
made it through the double doors but not all the way to Dr. Okoko's
office. The receptionist had apparently
called ahead, and Dr. Okoko came out to meet them in the hall.
"Tare Okoko,"
he said, holding out his hand to Weldon.
"Patrick
O'Grady," Weldon said. The name
had been Simon's choice, not his, and Weldon had to fight the urge to try out
an Irish accent. He gestured at his
companion. "Paul Griggs," he
said.
"The patient's room
is this way," Okoko said, sweeping the two men along with a gesture. "We're delighted to know that his
family has found him."
"The newspaper
article was a good idea," Weldon said.
Okoko nodded. "Have you been briefed on his
condition?"
“Not really, no,"
Weldon said.
"It is a very
unusual case," Okoko told him, "To say the least. I have never seen
anything even remotely like it. He was
picked up by the police wandering the streets.
At the time he was suffering from malnutrition and also had some deep
bruising and various cuts and slashes, only one of them at all serious. His physical wounds are well on their way to
healing, but his mental condition..."
He shook his head. "Some
days he seems alert and attentive, perfectly normal, except that his entire
vocabulary consists of one or two words, although he seems to think that he is
communicating everything that he wants to."
"Aphasia?"
Weldon asked.
"If so, it is
extremely atypical. But, then,
everything about this case is atypical."
"You said that some
days he was alert. What's he like on
the other days?"
Okoko sighed. "On those days it is as if he has no
will of his own. He will do whatever you
set him to do in a very docile manner, but you have to tell him
everything. If he is eating, you have
to instruct him to chew and then to swallow.
Sometimes he changes suddenly from one state to the other. This morning he was in the second state, but
I do not know what state he will be in when we get to his room. We shall find out together."
Weldon shook his
head. Simon hadn't given him quite as
much information as he might have.
Typical. Need to know. The mania for security could be land carried
too far.
A short walk took them
to a comfortable room. Inside was an
oriental man wearing a hospital gown.
He looked up as Dr. Okoko entered his room.
"Responsive,"
Okoko murmured. "Good
morning," he added in a louder voice.
The patient nodded. "Window," he said politely. His voice was calm and measured, but the
word had been thickly accented.
Weldon blinked and
looked at Okoko with one eyebrow raised.
"These
gentlemen," Okoko said, gesturing at Weldon and Griggs, "Are here to
take you home to your family."
The patient smiled
pleasantly at Weldon. "One
dow," he said, nodding
“Yes,” Weldon said with
a pleasant smile. “Let’s find you some
clothes, shall we?”
***
Simon Litchfield strode
the halls of the Nightwatch Insitute for Strategic and Economic Studies. He was a good match for the quiet elegance
of the building, with his silver hair and brown eyes and what, at first glance,
seemed to be merely a suit of comfortable khaki clothes but which turned out,
at second glance, to be a very expensive suit of comfortable khaki clothes.
After the wood paneling
and expensive land carpeting, Simon always found it a bit jarring to enter the
Institute's library. It wasn't the
library itself, but, rather, one part: the section devoted to popular culture.
Books on economics and
geopolitics made sense, but why did the Institute need to have every issue of People
magazine that had ever been printed?
Why did they need disks of once popular television shows? And why didn't they notice that this
particular culture section of the library was almost never used?
Still, that paucity of
use made it the perfect place for Simon to meet with Callow, the representative
of the Institute's Lower Echelon - that secret group within a group that
periodically tossed more interesting assignment's Simon's way.
Callow was waiting at a
table in the far corner of the popular culture section. This time he didn't seem to have brought
anything with him, not even a notebook computer. Not even a real notebook.
That vaguely disturbed Simon. If
there was something so unsettling that Callow wasn't willing to keep even
personal records of it, then Simon wasn't certain that it was something that he
was going to enjoy dealing with.
Callow waited, his face
utterly expressionless until Simon pulled out a chair and sat down, and then he
said, "We have a...situation."
Simon cocked his head
and narrowed his eyes. "We always
have situations," he replied.
"That's why I'm here.
That's why we're both here. What
makes this one so special?"
Callow looked
uncharacteristically uncomfortable.
"We have a certain lack of...understanding of this situation."
Simon frowned. "Why don't you stop dancing circles
around it and just fill me in."
"All right. You will remember the medical patient in
Nigeria that we acquired last week."
"Of course."
"The root cause of
his condition has been determined to be a never before seen neurotoxin."
Simon nodded. "Interesting," he said.
“We have also managed to
identify him. His name is Dr. Fa
Leung. Does that name ring a bell with
you?"
"No," Simon
said. "Should it?"
“He is a well known
molecular biologist."
"Oh..." Simon
said. "Yes, I keep trading cards
of well known molecular biologists."
"You, of all
people, should," Callow said dryly.
"Oh, a joke,"
Simon said. "Excellent. Well done, Callow. Don't try another one too soon.
You might hurt yourself."
He shook his head and sighed, "Genetic engineering and a brand new
neurotoxin. Does this get worse?"
"It gets more
puzzling," Callow replied.
"Dr. Leung's condition makes it difficult to get information from
him. We do have one thing. When the doctor is in his responsive phase,
he repeats a similar two syllable sound."
Simon nodded. "I saw the report," he said. "Window...wan chow...one toe..."
"He has stabilized
now. Instead of repeating similar
sounds, he apparently finally struck on the combination that he was looking
for, and it is now all that he says."
"Are you going to
keep me in suspense?"
"Huang dou."
Simon raised an
eyebrow. "Which is Chinese
for..."
"Soybeans,"
Callow said unhappily.
"Soybeans,"
Simon repeated.
“Yes."
"You think-,"
Simon began.
"Yes," Callow
said, hoping to avoid hearing the thought out loud.
"That someone is
genetically engineering soybeans..."
"Yes."
"Neurotoxic
soybeans..."
"Yes."
"Soybean
terrorists."
Callow sighed. "We have done some investigation and
analysis. Dr. Leung was not supposed to
be in Africa. It can still be difficult
to gather information on Chinese nationals, but the Chinese government still
maintains that Dr. Leung is in China at this moment."
"Are you certain he
isn't?"
"Yes," Callow
said. "I wouldn't be here talking
about--"
"Killer
legumes," Simon put in.
"…if I weren't
serious," Callow finished.
"Also, there is a research lab in Nigeria working on grains and
soybeans."
Simon raised an
eyebrow. "A genetics lab?" he
asked.
"All quite
legal," Callow assured him.
"A large biotechnology firm established the lab a decade ago, but
the firm has been having financial and legal difficulties for a few years
now."
"These things do
tend to drag on when the defendants are rich, don't they?" Simon asked sweetly.
"Cynicism doesn't
become you, Simon."
"Yes it does,"
Simon said firmly. "Tell me about
the biotech company."
"Meggar and
Fields," Callow told him.
"Their CEO and chief financial officer were apparently involved in
some rather complicated and highly illegal doings. The government is still trying to sort things out. Many of the company's assets have been
liquidated and many others have been put into a sort of limbo."
Simon blinked twice and
then pulled his shoulders upward, trying to stretch out a tight spot in his
back that had been bothering him for a few days. "A genetics lab in limbo?" he asked.
"The lab still
exists, but, according to the company's internal records…"
"Have we a
mole?" Simon asked.
"According to the
company's internal records," Callow repeated, ignoring the question,
"the lab has gone almost entirely unfunded. Salaries are being paid to a few people to keep an eye on things,
but minimal research is currently being done."
"A genetics lab in
limbo," Simon repeated. "Ripe
for the picking, I would have said. So,
what research were they doing before the CEO did the big swindle?"
"Their two main
lines seemed to be increasing the protein content of various legumes and
working on plants that would help the global environment by absorbing and
processing greenhouse gases."
"That's a far cry
from neurotoxins," Simon said.
"We suspect that the
lab may be...freelancing. We'd like you
to go check it out."
"All right,"
Simon said. "I can't resist the
urge to find out about killer soybeans.
I think Tom is still in Nigeria doing whatever it is that he's doing. I might enlist him to help."
“Who you take with you
is at your discretion," Callow told him.
"Subject to the usual considerations, of course. Are you going to take…" Callow arched his eyebrows.
"One of the
delicate phantoms of my past?
Probably." He started to
turn away and then stopped. "I
have an idea, but it's going to require a little infrastructure."
"You know the rules
under which you are required to operate, Simon. Within that framework, you may do whatever is required."
Simon nodded and finally
did turn away, humming a George Harrison tune to himself: “Devil's Radio.” It seemed somehow appropriate.
He was still humming a
few moments later as he paced one of the institute's hallowed halls and spotted
Stephanie Keel. The computer wizard was
dressed, as always, in khaki cargo pants with a khaki vest over a sweater -
today's color being a soft blue.
"Simon," she
said with a grin. "How's the
back?"
"There's nothing
wrong with my back," he said, resisting the urge to stretch again.
"Of course
not," she said. "That dive
into the corner couldn't possibly have hurt someone in such good shape. Then you'll be up for another game this
weekend?"
Simon shook his
head. Stephanie was a good racquetball
player, and he wasn't able to beat her as often as he would have liked, but he
wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of knowing it. "I'm not sure
we'll be back by then," he said.
She raised her
eyebrows. "We?" she asked.
"I just had a chat
with Callow. Pack for someplace
warm. We'll be leaving in a couple of
days. I'll let you know when."
"You got it,"
she said. "I'll have to clear a
few things from my calendar." She
started to turn away. "Catch you
later, Doc. Page me when you get things
nailed down.”
Simon watched her go,
not that he could see much through the loose pants and sweater. He liked watching her better when she was
kitted out for racquetball. When she
was out of sight, he headed for his own office to make a few calls.
***
The passenger cabin of
Nightbird One was comfortable, even opulent, and the plane could make the
flight to Nigeria without stopping to refuel.
It wasn't as fast as the Grumman G6, but it had a few little extras that
Grumman didn't put in its planes, not even for the obscenely wealthy.
Simon was leaning
casually back in his seat, a glass of gin in his hand and a pair of headphones
on his ears. His eyes were closed and
his brain at rest, when he felt a touch on his knee. He knew that touch, so knew exactly what he'd see when he opened
his eyes.
The seat across from his
that swiveled to face him was pleasantly full of a nicely constructed redhead
with cornflower blue eyes and pale skin with a dusting of freckles, especially
across her nose. Her lips were curved
into a not entirely pleasant smile.
"Yes, my
love?" Simon asked.
Morna's smile widened
slightly, and her lips curved upward in just the way that had made him glad to
wake up beside her every morning for five years.
"Simon," she
said. He couldn't hear it over the
string section in his headphones, but he read her lips. The rest of her sentence escaped him. He pressed a button and the music faded
away.
"I'm sorry,"
he said, removing the headphones, "I didn't quite catch that."
"I said" she
repeated with that touch of asperity that he had heard a lot during the divorce
proceedings, "that I was able to get some information on Fa
Leung." She had never lost the
faintly musical lilt of her Irish homeland.
"Then you're doing
better than the Institute," he said appreciatively. "You always were something special,
pet. Especially in the…"
"Simon," she
said, "You're a dear, but I'm immune to your charm."
"Alas, my
Sunrise," he said, "if only I were immune to yours."
Morna rolled her
eyes. "Simon," she said,
"can we keep our mind on business?"
"We both know you
aren't really immune to my charms," he said. "You've just always liked playing hard to get."
She laughed and shook
her head. "Fa Leung," she
said.
"Very well. The Institute hasn't been able to pry
anything out of the Chinese government about either him or his work. How did you get the information?"
"I called some
colleagues. Scientists talk to each
other. There's competition, of course,
but we still talk about our work. Dr. Leung
was working on transgenic plants. His
early experiments were primarily focused on putting the nitrogenase gene into
nonlegumes."
"Oh, good,"
Simon said. "I was hoping someone
was doing that."
"The idea,"
Morna continued, leaning back and crossing her legs, her eyes closed halfway as
she watched Simon's gaze track along her calves and thighs, "was to create
plants that had a higher level of high quality protein. That first meant increasing their nitrogen
content."
Simon nodded, taking a
sip of gin. "That could explain
why he was working at this particular lab."
"If he was,"
Morna said. “He apparently had moved on
to a new line of investigation, something very hush hush for the military. There wasn't much information out there
except that he had been working with some insect species in the rain
forests. There were rumors of some
rather unpleasant casualties but nothing really concrete."
Simon frowned. "All right," he said. "All right." He took another meditative sip, his eyes
narrowed in thought, then his brow suddenly cleared, and he said, "Thank
you, Morna. I knew you were the right
person for the job."
"All right, Simon,
I've got some papers I want to read over.
Go back to your Wallace."
Simon looked down at the
headphones. He knew good and well that
she couldn't possibly have heard what was playing on them, but it was Wallace
right enough. He put the headphones
back on, and his gaze drifted to the stack of three legal books sitting in the
seat next to him. With a sigh, he
picked one up and opened it.
Morna made her way down
the aisle, smiling at Stephanie as she passed.
***
Tom Weldon was there to
greet the plane. Simon, stepping into
the heat and humidity, spotted him and waved him up. Tom climbed the stairs up to the plane's hatch and shook Simon's
hand.
"You may
possibly," Simon said dryly, "be the only man in Nigeria dressed all
in black. It must be over ninety
degrees out."
"I hadn't
noticed," Weldon said. "Mind
over matter. But I wouldn't say no to a
drink."
"You never
do," Simon said with a grin.
"Come on in. We've made
some preliminary plans, but we need to fill you in."
Tom climbed up the
stairs and stepped into the plane. “I
assume that Andy made it back with our mystery patient?”
Simon nodded. “Of course,” he said.
Tom nodded. “Good.”
He grinned. “I don’t think he
enjoyed our little impersonation in the hospital.”
“Well,” Simons said
meditatively, “I believe that he did make one or two comments about your
observations on the nature of reality.”
Tom’s grin got
bigger. “That man’s outlook on life it
just too narrow,” he said. “Now, about
that drink…”
***
The land rover was not a
rental, but it would untraceable should anyone have any reason to attempt to
trace it. It was well air conditioned,
had comfortable seats and a CD player which Tom, who was doing the driving, had
taken control of. It was currently
playing a selection of Robert Johnson songs that Tom seemed to know all of the
words to and which he was singing along with in a deep, gravelly bass.
Stephanie was in the
front seat beside him. While Tom was
still wearing his normal black slacks, black shirt, black shoes, and black
belt, she had a made a concession to the heat and had topped off her khaki
pants with a loose shirt.
Simon and Morna were in
the back seat taking quietly to each other.
"So," Tom said
with mock seriousness, "I see that you've come out of your den long enough
to get some sun."
Stephanie glanced at
him. "You've never even seen my
den." There was a slight crinkle
visible around the corners of her eyes and lips.
“Alas, no,” Tom said
with a huge sigh, “But I imagine it as a dark, cool place full of disemboweled
computers and disjointed pieces of machinery."
"Nothing of the
kind," she said, her tone a perfect match for Tom’s. "It's very brightly lit."
“But still full of body
parts,” Tom said. “Is this your
stop?"
She looked around. There was cover nearby and ready access of
the telephone lines. "This'll
do," she said.
The land rover slowed,
and she picked up a soft-sided briefcase and climbed out. She pointed to
a case on the
ground. “Remember, the jammer needs to
be within five hundred meters of the building, right?"
"Got it," he
said with a grin. "Leave it to
me."
“Leaving it to you is
what concerns me,” she said with an answering grin. "I don't trust you with hardware, you know. It isn't your specialty. Don't break any of my stuff, all
right?"
“I have the delicate
hands of a surgeon,” he told her, then he gave her a quick salute as the land
rover pulled away. “Trust me!”
Stephanie laughed, shook
her head, and headed toward the bushes that she planned to set up camp behind.
The rest of the journey
was uneventful. Two miles later they
had turned off of the main road and were headed down one made of dirt. After several hundred yards, they found their
way blocked by a fence. There was no
one around.
Tom pulled the land
rover to a stop, looked around for a few seconds, shrugged, got out, and opened
the gate, utterly ignoring a sign that promised dire consequences to anyone
brazen enough to pass through the gate uninvited.
Tom left the unfriendly
gate open after they drove through it.
"Shouldn't you
close it back again?" Morna asked him.
Tom grinned at her in
the rearview mirror. "Nah,"
he said. "We're arrogant officials
from the head office, remember?"
The road led them to a
large, low white building in the middle of a dirt parking lot. There were three other vehicles in the lot,
all of them covered with dust and looking much the worse for wear. Tom parked the land rover close to the
building and pocketed the keys. Then he
reached over and flipped a switch on the hammer. It beeped once and then began to hum quietly to himself.
Simon stepped out of the
land rover and, with a swirl and a flourish, draped a tan cape over his
shoulders and picked up a mahogany walking stick with a gold and silver knob.
"Oh, Simon,"
Morna said, "not the cape."
"I'm a lawyer, my
love, and must look the part, heat or no heat.
The weather can never be allowed to interfere with one’s sense of
style. Let's go."
They walked to the
building. It was long and low with
white sides and numerous windows with tinted glass. All of the windows were covered by curtains. The building had an indefinable air of not
being well maintained, although it was far from being in disrepair.
The front door proved to
be unlocked. Simon opened it and they
entered.
They found themselves in
a luxurious waiting room. The floor was
not carpeted, but the walls here were hung with numerous pictures, and several
very comfortable looking chairs were scattered about with a casual randomness
that must have been the fruit of considerable effort.
A woman at a desk looked
up in surprise at the three strangers.
"Uh...may I help
you?" she asked.
Simon walked up to her
desk and stood looking down at her. She
was blond, with full lips, long carmine nails, and various other features, all
of them designed to attract the eye, and, in Simon's judgment, all of them
artificial. He wondered if she'd
purchased an artificial personality to complete the set.
He smiled genially at
her and flourished a card. "We
would like to see Dr. Geisel, please.
Immediately." His tone was
perfect. It was cultured and polished,
with a veneer of politeness covering chilled steel.
The woman gaped at
him. Then she gaped at Morna. That didn't seem to help her, so she gaped
at Tom. He at least, with his massive
weightlifter's frame, was worth gaping at.
For his part, he was ignoring her and studying the paintings. They were prettier.
Simon tapped the knob of
his cane on the woman's desk to draw her attention back to him. "Dr. Geisel," he said. "Your head of research. We would like to see him immediately."
"Um...yes..."
she floundered. "But..." she
cleared her throat. "Dr. Geisel is
not in."
"He will be in to
me, or he will very soon be out."
She blinked at him.
"Out of a
job," Simon explained, leaning toward her slightly. He did a conjuring trick, and a letter
appeared in his hand. It was on the
letterhead of Meggar and Fields, signed by Jonas Fields himself. Simon considered letting her read it, but he
had already decided that her head was little more than ornamental. "Tell Dr. Geisel that I will wait
precisely three minutes. If I don't see
him by the end of that time period, I will order this facility closed down and
everyone here will be out of work."
He smiled at her. It was neither
polite nor comforting.
She fumbled for her
phone and spoke hastily but quietly into it for a moment while Simon appeared
to ignore her utterly. Precisely two
minutes and fifteen seconds later, a door in the far wall opened and a chubby man
with thinning hair and thick features appeared in the door way. He was dressed in casual tan slacks with a
white polo shirt on and a thin cotton lab coat on over that.
The man cleared his
throat and said, "I'm Ted Geisel.
Can I help you?"
"Ah, so you were in
after all," Simon said. "How
fortunate. I'm Simon Clarke." He handed Geisel the letter. “I believe this will explain
everything," he said.
Geisel scanned the
letter quickly and then slowed down and read it a second time, then he looked
back up at Simon and handed him the letter, making a ghastly effort at a
smile. "An audit team," he
said. "Well, well. How...um...yes."
"Yes," Simon
said. He turned to his two companions
and gestured at Morna. "My
colleagues Miss Talbot," he waved a hand at Tom, "and Mr.
Seals."
"And, why,
precisely, are you here? Not that you
aren't welcome, of course.
Heh." Geisel's attempt at a
laugh was even more ghastly than his smile, and, despite the very efficient air
conditioning, he was sweating slightly.
"As you know,”
Simon told him, surveying his surroundings with just the right air of disdain,
“Meggar and Fields is having some…budgetary difficulties. Cost cutting may be essential to the firm's
survival. We are here to see how this
department is spending the money that it has been allocated and whether that
allocation of funds is merited. You
wouldn't mind showing us around, of course?"
"Of...uh...of
course...Mr...uh..."
"Clarke,"
Simon supplied.
"Yes. Mr. Clarke.
Well if you...uh...wouldn't mind...um...possibly waiting a few
moments? I'm sure you can
understand...I'd like to..." He
waved his hand vaguely in the air.
"Call and check out
our bona fides?" Simon finished for him.
"That would be prudent. I'm
sure you wouldn't mind if we accompanied you."
"No...of
course..." He tried to smile at
Morna. "Yes. Miss...um...please...this way...?"
They followed his waving
arm through the door and into a long hall and then into his office. There were two chairs, one behind the desk
and one for visitors. Simon gallantly
gestured Morna into the visitor's chair and then smiled pleasantly at Geisel
while he fumbled with his computer. Tom
merely crossed his arms and waited patiently, seeming to retreat into himself. He had decided that his role in this
particular performance was to be quietly menacing, so he was having a go at it.
Geisel clicked away at
the keyboard for a moment and then frowned, and a sound that could only be
described as a nervous giggle escaped him.
"The...uh...the sat-cell network seems to be...uh..." he
giggled again and then glanced at the others.
Simon kept his pleasantly unpleasant smile on his face. Morna looked sympathetic. She was beginning to feel sorry for the poor
man. Tom was merely looking impassive.
"Perhaps you could
use the regular phone system," Simon suggested.
"Yes." Geisel fumbled for several painful moments
before he finally found the number that he was looking for and punched it
in. A few miles away, a phone connected
to a portable computer sitting in a case at Stephanie's side rang. She glanced at the screen where the
words: "Meggar and Fields: Main
office" were displayed.
She picked up the
phone. "Meggar and Fields,"
she said in the perky sort of voice that she loathed hearing on the other end
of the phone. "May I help you
please?"
"Uh...this
is...this is Dr. Ted Geisel at research office 1127 Nigeria. I need to speak to Mr. Fields. My authorization code is 25-A-Red."
"Hold please."
Stephanie pushed a
button on the computer's keypad, then she flipped a switch on the
phone's receiver, waited
ten seconds, and then punched the keypad again.
"Mr. Fields
office."
She was speaking in her
normal voice, but the voice in Geisel's ear sounded like that of an entirely
different woman. Stephanie was very
proud of that small modification on her part to the system.
“This is...um...1127
Nigeria. Dr. Geisel. I need to speak with Mr. Fields
immediately."
"Mr Fields is not
in today, Dr. Geisel," Stephanie said.
A groan floated up the wire and into her ear. "But he left a message for you. May I have your authorization code, please?" She was proud of that one. She hadn't even known that authorization
codes existed until Geisel himself had told her a moment ago.
"25-A-Red."
"Yes, Dr.
Geisel. Mr. Fields said to tell you to
expect an audit team sometime in the near future. They are to be shown everything without reservation. They have the authority to determine the
future of the facility they are investigating."
"Oh...dear..."
Geisel said hollowly. "Yes. Um...thank...um..."
"You're
welcome," Stephanie said.
"Good-bye." She hung
up and smiled to herself, then she reached into a cooler at her side and pulled
out a bottle of soda. She'd have to
keep monitoring the phones until the others came back to pick her up, but that was
easy enough. It was a good thing they'd
been able to jam the sat-cell network in the lab's area. Simulating the video would have been
possible, but way too much trouble. Hmm. So they needed a way to make that
easier. Stephanie frowned in
thought. Maybe if she...
Back in his office,
Geisel hung up the phone and smiled weakly at Morna. He had chosen her as the least threatening member of the
group. Everyone makes mistakes. "Well, everything seems to be..."
Morna smiled back at
him. "Shall we get the tour
started, then?" she asked.
"Yes." He rose unsteadily to his feet and headed
for the door. "If
you'll...um..." he gestured with his arm, and they followed him into the
hall and toward a door at the far end.
"No doubt you
know," Geisel began, his voice steadying as he slipped into autopilot,
"that there are a number of ecological problems facing the planet at this
time. Gree...many people are forced to
live on diets that contain very little meat and which are low in essential
proteins. One of our main
focuses...foci?..um... is to remedy that situation by creating plant species
which are higher in proteins. As a
first step, one of our projects is to introduce the genes which code for the
enzymes involved in nitrogen fixation into plants." He wrinkled his brow at Simon. "You have to increase the nitrogen
content of the plant preparatory to increasing the protein content."
"Of course,"
Simon said.
"Yes," Geisel
said. "Of cour...um...yes. Well...of course, with the...uh...problems
that the company is...well, money, of course...we don't..."
"Money is the
engine that powers corporate research," Morna said gently.
"Yes!" Geisel
said, suddenly beaming.
"And, without
money, there isn't much research going on here."
"Yes!" Geisel
said again.
"But you'll show us
what you do have going on and explain it to us."
"Yes!" Geisel
said again.
Morna had to resist the
urge to say, "Right this way" and start the man off, but he did eventually
direct them toward the labs.
“Will you be conducting
the rest of the tour?” Simon murmured to her.
She elbowed him in the ribs without breaking stride.
There really was very
little going on in the facility, apparently.
Geisel led them through every lab, every storage room, every
office. Morna prowled through cabinets,
refrigerators, and freezers. Tom moved
things for her. Simon supervised,
looking both threatening and smug. The
place was the very picture of an underfunded lab with little to nothing on
hand.
By the end of the
examination, Geisel was calm. He quite
cheerfully gave the trio several disks full of records that Simon knew would
show absolutely nothing useful and which he had absolutely no intention of
wasting his time examining.
Geisel showed them out
with every expression of good will, even shaking hands with each of them,
albeit a little gingerly with Tom.
As they walked out, the
three were silent until they climbed back into the land rover, with Tom once
again in the driver's seat. He didn't
start the engine immediately.
"Well?" Simon
asked.
"He's lying,"
Tom said firmly.
There was a moment of
silence. "Which you
know...how?" Simon asked.
"Pupil
response," Tom said. "As well
as general demeanor. He was scared
witless at first, and then when he realized that we weren't going to find
whatever it was, and he calmed down."
"Interesting,"
Simon said. He might have sounded dryly
sarcastic, but both he and Tom were well aware that he trusted Tom's instincts
in such matters.
"He's lying,"
Morna agreed. "There is research
going on somewhere in that place."
"How do you
know?"
"When we went in,
he was wearing a radiation film ring on his right hand. He must have quietly slipped it off while he
was behind his desk, because he wasn't wearing it when he stood up again.”
"All right."
"Besides, I checked
every freezer in the place. There were
no radioisotopes there at all, but his wearing a film ring indicates that he was
doing some hands-on work with radioisotopes."
"Now that is
interesting," Simon mused. He
nodded at Tom. "Let's get out of
here. I don't want to sit here and
start the man wondering what we're up to.
I want him as calm and unworried as possible."
As Tom complied, Simon
scratched his chin and glanced at Morna.
"As I recall from visiting you at work once or twice, don't you
usually wear some kind of radiation badge?"
"Yes."
"But he
wasn't. But, then, maybe he had time to
remember to take it off and forgot about the ring in his anxiety."
Tom reached over and
flipped off the jammer.
"So...where was the work being done?" he asked. "I would swear that we saw every square
inch of that place."
"So would I,"
Simon said, "And I was paying very careful attention to…stop!"
Tom hit the brakes, and
Simon opened his door and jumped out.
"What?" Tom
asked, looking around. He opened his
door.
Simon was standing on
the running board and leaning on the roof of the land rover looking back at the
lab, a little smile on his face.
"Simon?" Morna
asked. "What is it?" She glanced at his face. "I know that look. What are you on to?"
Without a word, Simon
leaned back into the land rover and rummaged through a small pile of gear. He pulled out some field glasses and used
them, appropriately enough, to look at the field around the lab. He lowered the glasses and laughed.
"Yes?" Morna asked,
beginning to sound a little exasperated.
"Let's go,"
Simon said. He climbed back into the
land rover, and the others followed suit.
As Tom put the land
rover in gear and hit the gas, Morna said, "Simon, if you don't tell me
what you're thinking, I'm going to hit you with something."
"It's
underground," he said.
"What?"
"The real lab. It's underneath that field behind the
lab."
Morna frowned at
him. Her forehead got the little
v-shaped set of wrinkles that Simon liked so much. "How do you know?"
Simon shrugged. "I've been on enough large-scale
engineering projects to recognize the aftermath of another one, no matter how
well they’ve tried to clean it up.”
"I didn't see
anything unusual about the field," Morna said, still frowning.
"It's there,"
Simon said confidently, settling back into his seat.
"Creating an
underground lab," Tom mused aloud.
"That would be kind of expensive, especially for a cash strapped
company."
"Very
expensive," Simon agreed.
"And I bet that the expenditure isn't noted in any of the files
that we were given.
"There must be a
door somewhere in the main building," Morna said thoughtfully.
"Well hidden,"
Simon agreed. "But that's all
right. We have Stephanie with us. She gave Mel a list of items she
wanted. She must have some kind of toy
to help. Or she'll build one."
It turned out to be a
little of both.
They made it back to the
lab two nights later. The delay was
caused by Stephanie wanting a little time to modify some of the equipment that
she had brought with her. Some of it
was quite bulky, but Tom was a willing packhorse, which was fortunate, since
Simon didn't feel comfortable driving right up to the lab, and there was no
could place to hide the land rover within a couple of hundred yards of the lab.
They walked quietly
through a warm moonless night, no one speaking until they neared the building.
"At least the
parking lot's empty," Tom said.
"Which isn't to say
that the building is," Simon retorted.
Stephanie examined the
building, the door and the lock carefully, then she grinned. "Uh-huh!" she said. She pried opened a metal panel. "Uh-huh," she said again. She pulled out a line tester and a series of
small tools and began to poke through the components which had been hidden
behind the panel. It took four tries
before the line tester failed to light up.
She turned her attentions to the lock and worked quietly for a moment
before announcing, "It's all yours, Doc."
As Stephanie put up her
tools, Simon gently opened the door.
The small group passed quietly into the darkened building, and Simon
pulled the door shut.
Inside the building, Tom
set his burden on the floor, then he and Simon spread out and searched the
building. It was empty.
Once that was confirmed,
Tom resumed his duties as packhorse and the quartet went back out through the
front door and around the to back of the building. Stephanie nodded at Tom, who set his burden on the ground. Squatting on her heels, Stephanie rooted
through the large pack and pulled out a flat metal orange box. It was about eight inches long by six inches
wide by four inches high and weighed about fifteen pounds. Stephanie then pulled a collapsible metal
handle out of the bag, telescoped to its full length of about four feet and
attached it to the box.
"What is
that?" Tom asked. Having lugged
the darn thing around for so long, he was naturally curious.
"Ground penetrating
radar," Stephanie told him, opening her laptop and beginning to click the
keys. "It'll give us a three
dimensional profile of the what's under the ground around here. I hope."
"You hope?"
Tom asked.
Stephanie shrugged. "It kind of depends on the mineral
content of the soil, the conductivity of the pore fluid, things like that. We'll see.
If it doesn't work, I have some back-up options."
"Where on earth did
you get that?" Simon asked. “Don’t
tell me you just happened to bring it with you!”
"It was a creative
acquisition," Stephanie told him, continuing to type.
"A what?"
Morna asked.
“She stole it from
somewhere," Simon translated.
"That was what you were doing this morning."
“More or less,” she
said. “You scrounge through enough
junkyards, you pick up a few tricks about how to find things that are…um…hidden.”
Once everything was
calibrated and ready, Stephanie nodded at Tom, who took hold of the handle and
began to sweep the ground. He looked
like a man with metal detector searching for buried treasure.
"From packhorse to
prospector,” he said.
"What?" Simon
asked.
"Nothing."
Stephanie stayed where
she was, her eyes on the laptop. A
small transmitter sent a signal to her laptop which then translated the signal
into a three-dimensional image.
"Well?" Morna
asked after a moment. Simon appeared
indifferent to the search.
"Oh, yeah,"
Stephanie said. "There's a huge
underground cavity."
"Of course,"
Simon said quietly.
"Of course,"
Morna echoed. She glanced at Simon
whose face held a smug little smile.
"You can so insufferable when you're right," she said, but
there was no sting in the words.
"Track back toward
the building," Stephanie directed.
Tom did as he was told. She let
him sweep up to the wall of the building and then directed him to move the
length of the wall. After a moment she
came over and marked the ground.
"Here," she said.
"There's a tunnel that goes under this wall."
"Let's get
inside," Simon said.
It was a simple task to
find the room that abutted the wall at the point where the tunnel crossed under
the building, and then it was a simple matter to find where the tunnel ended
beneath the floor of the room.
“The entrance is
probably right under here somewhere," Stephanie said, pointing.
"Do we care if they
know we've been here?" Tom asked.
"Oh, they'll know
we've been here when we're done," Simon told him.
"Right." Tom pulled a large clasp knife from his
pocket and began to slice up the carpeting.
The outlines of a trap door were visible in the floor, and there was a
handle inset into the wood. After
glancing at Simon, Tom grabbed the handle and pulled. Nothing happened.
"There must be a
switch somewhere," Stephanie said, looking around the room. "Maybe by that desk..."
Tom looked disgusted for
a moment, then he braced his feet, took a deep breath and pulled. His shirt stretched as the muscles in arms
swelled, then something under the floor snapped loudly and the door flew upward
suddenly. Tom regained his balance and
then let the door fall.
"Of course,"
Stephanie said, "we could also do it that way..."
Tom glanced down at the
passage and nodded. "One of us
should stay here," he said, "in case someone comes along."
Simon looked at
him. There was something indefinably
odd about Tom's tone. "All
right," he said. "Why don't
you do that?"
Tom nodded.
"Usually,"
Simon continued, "I'd say ladies first, but not this time." The room was windowless, so they had turned
on the light. Simon dropped into the
tunnel. There was enough light
streaming in through the open door to let him find a switch in the tunnel
wall. He flipped it and light flooded
the tunnel.
It was a neat well-made
passage that liked like nothing more than a windowless hallway paneled with
linoleum.
"Come on," he
called. Morna and Stephanie joined
him. Tom then handed down the bundle he
had been carrying. Stephanie took it
lovingly and strapped it across her back.
With a jaunty salute to Tom, who was up above peering down into the
tunnel, Simon began to walk with the ladies at his side.
There was something
peculiar in the passage. Later, Simon
could never decide if the peculiarity was real or all in his mind. Every sound that they made seemed to be
somehow magnified beyond reason by the walls and floor and ceiling, and there
was a sense of heaviness, almost of oppression, in the air. The lights were fluorescent, and most of the
bulbs needed to be changed, so the passage was dim. The dead hum of the bulbs was a nagging undertone to the sounds
made by their feet.
The passage wasn’t long;
they quickly found themselves at a door which was sealed with a keypad. Almost as quickly, they found themselves
through the door, courtesy of Stephanie and her collection of toys.
They passed through the
door and into the space beyond. It was
a large area, more than double the space of the building above ground. When Simon had been in the hallway, he had
wanted a larger room. Now that he found
himself confronted with one, he found that he preferred the hallway.
At first, light streamed
in from the open door behind them, but then that door slid shut with a quiet
but somehow final sounding click. The
large room was now shrouded in darkness that wasn’t quite complete. Placed around the room were various pieces
of machinery that gave off feeble gleams of light here and there, just enough
to accentuate the fact that most of the room was in shadow. It was like some vast cave, and the demons
that hide in the darkest caverns might be hiding here as well.
Simon shook himself like
a sleeper trying to come fully awake, and then light flooded the room, bringing
every piece of machinery into sharp relief.
Simon glanced over at Morna who had just found a pulled a switch, and he
grinned at her.
All of the machinery was
now clearly visible and, to Simon at least, still largely
incomprehensible. Six doors opened off
of the central room. Three of them, in
the far wall, were simply normal doors, such as might be found in any
office. The other three were complex
affairs of glass and steel which fitted into sockets on all four sides. They reminded Simon of airlocks.
"I'd say we've
found the place where the research happens," Morna said dryly, looking at
the thick doors. “Potentially
unpleasant research."
Simon turned to
Stephanie. "See what they have in
the way of records. Get everything you
can," he said.
"Gotcha," she
said and picked a door. She hoped that
they wouldn’t be so dull as to keep paper records and that she’d have to crack
into their computer to find what she wanted.
What is life without a few little challenges to make it interesting,
she thought.
"Let's check out
the labs," Simon told Morna. They
picked once of the thick glass and steel doors. Simon tried to look into the
room beyond, but the lights in there were off. There was a bulky piece of complicated looking technology to the
side of the doorway. Morna eyed it for
a moment and then flipped one switch to power it up, a second switch to turn on
the lights in the lab and a third switch to open the door.
"Good thing they
hadn't locked it with a code," she said.
She glanced at Simon’s raised eyebrow and smiled. “It isn’t suspicious,”
she said. “In a sealed lab like this, they wouldn’t be expected outsiders.”
The door opened not into
the lab beyond but into a small chamber about the size of an elevator with
another door in it's wall. Morna
pressed a button just inside the room.
The door they had entered by closed.
After a delay, light flooded the room beyond the second door. The door opened, and they passed through.
It was a greenhouse of
some sort. The room was rectangular,
with the walls lined with shelves and cabinets packed with abstruse equipment
that Simon assumed Morna could identify.
Even the ceiling was laced with equipment - special lighting, hoses and
something electrical and complex.
A rim of floor about
three feet wide ran all the way around the room. A walkway followed the wall all the way around the room. The interior space of the room was filled
with plants. Soybean plants.
“Huang hou," Simon
said.
"What?"
"Never mind."
They walked down the
right side of the room, reached the far corner, followed the wall as it made a
left hand turn and then down to the far corner and made another left hand
turn. Simon was gazing at the
equipment. Morna was gazing at the
plants. They were walking slowly,
absorbed in the sights around them.
"These aren't
normal soybean plants," Morna said quietly.
"That much we
knew," Simon said. “What makes
them different?”
Morna leaned forward for
a closer look and then reached out a hand.
"Naughty,
naughty," a voice said. "Mustn't
touch."
The both looked up,
startled. Dr. Geisel was standing on
the other side of the room, perhaps fifty feet away from them, with the plants
between them. He was holding a gun.
"How did you get in
here?" Simon asked him.
"Actually, I
believe I'm the one entitled to ask that question," he replied.
There was a long
pause. Simon could feel Morna’s hand
clutching his. She was shaking just a
little. No one said anything.
“Oh, very well,"
Geisel said after a moment. "I was
waiting here for you, if you must know.
That's all. I waited last night
as well. I just had a feeling you'd be
along."
Simon stared at him for
a moment, then he said, "You called Meggar and Fields back."
Geisel looked
surprised. "Yes," he said. "How did you know?"
Simon shrugged. "Just a guess,” he said. “Silly of me not to have thought of it
beforehand.”
“Hmm,” Geisel said, the
corners of his mouth twitching. “Now
it’s your turn to tell me something. I
know that you don’t work for Meggar and Fields, so who do you work for? And how did you find me?”
There was a moment of
silence, then Geisel shrugged. “All
right,” he said. He nodded at
Morna. “I’ll shoot her in the knee
first.” His smile was very thin. “We don’t want to end the fun too quickly,
do we?”
“Fa Leung,” Simon said
quickly.
“Ah...” Geisel’s smile broadened. “He survived, then.” He clicked his tongue. “That was sloppy of me. Oh, well.
I won’t make that mistake again.”
He lifted the gun slightly.
“What happened to him?”
“Leung? He was exposed to an early form of a
neurotoxin that we’ve been working with.
I was quite sure that it would kill him, but it didn’t.” He shrugged. “It was useful having a test case for a few days, but then it got
to be too much trouble to take care of him.
I sent a man in to kill him, and it didn’t go well.” He clicked his tongue again. “That’s what I get for delegating. It’s a good lesson for all of us.” He smiled at them.
“But, what happened?”
Morna asked.
“Oh, he unexpectedly
attacked the man who was sent to kill him.
He knocked the man out and then was cunning enough to make it out of the
facility.” He frowned. “He was unexpectedly lucid. I should have foreseen that.” His face cleared. “He made it to his car in the parking lot and took off, but he
wrecked not far down the road. We found
the remains of his car, but he was gone.
We hunted for him, of course, but we didn’t find him. How did you?”
“He made it to Jos,”
Simon said.
Geisel’s eyes
widened. “Really?” he said. “I am quite astonished. I would never have guessed he could make it
so far in his condition. I was quite
certain that he was dead in a field somewhere.
Well, we all make mistakes. Who
do you work for?”
“If I tell you that,”
Simon said, “they’ll kill me.”
“That does seem to leave
you between the sword and the wall, doesn’t it?” Geisel said.
Simon sighed. “You’ll kill me whether I tell you or not.”
“True,” Geisel said, “but
you should be more concerned about how I’ll kill you. And her.”
"I assume that
these are transgenics," Morna said suddenly, gesturing at the bean
plants. "What exactly have you
created here?"
Geisel smiled a very
smug smile indeed. "I have created..."
he paused dramatically, "the world's first weapons grade soybeans!"
Simon stared at
him. "Weapons grade
soybeans?" he asked.
"Enough to wipe out
entire populations," Geisel told him proudly. “Possibly the entire world.”
"With
soybeans," Simon said.
"Yes."
"Wipe out entire
populations."
"Yes!" Geisel was beginning to sound annoyed.
"You mean that lots
of people with eat the beans and then…”
"Oh, let's not be
childish," Geisel cut him off.
"We started out trying to make soybeans that would absorb extra
carbon dioxide to reduce the greenhouse gas levels. One of my new plants is just an expansion on that idea.”
"What do you
mean?" Morna asked.
"In one of the
other labs, we have some plants that absorb vast quantities of carbon
dioxide. The plants are highly invasive
and pesticide resistant. They send out
underground runners and they grow faster than bamboo. If they were set loose, they would significantly lower the
world's carbon dioxide levels."
Simon cleared his
throat. "I don't want to spoil
this evil megomanical mood you have going, but wouldn't that be a good
thing?"
Geisel laughed. "Only if you consider wiping out all
life on the planet to be a good thing."
It was at that moment that Simon felt the first touch of fear. Not because of the beans but because of the
laugh. There was something...unsettling
about it.
Simon frowned. "How…" he began.
“You really are a very
ignorant man,” Geisel said, suddenly losing patience with Simon. “Aside from world wide climactic changes,
there’s the mere fact that humans need carbon dioxide in order to breathe
properly.”
Simon frowned. “But I thought…”
“Shut up!” Geisel
snapped. “I’m not going to give
instruction in basic biology and ecology.
I had enough of that during my years teaching!”
“Well,” Simon said, “if
this is how you talked to your students, then…”
“Shut up!” Geisel said
again.
"What about these
plants?" Morna asked quickly, gesturing at the ones in front of her. “The ones in this lab. You've done Cristobal field work on them,
haven't you?"
Geisel's smile was
genuine. "Ah," he said. "You know about that?" He glanced at Simon. “You don’t.
I already know that.”
Simon rolled his eyes
upward but didn’t say anything.
Morna nodded.
"Yes,” Geisel
confirmed. “You can see the tracks on
the leaves of some of the plants, can't you?
These plants are different from the others. You see…"
As Geisel talked, Simon
casually reached behind his back, which was against one of the shelves. His hand closed on something metallic that
had some heft to it. With one quick
motion, he threw the object toward Geisel and then lunged sideways against
Morna, pushing her and himself out of the spaces they had occupied an instant
before.
Simon heard a single
gunshot, then he heard Morna's voice in his ear, "Door!
Run!" There was an urgency
to her tone that was unsettling. He
ran.
They reached the
door. Simon hit the switch. He had a tremendous desire to look at
Geisel, and a spot in the center of his back was itching as it waited for a
bullet. The door opened. Morna's hands were against Simon’s back,
pushing him. A siren went off as they
stumbled across the door's raised sill, and the door slammed shut behind
them. Morna yelped. Part of her blouse had been caught by the
closing door. Simon jerked and the
fabric ripped.
In the lab behind them,
Geisel was motionless, the gun still pointed at the spot where they had been
standing. Foam appeared to be coming
out of his mouth, and a pale green mist was wafting around him and starting to
spread throughout the room.
The outer door opened,
and they stepped out. The door closed
again behind them. One of the other
doors opened, and Stephanie came running out.
"What is it?"
she asked.
"Contamination
lockdown," Morna said. " Simon threw something into the plants, and the
injured ones gave off a gas."
"Geisel was waiting
for us," Simon amplified.
"He's trapped in there."
"He's dead in
there," Stephanie said. She held
up a book. "That's lab one.” She shuddered and swallowed hard, as if trying
to make sure that everything kept moving in the right direction. “Those plants give off a neurotoxin,
according to this. It sort of...melts
the brain or something. I don’t
know.” She shook her head. “I didn’t really want to read the details.”
Morna took the book and
began to glance through it.
"What do we do
now?" Stephanie asked. “Stay here
and finish or leave?”
Simon glanced at
Morna. "Are we all right
here?" he asked.
She nodded absently,
absorbed in her reading. "Oh
yes," she said. "We're
fine. The lab's sealed."
"We stay,
then.” Simon glanced at Stephanie. “Get the rest of the records," he
said. "Let's get all of the
information we can. Then we have to
figure out how to destroy these plants.
We can't let anyone else get hold of them."
Stephanie left again,
and Simon looked at Morna. "How do
we handle this?" he asked.
"Hmm?" She was still reading.
"Sunrise," he
said, touching her shoulder. "What
should we do?"
“Oh. Wait a moment.” She flipped through the book, read for a few minutes and then went
back to the machine at the lab door.
"This is a pretty standard setup," she said. She pointed at three red panels. Each was locked with a key. "Open those and you'll find three
switches. Flip them in sequence and a
compound which will kill the plants will be released into the lab.”
Simon frowned. “Why would they make them so easy to
kill? Isn’t that counterproductive?”
Morna shook her
head. “They’re easy to kill if you know
the precise compound to use,” she said.
“And, anyway, the susceptibility would have been deliberately built in
as a safety feature. They could have
removed later if they had chosen to.”
"All right,"
Simon said. "You stay here and
keep an eye on things. I'm going to go
back and let Tom know what's going on.
We’re going to need a cleanup team in here, I think.”
He stared to walk away,
but she called him back.
"Simon..."
"Yes, love?"
"How did you know
that tossing something into the beans would do what it did?"
He sighed and glanced
around. Stephanie hadn't come
back. They were alone. "To you," he said, "I'll say
that I was trying to throw it at Geisel.
Not into the plants. Fifty
feet. I should have been able to hit
him."
She cocked her head
slightly to one side. There was
something odd in his tone. "What
is it, Simon?" she asked softly.
He smiled slightly. That tone in her voice still had the same
effect it had always had on him, not lessened at all by the passing of the
years or the time they'd spent apart.
"You know," he
said reflectively, looking at the floor,
"some mornings when I wake up, I can barely make a fist." He met her eyes and tried to grin. "Arthritis," he said. "Not bad, but...there."
She laid on hand gently
against his cheek. "Simon,"
she said softly. "Good men age
well, like fine wines." She
paused. "Or cheese."
His eyes narrowed, then
he saw the twinkle in her eye and the smile that she was barely managing to
repress, and he laughed and kissed her.
"Cheese," he said. "I'll
go get Tom. Maybe, between the two of
us, we think of way to explain to Callow why we didn't bring him back any
potted plants to play with."
by Jeff Williams
Nightwatch Created by Jeff Williams
Developed by Jeff Williams and Robert Moriyama
Max Cory found himself facing the fossil of a trilobite. For a moment, he was lost in wonder that the remains of such a creature could be found in a mountain range, but it did not take long for his circumstances to close in again. The passageway in the cave had come to a dead end, and he was no closer to finding his way out.
The nearly empty flask by his side gave off a weary
slosh. Well, he thought, at
least there's that spring back in that big chamber. At least I won't die of thirst. IF I can find the chamber again.
Max had been an avid caver for nearly ten years and had explored all types of cave systems. While many of his fellow hobbyists stuck to wide open caves with little in the way of narrow passages or tight corners, he had grown fond of the truly challenging ones, the ones that required knowing how to compress one's chest to its limits, the ones that required absolute faith that the unseen space below one's feet was passable and led to further treasures. The ones that no sane person would willingly go into with partners, much less alone.
There was the rub. Max, in violation of every caver's creed, in defiance of every shred of advice ever given him by those with far more experience than he, loved the thrill of going it alone. Certainly, there was the possibility of getting lost, of suffering serious injury, or of becoming wedged after misjudging a seam. These were, however, remote concepts, distant ephemeral things...until now.
Max's headlamp flickered once again, and he quickly tapped it to restore the loose connection playing havoc with the light. It was the temperamental illumination that had driven him to his current predicament. While climbing along a diagonal shaft, the lamp went out for the first time, and in the struggle to restore it, much of Max's equipment had fallen, and his map had fluttered away. It had taken awhile to restart the lamp, and in the process he had become completely disoriented. All of the reasons for never caving alone finally, in this terrible moment, crystallized. At the time, he cursed himself and his lack of care in both maintaining the headlamp and in failing to bring along an alternative light source. In the parlance of caving, he’d revealed himself to be a mere spelunker.
Breathing deeply the cool subterranean air, Max pushed himself back from the dead end to the small chamber that for the moment was acting as his home base, and as he sat, he tried again to register the direction the wind was blowing from, but the cave system was scattering it into untraceable eddies. He rubbed the salt and pepper stubble on his pale face, and his brown eyes darted around the chamber. Bitterly, he remembered his brother Jack's offer to travel with him, remembered the raspberry ale he'd drunk at the bar in Boulder, remembered the lovely bartender with green eyes and small breasts he'd always meant to proposition.
A blast of warmer air smashed into the side of Max's face, startling him and causing him to breathe in sharply. He looked around, trying to capture the fleeting memory of where the air had come from. Rubbing his now wide eyes, he quickly decided to take the right passage, the one which curved upward and then headed down a shaft he'd found to be too smooth to try, at least at that time. Now, however, things were decidedly different.
****
His hands beside him on the wall, his feet supporting him on the opposite side of his body, Max stopped to reassess his decision to descend the shaft, and to wish that his supply of rope was still with him. While he was quite adept at free-climbing, the shaft was proving difficult. As he had feared, it was very smooth, though not unusually so, and it was slow going. To make matters worse, the little grip he could get lent itself to downward motion only. Pulling himself up was much more difficult and was something he was not keen to try: death with dignity--rather than slow death, injured and unable to move deep within a cave system--somehow seeming preferable, if indeed death proved to be his only option.
It was during this moment of contemplation that another blast of warm air passed, this time definitely from below. Suddenly feeling renewed by the sense that he was heading if not somewhere safe then at least somewhere, he resumed his downward journey.
Ten minutes later, he reached the base of the shaft and slid sideways into the only available passage, a craggy tunnel filled with dust and debris loosened by whatever was happening in the caves. As he crawled through a particularly narrow and low portion of the passage, Max was suddenly aware of something he never expected to see this far down--light. Impulsively dowsing his lamp, he found that indeed there was light. He stopped to ponder what was happening. Quickly, he ruled out phosphorescence as the light was too strong to be natural, and he ruled out hallucinations as well since he wasn't that far away from his last meal or his last good night's sleep. After running through all of the possibilities, he was left with only one option: it was artificial light. His eyes widening, Max slid forward as fast as he could through the narrow passage.
The last part required his crawling on his belly through a low overhang followed by a tricky banjo upwards. Slowly, he emerged at last behind an outcropping of rocks, and what stood before him threw his heart into a spin.
The chamber was partly natural, partly excavated to make it somewhat larger and rounder. Bolted into the rock were four large halogen lights providing strong illumination for the room. Circling the walls surrounding the chamber, four large rings had been mounted. The rings were emerald green colored, and black supporting brackets could be seen every four feet. Cabling and other wiring were mounted into these brackets. On a black slab in the middle of the circle, a small white vase sat. On the wall opposite of Max and just behind the rings were two openings, which seemed to lead into further rooms. The light was brighter from these, and he jumped at the chance to be rescued. Climbing over the rocks, he tried to find a convenient way through the rings but then had to settle for more crawling under the small gap at the bottom of them. After moving under them, he was halfway to the other side of the chamber when he stopped to look at the vase. Among all of the machinery and other items in the room, the vase seemed the most incongruous.
Falling to his knees, Max picked up the vase. While it seemed to be made out of porcelain, nothing about it was particularly special. In fact, it looked like something he could pick up any weekend from his friend Krissy's flea market. He was about to put it back and proceed under the other side of the rings and then through the opening when something in his mind started ringing alarm bells. Max needed rescuing, he knew this without question, and he knew that he would die in the caves without help, but the situation was too bizarre. Something, he was certain, was seriously wrong, and it wasn't just the machinery that told him so. Krissy would have called it woman's intuition, and for a second Max pondered if such a thing could be caught.
Quickly replacing the vase, he crawled back under the rings and hid himself behind another outcropping.
A loud hum began filling the area, and the emerald green light from the rings intensified. Over the sounds of the humming, Max was certain he'd heard voices, but the pounding in his chest and in his ears prevented him from making out the words. With great effort, he lifted himself far enough on the outcropping to see what was happening.
The rings were now three times as bright as they had been, and energy was visibly swirling around them from left to right. A light breeze had begun blowing in the room, also from left to right. Across the room, the openings Max had been heading for were now covered by thick metal doors. The rings then glowed more violently, and the hum transformed itself into a loud buzzing sound.
In the center of the apparatus, the vase glowed in a strange, ethereal, green light as energy was broadcast onto it from the surrounding rings. Max was transfixed by the eerie beauty, and for a moment his fears subsided. The light from the rings began to pulsate and dance and then, in a flash, began closing in on the vase like constricting rings of smoke. Max craned his head farther forward to get an even better view, but as he shifted weight onto his leg to push up, it was grabbed by a pair of strong hands.
Max fell immediately onto the hard rock floor and, without pausing to assess the situation, fought back with all of his might.
"Listen to me," someone said, "listen dear fellow. You don't understand...you don't..." Max swung, and his fist connected with someone's jaw, and as it did, he took his first conscious glimpse of his attacker. Judging by the figure's gray-white hair, Max could tell he was an older man, perhaps in his late forties or early fifties. However, just as Max's confidence of winning the fight began to spike, he was thwacked solidly against the neck with a heavy wooden walking stick, and he fell hard onto his side while the stars danced in his head and while a knee planted itself firmly on his chest.
Pulling himself together on pure adrenalin, Max was about to counterattack when fast moving clouds of green energy flew over the rock and then sank only inches above his head. His attacker had dropped to the ground instantly and just barely missed being engulfed. Max's breathing was fast and shallow, and his eyes were open wider than ever before. Debris fell all around them.
"That, my pugilistic friend," the older man said, "was what I was trying to warn you about. Damnit, that was my favorite stick!" The man stood up and immediately offered his hand to Max. The caver, reluctantly, took the man's arm, but before Max could use it for leverage, he found himself being pulled upright by the older man.
"And just who the fuck are you?" Max growled, marveling all the while at how much strength the figure seemed to possess. The man smiled and tsked tsked the caver before wincing and rubbing the side of his face.
"Excellent question," the man said while massaging his jaw. "On the one level, you can think of me as the guy who saved your ass. If that, as a form of identification, is insufficient, then call me Simon." Simon looked around quickly to see if anyone was approaching. "While you make up your mind, follow me. The technicians'll be here any second to check on the remains of their handiwork."
"What technicians? What handiwork?"
"Just over that rock," Simon said while motioning behind him, "unless I'm very much mistaken, is a rapidly disintegrating porcelain vase. A rather cheap vase, but formerly solid nonetheless." He pointed towards a passage. "They won't be happy if they find us, and thanks to you, I’m in no mood for a fight." Max stood blinking at the man, and before the gentleman could stop him, the caver scrambled back onto the outcropping. As he did, roughly a tenth of an inch of new, loose rock flew behind him.
Max had just lifted his head up to see when he saw the last of the vase, or at least the last of it in a recognizable form. As the green glow settled further into it, the vase crumbled into several large pieces, and then the pieces themselves began to crumble. Max suspected that if he watched long enough, even the remains would crumble. He decided not to wait that long.
"Where we going?" he asked Simon as he climbed back down. Simon--Dr. Simon Litchfield of the Nightwatch Institute, Georgetown, D.C.--grabbed Max's shoulder.
"Somewhere a little safer,” he said. The two of them started up yet another passageway. "Somewhere a little safer."
Behind them in the chamber, the metal doors opened, and three white-suited technicians stepped out. Another door opened on the floor, revealing a sunken staircase that allowed access from one side of the rings to the other. The three descended and ascended the stairs and then gathered around the powdered remains of the vase. One of them scooped samples of the powder into small plastic bags. He held one of the bags up, and the others nodded their heads knowingly. "We'll check it in the lab," the technician with the bags said, "but we all know what we'll find."
"Traveled molecularly," an older technician spoke sadly, "but not physically. This, if you'll forgive the pun, is getting really old." Several other technicians came in to the room and began inspecting the rings and the linkages. They were followed by a tall brunette woman who wore much more comfortable floral "civilian" clothes. The sample bag was held up for her to see, and she sighed and closed her green eyes.
"All right," she said dolefully. "Confirm it, then reset the system for another run. I'll tweak the equations." The older technician eyed the woman skeptically; slowly, as if his joints caused him pain, the man stood up.
"Wouldn't it be wise to wait until tomorrow at least?" he asked, beads of sweat starting to collect on his forehead and on the tips of his coarse, sandy-blond hair. "These repeated operations aren't good for the system. We need to fully inspect the components, make sure we're not..." The woman started to protest, but the technician raised his voice. "...make sure we're not going to blow the whole thing apart!" The woman shook her head then turned to walk out of the room. She stopped at the doors and placed a hand on the wall, almost as if trying to hold herself up.
"I appreciate your concern, Dr. Phelps," she said through the gaps in the rings. "I'll note it in the logs, and I'll note the next test takes place over your objections." She turned her head to view the technicians over her shoulder. "Reset the system for another run. Oh, and call Ms. Ried and tell her to bring the rest of the generators online." Shaking his head and eying his colleagues, Phelps finally nodded his ascent.
"We'll do our best to make sure everything's in order." The woman smiled kindly and started to walk away.
"That's all I ever ask, doctor," she said. "That's all I ever ask."
"You heard her," Phelps said mournfully, and the others jumped up to attend to their duties. “One of you needs to at least run a quick calibration on the emitters.” Phillips sighed and shook his head.
****
Tom Weldon sat on a small grassy plateau overlooking the valley between three biggest mountains in the area. It was after midnight, and though he was dressed quite warmly, the Gortex coat didn't seem to be keeping out quite enough of the cold. He flapped his arms and jogged in place for several seconds before sitting down. He pulled a piece of jerky from a pouch and gnawed on it. The jerky, he was happy to say, had been his idea. A good distraction technique, the psychologist thought, for those moments when nervousness or boredom threatens to overtake you. Leaning forward, he grabbed a heavy pair of binoculars with his free hand and surveyed the valley. For the most part in the darkness, there was nothing to see, but then the scenery changed. At first glance, it appeared to be a campsite of some sort, with many trailers clustered about in a small area. But then there were the large generators, the satellite dish high on a pole above a van, the cabling running into the mouth of a cave, the men and women in white coats.
As he watched, someone who appeared to be a small woman emerged from the cave and began motioning to several others. Tom could see the puffs of steam as the people spoke to each other. Heads nodded in agreement, and then the activity picked up. More men and women in white coats moved to an area just beyond the trailers and began removing green (though in the darkness they appeared black) coverings from more generators.
"Interesting," Tom said, though truthfully to him it wasn't. It was only the damn cold. Still, he thought, I'm glad I haven't started the Atkins Diet yet. I'd rather be out here than deep in this heap of rock. Tom looked behind him towards a spot which he couldn't see in the darkness but which he knew was there--a small hole fringed with so much dry grass that it was nearly impossible to see even in good light, yet somehow Simon's people had discovered it was there. He remembered Stephanie sliding in quite easily followed by Litchfield. Litchfield had a more difficult time, and as he slowly descended, Tom was put in mind of cork in a wine bottle desperately trying to push itself in rather than out. Tom had no intention of ever being a cork. Besides, there was that nasty case of claustrophobia that always seemed to crop up in caves. Years of therapy had cleared up most other incidents of it, but never the caves.
Serves you right, Tom thought as he reflected on these events and upon Dr. Simon Litchfield, the erstwhile leader of these expeditions. Drag me into these situations, give little or no information to work from, and then expect results. Why, he thought, why do I let him talk me into these things, particularly something like this where there was no way I could actually go into the caves? Still, Tom had to agree that there was more adventure on this plateau than was to be found in his staid though comfortable counseling practice back in the L'Enfant Building and that that was the why. The primary why, anyway. At least the only why he was prepared to admit to anyone.
Laughing, he reached down, placed the binoculars on a plastic sheet, and then reached for a black box. After unsnapping the metal clasps, he popped it open and revealed a laptop-like keyboard along with other buttons and dials and a computer screen. Then, he removed a small umbrella-like device and attached it in a slot on the side of the box. As he flicked the release, the “umbrella” opened into its proper dish-like shape. Finally, he opened the shutter on the built-in night-vision camera, an action which caused a small light and the machine to switch on.
Before heading for the underground, Simon had told Tom how to operate the satellite communications device along with the proper orientation for the dish. Then, cryptically, he told him to use D-channel only since piggybacks were more difficult to detect there. Exactly what Tom was piggybacking on he didn’t know, and he didn’t care to know.
As the gold bars that indicated signal strength reached “sub-nominal,” which Tom had been assured was as good as was it going to get, he pressed the CALL button and checked a small sheet of paper. “Dr. Weill…Dr. Weill…” he said to himself. He then hit REVIEW LATER, which triggered a digital recording mechanism.
A few seconds later, a grainy image appeared on the screen. A man in an open-necked white cotton shirt stared back, his gray hair protruding in diverse directions.
“Dr. Weill?” a gruff voice said from the box. “What are you doing? Camping out?”
“Dr. Card,” Tom said to the grainy figure in front of him, “thanks for taking time to speak with me. I apologize for how late I’m calling.” Card sniffed and rolled his eyes.
“Your thanks is misplaced, Dr. Weill,” Card said. “Thank Dr. Divakaruni at Georgetown. If I hadn’t owed him some major favors, I never would have agreed to this consulting nonsense. Why do I have this equipment on my desk, and why am I expected to be on call for twenty-four hours?” Tom smiled, but he’d taken an instant dislike for this man.
“I’m sure Dr. Divakaruni will explain everything,” Tom said, wondering all the while who this Divakaruni lady or fellow was in the first place. “Right now, I have a few questions if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, be my guest,” Card said as he sat back and waved his hand dismissively at the screen.
“Thank you,” Tom said calmly as he prepared himself for the incredulous comments he was about to receive. “If you were going to build a time machine, what would be your method of choice?” Dr. Card blinked, the fingers of his right hand in constant motion.
“This,” Card said, “is why I’ve given up going to one of the finest physics conferences in the world? This is why I’m going to be up and down all night? To answer absurd theoretical questions! About time machines?” Tom smiled and tapped an adjustment key to clear the picture slightly.
“Some of your graduate studies did concern temporal mechanics,” Tom said. “Didn’t the idea intrigue you then?”
“Myself and two others fell under the spell of a charismatic charlatan,” he said, “and were lucky to escape with careers intact.”
“Nevertheless,” Tom interrupted.
“Just hitch a ride on a spaceship,” Dr. Card yelled, “or fly around the world eight times on an airplane. Eight times around and you’ve gained a second back…and lost a year or two to airline food!” Tom stared wordlessly at the screen. “You really want to know don’t you?”
“Certainly,” Tom replied.
“If I were fool enough to try, a particle accelerator would be handy. The science fiction boys haven’t gotten this speed idea wrong. A high-energy, high-speed environment would be ideal though, really, you’d only be sending a particle or two, at best, a few seconds forward or backwards, perhaps, depending on the spin.”
“How big would the accelerator need to be,” Tom asked, “and would it have an effect on objects external to it?”
“There’s one in Arizona big enough to do the job,” Card said. “Big as a town, actually. As for your second question…”
“Scratch that one,” Tom said. “What would be your second choice?” Dr. Card stared incredulously at the screen and then breathed deeply.
“Well, Dr. Weill,” Card hissed, “I’d try to alter time for whatever object I was trying to send. Somehow, and I haven’t the slightest idea what the mechanics of it would be, I’d create a well where time moved at a different speed, either faster or slower than that which surrounds it. The object remains stable and in place while the world around it goes its merry way. But,” Card cautioned, “things are very strange at the quantum level. Even if you create a stable time well, I’m not sure you can accurately predict what will happen, how far forward or backward you'd go, etc. Theoretically, of course. This is all theoretical claptrap, and why do you want to know anyway?”
“Thank you for your help, Dr. Card,” Tom said hurriedly. “I believe we have your services for twenty-four hours. I’ll contact you again soon.” With that, Tom terminated the transmission. Even as the protesting image of Dr. Card faded, Tom was already cuing up the digital recording. Quickly, he made a mental note of anything he should pass along to Simon.
Finally, after taking one more look at the activity below him, he picked up a large, black handset. Tapping a three-digit code, he held the handset to his head.
"Field," he said. "Field? Can you hear me?" Tom waited but received no immediate response. "Are you there? Do you read me...Captain Caveman?"
****
Increasingly bemused and alarmed, Max found himself uncharacteristically listening to the strange man's instructions as the two of them made their way up rocky passages and through low outcroppings. He even listened, without angry response, to Simon's ranting about the lost walking stick. "A lovely present from an even lovelier Swiss woman," Simon protested. "What am I supposed to tell her next time I'm in Berne?" Finally, they came to a small partially lit chamber in which the sound of rushing air was audible. Also present were two backpacks and several bags as well as a woman Max normally would have fallen onto his knees drooling over, but in his state he found himself immune to the charms of Stephanie Keel. Both Dr. Litchfield and Stephanie were wearing black, dirt-covered coveralls. Both had vague dirt rims on their faces, and Stephanie's hair, which was pulled back in a tight ponytail, had flecks of stone and dirt visible in it.
"Have a seat," Dr. Litchfield said, taking off his tan hat and motioning towards the ground, "if you can find one. This place isn't going to make the cover of Better Homes and Gardens." Stephanie, who had been focused on her notes, looked up and eyed the newcomer with some degree of suspicion.
"And just who is this?" she asked Simon. "I wasn't expecting house guests." Simon laughed.
"I think it's safe to say our friend here, Mr....Mr..."
"Max," the caver said, leaning against the cave wall and then sliding to the floor. "Max Cory."
"I think it is safe to say Mr. Cory wasn't expecting us, either." Opening one of the bags, Simon pulled out two small plastic pouches. He squeezed the first one and tossed it to Max. "Have a cold pack on the house," Litchfield said dryly. "I'll have one," he squeezed the other pack, "on my jaw." He placed it on his cheek while Max soothed his aching neck.
"Our man Flint called about twenty minutes ago," Stephanie said while keeping her eyes on the notes. "Said he wanted you to call when you had the chance. Plus," she said, “he gave me a few bits of information to add to the collection. I wrote them on a blank sheet in your notebook.” She smiled widely. "Truth is, I think he's lonely, though he'd never admit that."
"Yessssssssss," Dr. Litchfield said. "Well, let's see what we can find for Max, first, in the way of food," Simon continued, "and then we'll get back to business." He fished in another bag and tossed over a small pack of beef jerky. "I’ve definitely eaten worse food. Surströmming comes to mind.”
"New Bronsfeld Smokehouse!" Max exclaimed. "This ain't gas station trash," he said, "this stuff's the real deal!"
"I'm...so...happy for you," Litchfield said. "Have a canteen as well," he said while tossing the bottle. Max, thrilled by the banquet before him, slid over happily. As he did, however, a loud hissing sound began filling the room. He looked around, trying to see what was happening, before Stephanie physically pushed him to the side and began examining an air hose on the floor.
"Careful," Stephanie chided. "This splice is pretty sensitive. I don't want to set off any alarms if they're monitoring the air flow."
"Them?" Max said with some puzzlement. Both Stephanie and Simon ignored the question. Litchfield, in fact, grabbed his notes, adjusted the light from one of the lamps set up in the chamber, pulled off his black gloves, and sat against the wall. When no one was looking, he massaged his fingers, which were being irritated by the cold and damp of the caves.
"It's becoming pretty obvious," Simon intoned after settling his fingers on the notebook, "judging by all of us in this chamber, that these caves weren’t as secure as they'd hoped."
"I've been caving in these parts for years," Max said before shaking his head and placing the bottle to his lips. He savored the three gulps he allowed himself and swished the liquid in his mouth. "Took a different route this time. What...what is all this? Who are they? There isn't a military base anywhere near here. Unless..."
Stephanie smiled. "Nah. It's not Area 51, Hanger 18, the Manhattan Project, or anything like that. Have no fear." Max nodded at her. "Does the project even receive government funds?" Simon, who was reading over his notes, shook his head.
"No...no, I don't think so." He dropped the notes to the ground and vigorously rubbed his hands together like he was trying to warm them up. "Now, if they'd known about it, that'd be another story entirely." Rubbing his eyes, he looked towards the roof. “I doubt we’d have known anything if it wasn’t for that consulting contract with this state.” Simon looked down at the notes again. “At least this hasn’t called for any specialized knowledge; between the cram course at the institute and the notes, I still don’t know enough about…”
A beeping sound filled the chamber, and Simon scooped up a black handset, tapped three buttons, and held it to his ears. "Yes, base. Base? Base! Ouch....damn static!" He stood and walked towards one side of the chamber. "Base? What? I can't... Say it again! Damnit, speak louder!"
"He always in such a good mood?" Max asked before swallowing more water. He followed with his eyes as Simon muttered epithets and walked in lunatic circles, swoops, jumps, and dives around the rock room.
"I don't think you want that question answered," Stephanie replied. Opening a black case, she began to inventory the contents--various tiny screwdrivers, miniature wrenches, wire cutters, and assorted other implements.
"Planning on field stripping an engine?” Max asked as he watched her.
"TURN...UP...YOUR...GAIN!" Simon pleaded loudly and slowly into the mouthpiece.
"How much has Simon told you?" Stephanie said without looking up. She pulled down another black pouch, this time opening it to reveal a black laptop computer. "Because unless he's done something uncharacteristic, I don't think I need to be too specific right now." She smiled. "Look at it this way, if I told you what the tools were for, I'd have to jab these," she held up the wire cutters, "into the back of your spine." Max eyed her in mid swallow, unsure if she was joking or being serious. She wasn't terribly big, but occasionally her arms flexed enough to reveal a well-developed set of muscles. He believed that she probably could ram the cutters into his back.
"Can you hear me now?" Simon said. "Good! I’m telling them when we return that these little jewels emphatically do not work well in caves."
****
"I'm not too happy about this, either," Tom spoke into his handset. He raised the binoculars and observed the activities in the canyon. "One day, doctor, we're going to have a long chat about these outbursts."
"Now, now, none of your voodoo," Simon replied. "Before we lose the connection, what's going on?"
"Extra generators are being plugged to the grid," Tom said. "Something go wrong down there?"
"They just destroyed another charmless piece of bric-a-brac," Simon said. "What else?" Tom scanned more of the terrain.
"No one new has come or gone," Tom said. "Just the generators. It doesn't look like they know we're here either."
"Good for us," Simon said without much enthusiasm. "Right...I'll call back in another hour. Try not to go to sleep."
"Sun's up in six hours," Tom laughed. "You never know. I'm just happy I'm too big for the caves." The good doctor's reply was lost in a wash of static.
****
"Have a good night," Litchfield intoned with mock sympathy. He switched off the handset and then set his eyes on Max. The caver, who was in mid-chew, returned the gaze.
"What?" he mumbled through the half-masticated dried beef. Litchfield's face filled out in a wide, borderline malevolent grin.
"Don't know you at all, do I?" Litchfield asked. "Stephanie? Do you know this man's particulars and bona fides?" Stephanie looked at the caver and feigned a detailed examination.
"No," she finally said, "no better than I did before. He could, though, use a good electric trimmer. Those scissors he uses to trim his beard..." Max jumped up, his hard hat striking a rock on the wall.
"Just a damn minute," Max said, "I don't know you two either! Nyah!"
"Precisely!" Litchfield said brightly. "So you'd better come along with us. We can do a better job of keeping tabs on each other that way." Max blinked then grasped his temples.
"Okay," he said, "I'll take the bait. Where are we going?"
"A litte reconnaisance," the professor replied, "we still have some information to find before a final decision can be made. The sooner we answer some final questions, the sooner I can get out for a little fresh air." Stephanie began sealing up the packs she'd been inventorying.
"Since you're coming," she said, handing the packs to Max, "you can carry these for me." Litchfield and Stephanie started up another passage. Max stood, staring, for a second, before walking forward.
"You got a lotta nerve, lady," he muttered under his breath. "I think you could carry me!" He disappeared around the corner.
****
The three of them moved slowly along dark passages, and for the first time since seeing the glowing green rings, Max began to feel at home.
"You've been this way already, dude?" Max asked. "You got a good map? Heh! You have two copies of that good map?" Even in the flashlight lit darkness, Litchfield visibly bristled.
"I think," Litchfield clipped, "you'd better lower your voice. There's a pretty good amount of natural ventilation in these caves, and voices carry."
"'Til Tuesday," Max laughed. "I'm not the smartest jerk in the world, but I caught that one." Litchfield laughed lightly and shook his head.
"Well," the doctor said, "you may have some redeeming qualities after all. Have you heard 'Dublin Street' by Pink Floyd, by any chance?" The group stopped while Stephanie consulted her PDA. The passage they were in was clearly displayed. "We still on the right track?"
"Looks like," Stephanie replied. "About twenty-five feet more, and we should be at that break we found yesterday if they haven't covered it over with some machinery."
"Good a place as any," Litchfield said. "Did you see any likely places to plug in there?" Stephanie nodded, and a mischievous smile grew on her face.
"Several actually," she said. "If we have time, I'll take a crack at breaking through the encryption. If not, I'll just hijack a hard drive and do it back at the base."
"Ah, my little vandal," Litchfield laughed. "Watch her," he said to Max. "Kevin Mitnick was a saint until she came along."
"Kevin...?" Max started to say.
"He lies," Stephanie said as she folded the map. "I'm not that old." She turned to start back up the passage. "Besides, he wouldn't have been caught if he'd known me." Max shook his head as if to clear it of the debris caused by Simon and Stephanie’s verbal sparring.
"Are either of you gonna tell me what's going on around here?" Max said softly. "I have a right to know. I never asked for this barrel of monkeys.”
Simon whispered, "Max, just watch and listen. I guarantee that you will learn." They began approaching a patch of light ahead. "And you'll probably wish you hadn't." Simon motioned for everyone to be silent and fell to his knees as they approached the opening.
"...can't be serious," a female voice said. "We can't even analyze how the machine operated in that time!" The three of them crawled closer, a stray shaft of light floating across Stephanie’s face.
"That's what she said," Phelps said. "Quite clearly. Ms. Ried, I know it's madness, so don't waste your protests on me." In the cave, the three of them could hear a sigh. "You think I perspire like this all the time? She's pushed me to this point with these demands!"
"I'm quitting," Ried said sadly. "When these tests conclude, I'm getting a decent research job that isn't leading to a dead end." Phelps could be heard walking to her.
"I adore Dr. Kingsford," he said. "I've really believed in her for a long time. I'm going to see this thing through, but I don't honestly believe anymore that there is much further to go." The two of them began walking off.
"Same results?" Ried asked.
"Same," Phelps said, "traveled molecularly but not physically. Complete decay..." As their voices faded, Litchfield made a motion for Stephanie to proceed. She slid through the opening and then waited as her gear was passed to her from the passage. Next, Litchfield sent Max through. Finally, Litchfield himself followed. Stephanie immediately pulled out her laptop and plugged it into a jack on one of the computers by a rocky wall.
"Dark rock," Max said as he looked around. "Didn't use enough light to brighten it up any."
"I don't think they're concerned about aesthetics," Litchfield said. "At least they've heated this space. Of course, I'm very curious to know what possessed them to come here in the first place." He put a hand on Stephanie's shoulder. "How does it look?"
"Not good," she replied. "The encryption doesn't look too difficult, but I don't want to spend a long time out in the open trying to get through it." She unfurled the pack with the tools. "I'll pop out the hard drive, and I'll throw in this dud I brought along. As long as they don't look too hard, they might just miss that it's been stolen. This would have been so much easier if that external mirroring device had worked as planned.”
"If all goes well," Litchfield said, "even if they do notice, we'll be long gone. Max. Keep an eye around the corner up there. I'll watch the other direction. I don't mean to rush you, Stephanie, but..." Opening the unit, Stephanie quickly began moving into the guts of the machine.
"Won't take long at all, Doc," she said. Simon ventured down the corridor.
He scanned the hall and found no one present, a condition which gave him a little free time to look around. Besides the intermittent lighting and computer stations, there was very little in the corridor. A small desk lay ahead about ten feet, and he moved his way forward. Amid the flotsam of half-used pencils, partially rusting paper clips, and torn scraps of paper, Simon did see one item that caught his attention. It was black faux-leather cover, the kind available from any office supply store, and it housed a three-fourths used yellow legal pad. However, it wasn't the paper that interested him. Inscribed in gold lettering on the cover was the Roman numeral III. He looked to see if it was the name of the company that made the cover, quickly found that it had been made by Archipelago Office Supplies of Ypsilanti, Michigan, then lost interest. The inscription isn't even high quality, he thought, and he placed the notebook back onto the desk.
Simon looked back and saw that Stephanie was nearly done; he was about to walk back when he heard footsteps echoing from ahead. He bounded to Stephanie, then whistled lightly to catch the attention of Max and called him back. Stephanie looked quizzically at Simon, quickly caught his meaning, and began gathering her tools.
Max, who still didn't understand, was caught off guard when Simon pushed him to the floor and then motioned for him to crawl back through the opening. "Quicker," Simon whispered to Stephanie, "quicker." His eyes darted towards the increasingly loud footsteps. Stephanie, having stowed the last of her gear, dove to the floor and through the hole. Simon then pushed through, his feet barely clearing the entrance before two people walked around the corner.
"It's ironic, Mr. Walker," Dr. Kingsford said, "to be perfecting a time machine and yet have so little time. It is not an irony I relish." In the tunnel, where the three of them were keeping silent, Max's eyes popped. He looked at Stephanie, who gave him a look that seemed to say 'Hell of a day, ain't it?' Then he looked at Simon, who appeared to be in contemplation.
"The rings have been inspected," Walker said. "Everything looks good, at first blush, anyway. I'd like to be more thorough, but judging from your comments..." Kingsford laughed heartily.
"They'll work," Kingsford said, "if I have to hold them together with a soldering iron and the great fix-all."
"Fix-all?"
"Duct tape," said Kingsford, who was almost too far away to hear. "The answer to every problem..." The sound of footsteps receded. As soon as he was certain everything was clear, Litchfield motioned for them to head back to the camp.
When they were a safe distance from the opening, Max grabbed Litchfield's shoulder. "What did she mean, time machine?" Litchfield arched his eyebrows.
"Well," Litchfield said, "the combination of words is more or less clear. That woman, Dr. Laura Kingsford, is the inventor of a time machine. In theory at least. That's why we're here.” Max started when he realized he'd grabbed Simon hard enough to stop their movement. He shrugged his shoulders in apology.
"Is it really?"
Simon laughed. "That, my friend, is what we were sent to figure out. With any luck, the info on the hard drive combined with everything we've observed will give us the answers." Simon laughed sarcastically. "Truthfully, I don't think Dr, Kingsford has. She's tried very hard, and the price tag I think has been damn expensive. But, I seriously doubt anyone can call that vase killer a time machine."
"I don't know, Simon," Stephanie said. "It does seem to suck time out of that harmless porcelain. Perhaps they could call it a running out of time machine."
"Maybe," Simon said. "Well, in fairness to Dr. Kingsford, I'm withholding final judgment until I see this last bit of data. But, I doubt anything there'll change my mind." And with that, the three of them headed further into the caves.
Finally, they arrived at the base. Simon and Stephanie sat against the wall while she set about linking the hard drive to her laptop. Max walked in circles like a caged animal. His eyes darted about as his hands ran through his beard. He took off his hard hat and scratched the balding area on the top of his head.
“A time machine!” he yelled. “A fuckin… You can’t tell me they got permits to run a…” Filled with a rage he didn’t quite understand, Max choked back on his own words. "Why isn't the government all over this, then? Or at least the dudes from the state?" Max stared incredulously at Simon. "The jerks in the legislature can't approve road construction without a couple years of screaming. How the hell are they gonna let something like this go, huh?"
“Archeology, Max,” Litchfield said. “This is an archeological dig as far as the state is concerned.” Max was about to protest when Stephanie’s face lit up.
“I’m in,” she said cheerfully. “This wasn’t really that hard. All right, let’s see. Windows, more Windows, more OS files. My there’s a lot of junk on here.” Simon looked on impatiently.
“Anything of relevance?” he asked hopefully. Stephanie scanned the files before finally selecting one.
“Operating logs for the last year,” she said. “This is very sad. Very sad. This file says that component testing took much of the year to complete. Looks like there were a bunch of problems with that.” Her lips moved as she scanned farther ahead. “Heh! There’s a note here about them losing the space they’d originally planned to use for operations, per order of the board of directors. Actually, it looks like they've been evicted from a bunch of sites.”
“Hence their presence in these caves,” Simon intoned, and Stephanie nodded. "I bet there's other reasons, but at least we have one solid lead. Which company is paying for this?"
“Prometheus Corporation. Ooh, things are getting worse,” Stephanie continued. “They finally turned it on five weeks ago. Their first full run wasn’t until three weeks ago, and since then they’ve gone from no effect on the vases to where we are now. Complete destruction. There’s more if you’d like me to search.” Simon waved his hand.
“No need,” he said. “Actually, yes. Anything on there about why they are rushing?” Stephanie looked through additional files. Max, who was only halfway paying attention, looked through the bag of food and pulled out more jerky.
“I don’t see anything other than a note about the next run which is scheduled,” she checked her wristwatch, “for fifteen minutes from now, but the answer is obvious enough. I mean, they’d already lost their original facility.” Simon smiled.
“Her backers are getting ready to shut her down,” he said, “and the good Dr. Kingsford is growing desperate. No responsible, calm scientist would run an operation in this manner." Simon smiled and snapped his fingers. "That's the other reason! How is her board going to shut down something it can't even get to? She's using the caves as a fortress. Well, that about settles things, then.” Simon stood up and dusted off the front of his shirt though that action only ground dirt further into the fabric. Stephanie laughed lightly as she started packing.
“What are you doing?” Max said. He looked incredulously at the two of them.
“Getting ready to leave,” Litchfield said. “Come with me, Max,” he said as he grabbed the caver’s arm and led him towards the time machine. “One more observation should take care of this completely.”
As the two of them walked up the passage, Max tapped the doctor on the shoulder. “Have you actually seen everything?” he asked. “Are you sure they don’t have another machine somewhere? I mean, you haven’t even been over to the other side of the stupid complex to check, have you?”
Simon looked around the corner into another passage. "Mr. Cory," he said quietly, "we're heading back into a rather...sensitive...area again, so this is the last bit of talking for awhile, okay? In fact, Max, I HAVE seen the project, at least the part they've made public, in a manner of speaking." A wry smile crossed his face. "I paid a visit, or at least a state ag inspector who looks a lot like me did. For some reason, archeological digs are assigned to to the state's Department of Agriculture, as if priceless history was so much grain. I have friends who'd have a heart attack if they knew about this."
"Get on with it!" Max said impatiently. Simon bored his eyes into the caver before continuing.
"Yes," he said before clearing his throat, "Kingsford and company have permits to search this area for fossils--remains of mammoths, rare dinosaurs, that sort of thing. She's also promised to bring in substantial revenue to the county and state from a geological theme park her company will build here if the findings are significant enough. While the state, of course, doesn't give a rat’s ass about probing the mysteries of the ancient world, they're overjoyed at the prospect of additional revenues. When I went to visit the 'dig,' I was taken deep into the caves to view the critters their 'team' has found. Of course, they did an excellent job of disguising the power feeds heading in a different direction, but then I knew what I was looking for. Your average inspector wouldn't have had a clue."
"So," Max said, "what are you going to do about this?"
"Do?" Simon asked, a quizzical look on his face. "I'm not going to do anything. I'm going to take one more look at this project, hopefully with your aid avoid being killed by the debris that thing throws out when it fails, confirm that the device is never going to work, and then go home. My friend and I will show you out."
"Just like that? Someone thought this a big enough deal to send you here, and you're just gonna drop the ball?"
Simon chuckled, "Kingsford’s dropped the ball. These tests, according to my sources, have been going on in one form or another for nearly five years. Everything I’ve seen shows it took them this long to reach the point where they can destroy a vase at will. Their records indicate that every way they've gone has been a technological blind alley. I can't imagine her backers have infinite patience. Besides, a few more blasts of that thing and they're going to bring this whole cave down.” Simon pointed to the roof and then to the walls of the cave. “Do you see those cracks? They’re even bigger near the machine. Between its explosive failures and, possibly, uneven thermal contractions thanks to whatever effect on time it's having, this whole system's weakening.” Simon rubbed his face. “I'm not a complete fool! No, I just need confirmation that everything's kaput, and then I'll be on my way." He laughed. "Even better, no one had to die."
Max eyed him suspiciously. "What did you say?"
Simon shrugged. "I'll soon see the sky," he said, and a bright smiled washed across his face. Max was skeptical.
“You are one strange bird,” Max said, and the two of them headed up the final passage to the testing chamber.
****
The sun breached the cliffs to the east, and Tom admired the view, finding it to be poignantly beautiful in the clear cold air. Breathing deeply, he blinked, trying to stay awake after...after...
How many hours has it been, he thought. It can't have been as long as that. Tom rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands and shook himself, trying to clear his head. Heh, if Simon finds out I fell asleep on the job. He laughed and crossed his arms to close the sleeves from the cold air. Deciding that a cup of coffee was in order, he bent down to restart his portable stove. As he did, he pulled the quarter full pot of now stale coffee from its clamp and tossed the liquid into the scrub.
"Okay, Tom," he said to himself. "Be sure to mix this one so it won't try to walk off the plate this time." He laughed, remembering the bitter, thick, acrid stuff he'd made earlier. After pouring the water and starting to spoon Maxwell House instant in, however, an odd thought hit him, a thought that soon turned his mood to one of alarm. He stared at the rapidly heating water.
"I haven't had any coffee since yesterday evening," he spoke. I didn't want to be too jumpy. But I distinctly remember having some just a few... He looked towards the sunrise, then to the coffee, then to the handset by the rocks. He exhaled a long breath, which wisped away in a vapor fog, and then he dove for the radio.
Fumbling with the device, he had to try three times to punch in the correct code. "Simon," he said, "Simon, this is base! You've got to listen! Something's...."
****
"…thought the roof was going to fall in after that one," Max said as he and Simon walked back along the rocky corridor.
"Yeah," Simon laughed, "it was spectacularly bad, wasn't it! But, they looked to be setting up for another try. Never mind. We'll just collect my associate, pack our things, and get you out of here before the rocks give up."
Max stared at the older man. "You never did tell me who you were, Simon," he said. "You gonna fill in the blank now, or are you gonna leave me hanging?" Simon reached over and patted Max's dusty shoulder.
"Much as I hate mysteries," he said, "this is as much of me as you need ever know. However, I really hope you have a long, happy, successful life." He smiled. "Just stay away from caves in the future!!"
"No can do," Max said. "Some people want to go climb a mountain. I want to crawl in one. But, you bet, Skeevy or Clem or Krissy or someone's gonna go with me from now on." The caver giggled, but his expression quickly became somewhat serious. "The truth is, Simon, I really don't worry too much about dying. Hey, it's gotta happen sometimes, right? It's dying stupidly that I really fear. If I hadn't found you, I would have either been brained by the time machine, or I would have starved or froze in some corner. I wanna die honestly. What I do know, though, is that I don't wanna run into any more of you!" Simon laughed, but just as they were turning for the walk to Stephanie, Max looked confused. "Simon," he half-whispered, "what was that last one like? A big green blast and the vase being blown to fucking pieces?"
Simon shrugged. "Well, I wouldn't say it quite that way, but I'd agree with the overall effect." Simon was about to comment upon the aesthetic qualities of the color when a thought hit him. Stopping, he cast a quizzical look behind him, almost expecting to see his shadow following him to...
****
...pressed more keys on the laptop, trying to break the encryption. While Stephanie was in a desperate hurry, she still laughed slightly.
"And what's so funny," Simon chided. "I simply don't see the humor. Without the sequencing code we'll never be able to stop her starting..."
"Don't be so preachy," Stephanie said, tapping more keys, loading other patches from the hard drive. "I just think this encryption is pretty damn clever. It looks so simple, but when you start pulling it apart..."
"I'm glad you appreciate the craftsmanship," Simon said without much enthusiasm. "Sort of like admiring the blade before the scimitar slices your head off." He walked over to Max. "Seen anyone at all?" Max shook his head and then craned his neck for a better view of the far end of the hall.
"I can just make out some whitecoats down a ways, but no one coming here."
"Good, splendid, terrific," Simon murmured, and he walked back to Stephanie. He watched from behind as the screen indicated a partial breakthrough.
"You mind?" Stephanie asked in a slightly irritated tone of voice. "I'm not at my best with people looking over my shoulder." Simon held up his hands.
"I'm sorry. I apologize." He walked to the far wall and sat on a wooden stool. "We've got twenty minutes at most to find Phelps’ codes and stop this before..." His head swiveled quickly towards Stephanie, and he jumped from his chair. Jostling next to her as she gave an irritated cry, he focused his eyes on the time on the lower corner of the screen.
Max looked alarmed and hit the light switch. "Down, down! Someone's coming." Moving quickly, Stephanie folded the screen of the computer and took refuge under the desk. Simon still stood where he'd been until Stephanie and Max physically pulled him down.
"You trying to get us caught?" Stephanie asked. Simon, his face barely discernable in the near darkness, stared blankly.
"No," he whispered. "Far from it, actually. Do either of you remember coming to this room?"
"Sure," Max said, "I remember. We passed the guards and managed to make it here. Our little girl here guessed right."
"Hey," Stephanie protested, "the only one who calls me little girl is Gary Keel, okay?"
"Don't get all bent out of shape," Max said. "Why you ask, Si?"
Simon cringed, but the seriousness of what he was thinking brought him back into focus. "I remember coming here too," Simon said. "But, I don't remember, if that makes any sense." Simon looked hopefully at the two of them, wishing that someone would agree with him. Otherwise, he was going mad.
"No," Max shook his head. "Doesn't sound..." He caught his breath in mid-sentence. "Y'know, I know your boy out there buzzed in and told us about seeing something strange, but I don't..." Simon nodded expectantly, and Stephanie looked towards the two of them as she drew her own memory into question.
"Exactly," Simon whispered. "Exactly. Tom's call, which we all agree we've heard but which we've never actually heard, predicted..." The door handle suddenly started shaking, and the sound of jingling keys echoed in the rocky hallway...
****
...darkness of 4AM was nearly more than Tom could take. He shivered, and the images through the binoculars shook to the point of their being a constant, vibrating blur. Lowering the heavy glasses, he blew between the lips of his gloves, trying to warm his fingers. Finally, he realized that he had to give in. Reaching down, he turned on a portable hot plate. Into the pot, he poured bottled water, stray droplets missing the mark due to the shaking of his hands. Then, brown powder shaking everywhere, he spooned in heaps of the instant coffee he'd brought with him.
As the pot began to heat, he could see through the red glow that the coffee was going to be too strong. Oh well, better than freezing my ass off! As he looked up, a large meteorite glowing greenish yellow streaked through the sky. As it did, the air was filled with a distinct hissing sound.
"What the hell?" Tom blurted. Oh yeah, he thought. I read something about this. What was it? What was it? Something to do with... Tom looked down at the coffee and suddenly felt extremely confused. His hands shaking, he fished in the backpack for a mug, and it clinked against the zipper as he pulled it free. After pouring a cup, he lifted it to his lips, blew hard on the surface, and took in a large, nearly scalding swig. It burned terribly, but it felt wonderful once it was inside his stomach.
"Definitely too strong," he said, scrunching his face up. "Strong enough to walk off the plate." I knew it would be. I knew it before I even started brewing it. Putting down the cup and grabbing the binoculars, he looked towards the base of the mountain. All of the activity, what could be seen anyway, seemed normal.
Tom picked up the mug and sat back against a rock face. The coffee was too strong, but it would have to suffice. As he sipped the terribly acrid, nutty mix, he tried to place his anxiety. Deja vu is a perfectly normal experience, he thought. I'm not unique. We all go through it. So why am I so rattled, so rattled. He looked to the spot in the darkness where he knew his handset could be found. If I thought something was strange, I'd phone it in to Simon. Something is strange, but I can't put a finger...
****
...rings began to pulsate and glow with their familiar green color, and soon the vase also took on a similar hue. Simon and Max were just beyond the rings, hidden behind the rocky outcrop.
"Just as we discussed," the doctor noted quietly. Max nodded his assent. He looked below to make sure he wouldn't be brained by any rocks when he fell. Technicians could be seen scrambling about in a chamber just the other side of the rings.
"Ninety-eight!" someone yelled. "Standby! Injection in 10, 9, 8, 7..." The blast doors were closed.
"Smart guys," Simon said. "Smarter than us. Get ready!" The pulsations grew to a fever pitch, and a loud whine filled the air. The energy rings then jumped from the coils and closed in rapidly towards the vase. Simon nodded, and both fell to the cave floor mere seconds before a heavy mix of energy bounced back over their heads, followed by the most violent shaking either of them had felt. Suddenly, they were pelted by a hail of pebbles and dirt. Simon cast a weary eye roofward, risking a heavy eyeful of dust just to make sure that the cave wasn't collapsing around them.
Simon was the first to pull himself up, jumping to the top of the outcrop to view the results. As he did, he noticed that an inch of it had been sheared away. "I'll be glad to be out of here," he said to no one in particular. This time, the vase was nowhere to be seen, only a vaguely white cloud of rapidly dissipating vapor. Max climbed up beside him.
"Somewhere along the way," Simon murmured to Max, "Dr. Kingsford abandoned good scientific judgment. She's guessing! Pumping more energy in than the system can handle." Max shook his head.
"Look, can we just get outta here before something really bad happens?" Simon nodded.
"All right," he said. "I'm not really in the mood to be turned into a shish kabob." And the two of them scrambled down...
****
"...can't let you do this," Dr. Kingsford said as she hit the ERASE key on the console, clearing away all of the orders to scramble, shred, and otherwise tamper with the source codes to the time machine. "I remember you. Inspector Theo Kolchek of the Department of Agriculture." Simon smiled despite himself.
"If this wasn't so damned important, I'd be flattered. This project of yours has got to stop now." Kingsford shook her head in disgust and walked back behind the tall guard. "Have you any conception of what's going on around here? Have you taken a good look at what this device is doing?"
"I've done nothing but look at it," Kingsford hissed, "for nearly ten years of planning, and for the last five I've done nothing but watch bureaucrats like you try to sabotage my efforts. Oh yes, I know who you are." Kingsford laughed and waved her hands about the room. "You've been sent by the board of directors to pull the plug. You knew I'd never let you cut me now that we're this close. Well, my dears, I'll prove the machine’s worth. After today's tests, I'm certain the equations are nearly stable."
"I've seen what you're calling stable," Simon retorted. "A vapor cloud! You rendered that last vase into energy. No wonder the whole area is on the verge of collapse!"
"A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds," Kingsford said, making sure that the little was delivered squarely onto Litchfield.
"And golf is a good walk spoiled," Litchfield said with a flourish. "Fine, we know our literary allusions, but that doesn't change the danger of what you're doing. In case you haven't noticed, time's collapsing around us, and if you run that machine one more time, the damage could be irreparable."
"And what proof do you have to back this up?" Kingsford scoffed. "Do you have even a quark of evidence?" As Simon was preparing to talk, Stephanie suddenly spoke up.
"I'll give you proof," she said. "What's the last thing you remember doing? Except that isn't the right way to phrase it. You'll remember plenty, but what have you actually done?" Kingsford laughed.
"Everything seems perfectly fine to me," she said chirpily. "Mr. Sable, anything seem strange to you?"
"Nah," he said. "Everything seems fine to me." Max, however, picked up Stephanie's thread.
"Yeah," Max said to Stephanie. "I remember. I mean, I see." Simon scratched his cheek, and he absently began strolling towards Kingsford, but the guards re-cocked their guns and brought the good doctor from his reverie.
"Dr....Dr. Kingsford," he said. "I've no doubt you'll remember any number of things. My friends and I remember perfectly. It's the actually reality of those things that we doubt. What I don't understand is why you can't... Or maybe...maybe..." Simon scratched his chin, trying to quickly assimilate observation, experience, and his quick study of temporal mechanics. "Maybe you've been too close for too long. Maybe prolonged exposure to what that thing does..." Simon's eyes brightened, and he pointed a finger at Kingsford. "Check your log books," he said enthusiastically. "Check them. See if anything seems unusual. See..." Kingsford began laughing.
"I don't have to stand for this." She turned to the guard. "You and Mr. Sable take them somewhere secure. Once this is over, I'm personally calling the board and letting them know I'm not amused by this interloping. That, and the time machine is working despite their unfounded fears."
"Check your damn logs!" Litchfield yelled. "Events you know you've been through won't be there, because they haven't happened yet!" Litchfield ran towards the doctor, but Sable held him back and then pushed him into the wall. "You know, if you're looking to trim your budget," he said to Kingsford, "dismissing the armed goons would be an excellent place to start."
"If they happen to fall down and hurt themselves along the way," Kingsford said to Sable on her way out the door, "that’s fine with..."
****
...worked quickly, tying the fuses together. "I'm glad you've got confidence in my skills," Stephanie said. "I don't believe for one minute these are going to work." She furiously coiled a wire and attached the end to the small explosive charge. "They might just work too soon.” She lifted her right index finger and sucked on the tip, trying to stop the bleeding from a small cut caused by a stray wire. “I'd give anything for a few minutes to test them out. Or to requisition Mel for the real things."
"I'd give anything to have those normal explosives you didn't want me to use, but I can't have those either. We don't have..." Simon started to voice as he attached the kit to the top of the oxygen bottle. His expression became one of thorough confusion. "We don't have a few minutes," he said, quickly shaking off the feeling. "It's only because of your programming skill that we've delayed them long enough to do this much." Max carried another bottle over and ripped off the mask.
"It won't take them long," Stephanie said. "I'm just glad I planted those processes. I wanted something there in case I couldn't destroy the code before they came back from lunch. Otherwise, we wouldn't be having this conversation."
"When we're done," Max said as he laid it next to Litchfield, "how we gonna get 'em to the ring anyway? I know those dudes are gonna be on the lookout for us." Stephanie shook her head and smiled.
"I know what he's going to say," Stephanie muttered. "'I'm guessing something'll come to me.'" Stephanie laughed and turned her head towards Litchfield, her fingers still nimbly assembling the timers. "Isn't that what you were going to say, Doc?" Simon did not appear to be amused.
"Stephanie," he said dryly, "I'll thank you to not try and see the future with me." His expression fell, and once again, he seemed thoroughly confused. "The future? Damnit, it's happened again!"
"Man, it has," Stephanie said as she sat up. "Okay...concentrate...where are we? They locked us up, but we found...we found..."
"A weakness in the plasterboard," Max continued.
"And then a little visit to this storeroom," Simon continued. "This jumping's very disconcerting." Max felt his heart racing.
"You weren't kidding," he said to Simon. "We can't let this go, not if it can do this shit." Simon nodded as he made final adjustments to...
****
"...field!" Tom yelled. "Field! You've got to respond!" Tom's rapid breaths pulsed into the cold mountain air.
"Base?" Simon said. "Base? I can barely hear you!" The line was filled with static, and Tom had to hold the handset away from his ear.
"Simon," Tom said, "Simon, you don't understand. I've just seen something...experienced something I can't explain. I lost six hours in the blink of an eye. It's...it's like time suddenly jumped. I think Dr. Kingsford's machine..."
"Stop there," Litchfield intoned. "How do you know you didn't...just...fall... Wait...wait a minute. Have we..." The line went silent.
"Simon," Tom sputtered, "you felt it too, didn't you. That feeling that you've experienced things without actually having done them. Like a pot of coffee you didn't remember making." Simon sighed on the other end of the line.
"Think, Tom," he said, "this has been going on for some time now. I can't tell you how long we've been jumping, but..."
****
...Simon sat with his back against the solid rock, and he stared into an infinitesimal point on the plasterboard on the other side. Stephanie, who was looking through the glass of the locked door, caught him through the corner of her eye. As she turned, she smiled widely.
"I know that look means the great Dr. Simon is thinking of something brilliant to get us out of here," she said playfully. Simon smiled lightly but did not look at her. "Come on. I know you're blaming yourself; I can see it in the million mile vacancy of your eyes." Simon smiled again.
"I was actually thinking two things," he said in a voice just above a whisper. "First, in case you haven't noticed, it's happened again." Stephanie nodded that she understood though Max turned his head quickly and then rolled his eyes in disgust. "Second, I was contemplating...contemplating..."
"Contemplating..." Stephanie prompted while sitting down next to him.
"I'm not given to large amounts of self-doubt," he said. "And, at the risk of sounding immodest, it's never been a skill I've truly needed much. Sure, I've made mistakes, but..." He turned his gaze towards Stephanie. "There's a difference, Stephanie, a difference between confidence and arrogance, and I'm afraid I've gotten us in this mess through arrogance, my hubris, my confidence in my...tremendous...skills."
"Simon," Stephanie said, "no one's perfect. You're not a mind reader. If it had been my call, given what we knew, I'd have made the same choice." She looked at the glass again. "Besides, its my fault too, if you think about it. I'm the one who kept begging you not to use explosives. Now, I wish I'd just let you bring this whole cave down on us." Simon waved his hand dismissively.
"Somehow, knowing two of us would have made mistakes just doesn’t provide much comfort," he said. A few trickles of moisture fell from the ceiling and pooled in an indent in the rocky floor. "I should've trusted the intelligence given to us. A time machine's a time machine. We were sent to derail this project; I should have derailed it right into the ravine."
"Don't do this to yourself," Stephanie comforted.
"I know it isn't helpful," Simon replied, rising to his feet. "But Stephanie, it simply never occurred to me that the failure of the machine could be even worse than its success. It's that more than anything that's killing me." He turned to look at Max. "Would you mind, by the way, giving a good kick to the third wall panel from the door?" Max nodded cheerlessly.
"Yeah," he said as he sat on the floor, "that's the weak one isn't it?" Kicking with all his might, he managed to knock the panel into the storeroom. "Simon," he said as he straightened his jumpsuit, "these jumps...what happens if we, you know, show after the next test? Is that as bad as I figure it'll be?" Simon nodded and then lowered himself to crawl through the new opening.
"If that happens," he said halfway through the wall, "we've failed. If that machine runs again, whatever else happens won't matter. The damage'll be too significant." Simon disappeared into the darkness of the storeroom.
"I guess we'd better go through," Stephanie said to Max. "I've got to get to work on some improvised bombs."
"I don't remember what we were making them from," Simon muttered. "I suppose it'll come to us when we get to the store room." Max smiled.
"Nothing like..."
****
...Dr. Kingsford walked through the caves, muttering under her breath the entire way. Thinks he can stop me, she thought. Thinks he can throw years of work down the hole. I'll show him! I'll show them all! She laughed bitterly. I suppose I must sound like one of those cheap, B-movie mad scientists. Hah! 'Nuzink in ze verld cun shtop me now!' As she approached the control room, a strange impulse overcame her.
After checking to see that no one was around, Kingsford opened one of the log books the staff kept and looked at what had been recorded. All seemed normal until...until...
Kingsford inhaled sharply as the book fell to floor. Working to catch her breath, she bent down, and holding the book in her shaking hands, she scanned the records again.
In her memory, she clearly remembered several tests that had been recently run. However, in the logs, there were conspicuous gaps, gaps where she knew reports were supposed to be. She checked the front of the log and found that the person keeping these records, Mrs. Van der Wal, was actually one of the most meticulous on the staff.
Double-checking again to see if anyone was watching, Kingsford ripped out the page, folded it neatly, and placed it in her pocket. Then, she gently placed the logbook back on the table. As she headed into the control room, she placed her hand on the doorframe to steady herself.
"How close are we to being ready?" she asked as she walked in...
****
...the three of them stood behind rocky outcroppings. According to the plan, each would attempt to place a bomb on the rings just before the next test. The timing would be tricky, getting the bombs to explode before the rings discharged their energy while at the same time not allowing enough time for Kingsford's staff to come out and either diffuse the explosives or remove them before they could do any damage.
The plan was for Stephanie to go first, followed by Simon, followed by Max, and each was to target a separate part of the ring. However, as they stood in the shadows, an uncomfortable sound echoed in the caves, the sound of guns being cocked.
"Desperate," Dr. Kingsford said from the shadows, emerging into the light along with four others. She held in her hand a small caliber pistol. "Desperate, but anticipated. By all rights the three of you are still under lock and key, but there's no use in taking chances. Now, before I tell my colleagues here to open fire, I suggest you come out into the open."
Reluctantly, all three complied.
"Two seconds later," Stephanie said as both a taunt and a lament, "if you'd come to the control room two lousy seconds later, you would've never been able to restart that machine. At least not in the near future." Kingsford shrugged.
"Typical," she said. "The intellect fails, so you resort to brute force. Isn't that the way of the world?"
"If it is," Litchfield said, "then why are you developing this time machine to begin with?" One of the guards removed Litchfield's bomb. "Building a time machine is like giving the monkeys a key to the fruit storage room. No matter how much you tell them to leave the contents alone, you'll still wind up neck deep in banana peels."
"A sloppy analogy," Kingsford said. Litchfield laughed.
"It's no sloppier than your methods," he retorted. "What kind of scientist runs test after test without taking the time to properly interpret the results? For that matter, what kind of scientist ignores evidence that's right before her eyes? I'm sure you can tell as well as anyone else that this machine's a failure, and a spectacular one at that." Simon struggled to put an observation into words. "I've been thinking," he said in his most confident voice, trying not to betray his lack of credentials in the area of temporal mechanics, "not only are you tearing apart time, but there must be a," he fished in his mind for the right word," dimensional... element as well. I can't think of any other way we could pass from point A to point F without going through B to E." Simon looked for any sign of comprehension. "Come on, Dr. Kingsford! Is this really worth destroying not only our world but perhaps others as well?"
"You have no evidence, Mr. Kolchek, if that is your name," Kingsford said. Another guard removed Stephanie's bomb. Max, who was still reasonably in shadow, slowly dug his right hand into one of the cracks on the wall. "In fact, sir, what qualification do you have to judge a time machine?"
Simon smiled and shook his head. "I have enough common sense to know that what you're doing is wrong, and it's dangerous."
Kingsford seemed to ignore the remark. "Now, I think it best if we stay right where we are until the test has been safely run.” Max dug in with his left hand, and, slowly, he brought his right leg upwards.
"Five years of failure, and for what," Litchfield continued. "Thousands of destroyed vases?"
"That's where you're wrong," Kingsford replied. "You've obviously been given some information by the board, but you've missed something. This machine...this machine is the Mark III. It’s simply a more powerful version of a proven design." Litchfield's expression fell.
"What?" he said. "Mark III?" Max shifted his weight towards the top of the wall and then towards his right.
"Two years ago," Kingsford continued, "the Mark II routinely sent objects 1.2 seconds into the future. A small step, I'll grant you, but time travel none-the-less. I've been working on the Mark III for five years, incorporating the successful elements of the first two versions. It will do the job; it is only a matter of balancing the equations." Simon's face started to turn red, fury seeming to boil just below the surface.
"Then this is even more obscene!" Litchfield sputtered. "We aren't ready for this! No one can be trusted with this, something you'll prove beyond a shadow of a doubt if you start the machine again!"
"It will work this time," she said reassuringly if condescendingly. "For what it is worth, I give you my personal guarantee."
"Forgive me," Litchfield said, "if I don't have very much confidence in your word." Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed two things. One, the guards were listening intently to the sparring match between the two doctors. Two, Max was no longer in view. Litchfield raised his voice to draw even more attention to himself. "Furthermore...furthermore, Dr. Kingsford, you haven't answered my question. What's it all for? Why is this such..."
"An obsession?" Kingsford interjected. "Sorry, but I've heard it all before." She smiled, and oddly enough, a genuinely warm look came into her eyes. "It runs in my family. I've always worked a problem until I found the solution. My father did, too. Have you, Mr. Kolchek, ever heard of David Morgan Kingsford III?"
"I can't say that I have," Litchfield replied. Max continued to snake along the wall. A few feet more, and he'd be far enough away to drop down and run the remaining distance.
"That is precisely the problem!" Kingsford replied angrily. Max's brow glistened with sweat, and he wished he had a rosin bag for his hands. "My father was a brilliant historian and sociologist. And he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that democracy would fail. That monarchy would fail. That communism would fail. All forms of government are doomed. All except fascism, totalitarianism, absolutism. Someone once described Mussolini and his ilk as 'smash and grab' leaders. Well, that's what it will be like, smash and grab."
Max lost his grip, and he dangled while trying to stabilize himself.
"As he used to say, when the intellect fails, the only recourse is to brute force." Kingsford looked towards the ceiling as she tried to control her emotions. "David Kingsford was brilliant, but his views were unpopular. By his death, he'd been discredited, broken by his colleagues, a mere shadow cast from the one true flame." Kingsford pointed down the hall. "In addition to benefiting humanity, which, believe it or not, is actually one of my primary goals, the Mark III is my ticket towards proving Daddy's view of the future. And when society understands that what he predicted is true, perhaps, just perhaps, we can avoid that fate." She looked towards the floor, and the warm look returned. "I owe him so much, you see. So much." Her voice lowered to a near whisper. "The least I can do is give him his reputation back, even if I do it posthumously."
Simon was about to launch into another diatribe when Max finally fell full force to the floor, the metal of the oxygen bottle clanking on the rocks. Kingsford turned and saw him getting up and heading towards the rings.
"Stop him!" Kingsford yelled. "Shoot him if you have to..."
****
...sat at the control console and surveyed the various options before her. As Stephanie searched for the appropriate place to input the codes gleaned from the hacking of Dr. Phelps' computer, she was amazed by the age of the equipment.
"Imagine," she said as she finally settled by an absurdly small keyboard, "trying to control time with outmoded junk. Some of this stuff I haven't seen since I was a kid." Simon, who was looking down the corridor, half-turned his head towards her.
"What?" he said absently. "Oh...sign of the times. Obviously her equipment budget's been slashed as well." Max, who was looking through the blast doors at the rings, laughed.
"Hey," Max said, "I got friends who live a pretty good life off the crap other people throw away." He turned towards Simon. "Ever tried collecting mongo?" Simon smiled grimly. He wasn't going to answer, but he badly wanted to describe situations that would make even the hardiest dumpster diver cringe. Full of life, isn't he, Simon thought. I imagine surviving a caving expedition just makes it all the sweeter to him.
"Phelps' codes work," Stephanie chimed. "I'm in the directories.” She quickly typed in a set of commands and then switched to a different screen. “If I can find where the major files are stored, a little creative work should fix this thing's red wagon." The rocky corridor remained empty, but Simon knew it was only a matter of time before the operators returned to resume work. Time he thought suddenly. Have we...yes...yes we have. "I wish one of you was familiar with programming. So much of this stuff looks like divine gibberish!"
Simon started to remark on their current jump when he saw Max, who was laughing at some funny thought that had struck him. Litchfield cocked his head, trying to focus in on some thought that was haunting the recesses of his mind. Suddenly, he remembered.
"Stephanie," Max said, "ever heard the one about baseball player and his dead friend?" Stephanie giggled even as she tapped keys.
"The bad news," she said, "is that the baseball player is playing second base next week!" Max laughed heartily. Simon stared sadly, debating whether to speak up or not. Does he know, Simon thought. Even if he knew, is there anything else that could be done? Simon raised his hand as if to speak, but he slowly let it fall to his side, and he looked towards the floor. Okay...okay...think, you ass! What are you about to do? Where do you go wrong?
"Simon," Stephanie said as she interpreted the information on the strobing, green display screen in front of her, "there's a console behind me, think it has four red levers." Simon didn't respond. "Simon?" Litchfield jumped.
"Sorry," he said weakly. "I'm so...sorry. Drifted off there for a moment. Four red levers?" Stephanie nodded.
"If I read this right," she said, "I need you to set all four to INJECTOR IDLE." Simon headed towards the console, deliberately avoiding looking at the caver. Even if I can remember, should I try to change it? Will that only make things worse? Simon hated indecision in general, and loathed it in himself even more.
"Injector idle," Simon said under his breath, "injector...injector...last one set." Stephanie smiled widely.
“In a few seconds,” Stephanie said proudly, “half the programming in this thing’ll be gone.” Suddenly, Simon's skin was covered in gooseflesh.
Who's guarding my door? he thought.
"Touch anything else," a woman's voice boomed from that doorway, "and I'll personally put a slug in your head." As if to emphasize the point, four guns cocked. Stephanie slid back from the keyboard, and Litchfield, who shook his head in disgust, raised his hands.
"So many mistakes," he said quietly but angrily. "How could I make so many mistakes?" Litchfield and her henchmen came into the room. A guard began frisking Stephanie, a little too familiarly for her taste, and she elbowed him hard in the groin. The other guards, who were checking Simon and Max, laughed, and Dr. Kingsford shook her head.
"You'll have to forgive Mr. Sable," Kingsford said. "He's quite good with a gun, but I'm afraid he has the common sense of a sea slug." Kingsford moved further into the room. "Well, well, well. Looks like we have our explanation. Dr. Phelps was just checking his computer. It seems someone logged in without the proper password. You lot wouldn't also be responsible for two picked locks and a drop in air pressure too, would you?" Stephanie cast an angry glance at Max, who just shrugged his shoulders.
Simon watched every move Max made, every last gesture...
****
... the light in the cold morning air was nearly too bright to bear. Reaching into his pocket with a bare hand, Tom pulled out a pair of aviator sunglasses and put them over his eyes. Replacing the glove, he looked down at the tools he'd gathered. Small axe, he thought. Check. Wrench, check. Phillips and flathead screwdrivers, check. Tom looked at his watch. He was giving Simon ten more minutes to check back. Without the call, Tom would be faced with finding a way from his lofty perch down to the generators to take matters into his own hands. If he was able to make the journey, he was going to do as much damage as he could.
There was a beeping noise from the satellite system; Tom ran over and looked and discovered that it was finally shaking hands with the satellite again. Punching buttons, he waited for Card to come into view again.
"Dr. Weill," a grainy figure said. "What an unpleasant surprise..."
"I don't have time for you to be sarcastic," Tom uttered. "In fact, you may not have time either. Have you noticed anything strange over the last few hours?" Dr. Card stared and then rolled his eyes. "Damnit, it's important!"
"Temper, temper," Card said mockingly. "As a matter of fact, no. Nothing unusual has happened this morning." Card laughed. "Why? Do you have a recalcitrant time machine in the area?" Tom smiled bitterly.
"You don't know the half of it, Dr. Card," he said. "In fact, I'm about to try and sabotage one."
"Really," Card said with a hint of genuine interest. "A time machine? Has my old friend Dr. Eckert set up shop in your vicinity?" Tom shook his head.
"No," he said as he finished gathering his tools. "Doctor, I'm in a very big hurry. I've been hoping to reach you for the last several hours, but the signal only just cleared." Tom stopped and stared into the camera. "Dr. Card, is it possible to pass from point A to point D without having gone through the intervening points? With a time machine that is?" Tom grabbed an axe and placed it though a belt loop.
"Absolutely not," Card said. "Even with a time machine, you'd still have to physically pass through a space; the only difference is that time would be moving at a different rate for you in comparison to the rest of the world. Unless, of course, you managed to open a gateway to a different dimension. That, I think, would be a very unwise thing to do. But that really wasn't my area of..." The signal disrupted, and the bars indicating signal strength dropped to zero.
"Grand," Tom thought as he made a final check of his tools. As he did, he could have sworn that the shadow cast by a blade of grass shifted too far in the two seconds he looked at it. "No wonder the signal is gone."
The tools, he knew, were not the best options in the world. None were of the insulated variety. There was a good chance, especially if he had to use the axe, that he'd be electrocuted before accomplishing anything. That's okay, he thought. I'll break my leg, my neck, or both before I ever get down there. Picking up the tools, Tom took ten deep breaths and then headed for the only way he could find, an uncomfortably angled path with solid stone on one side and a deep drop off to the other.
Here goes nothing, he thought as...
****
...rocks exploded uncomfortably close to Max's head. He bobbed and weaved, trying to make himself as difficult a target to hit as possible. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he had in fact been hit in the arm; a terrible pain, like a combination of a cramp and the pins and needles of an asleep limb, was there. He'd heard that adrenalin, however, could mask awareness, and that soldiers who'd been shot several times went on fighting, dropping only after losing massive amounts of blood.
"Take him down," Kingsford screamed, and two shots whizzed by close enough for Max to feel the disturbed air.
Behind in the chamber, a lone guard remained.
"Shouldn't you join them, Sable?" Litchfield asked. Sable said nothing as he picked his nose. "It sounds like they aren't doing very well, you know. I'm sure she's giving double points for the one who gets him."
"Look, brainiac," Sable said, "shut your fucking pie hole! I ain't paid enough to put up with that...that..." Sable rubbed his nose again, and he started digging in ever further. "...that crap. You know what I'm saying?" His features began to scrunch up. Simon and Stephanie looked at each other, an unspoken but definite communication passing between them. Simon, as if in frustration, kicked at the dirt in the cave, stirring up a quick burst of airborne particles.
"Curses," Litchfield said flatly, "foiled again." Sable was furiously scratching and digging at his nose now. Finally, there was no doubt, a sneeze was definitely coming. Just as the guard was starting to disappear into the moment, Simon lunged for Sable's legs, knocking him over even as the sneeze echoed in the caves and mingled with the sound of gunfire. Stephanie landed violently on Sable's gun hand, and the sound of cracking bones joined the others. As if every move had been choreographed, Simon flew up from the floor and grabbed the gun.
"You damn bitch!" Sable screamed as he used his weight to throw Stephanie onto the ground. Before he could do anything else, the butt of the gun smashed onto the side of his head, and Sable collapsed into a heap on the ground.
"Come on!" Simon said as, with a pronounced limp, he headed for the time machine. "Maybe there's time...maybe we can..."
"Can what?" Stephanie panted as she caught up to him. But Simon, who increased his speed, was already lost in the heat of battle.
Max rounded a curve and saw the unmistakable green light and heard the hum of the time machine. He heard a call of fifteen seconds echo ahead, and he fumbled with the fuse on the oxygen bottle. As the rings came into view, he still hadn't found the switch. The blast doors closed, and the energy was already spinning furiously in the chamber.
The pain that hit his back at that moment was the worst he'd ever felt, and it resonated through his entire body. He felt as if he would vomit, but he managed to choke it down. Ten seconds was called, and his run was slowing to a lopsided gallop.
"Stop!" Kingsford yelled. "I promise we'll treat your wounds!" Max was nearly there...just a few more feet. The vision in his left eye was suddenly obscured by blood pouring down his face. He tried to find the switch, but his right hand wasn't cooperating. He knew now he couldn't detonate the bomb, at least not with the fuse.
The hair stood up on his arm. He was close enough now to the rings to feel the tremendous energy pouring through them. Maybe it's enough, he thought even as the vision in his right eye started to fade. He struggled to do what he knew he had to do.
"One," Max said, "two..." With a tremendous effort, and even as two more bullets hit him, he flung himself into the rings.
One of the three guards with Kingsford collapsed to the floor as his head was hit with a large rock. As another turned to look, his gun was shot out of his hand, and he winced in pain as he held his wrist. The remaining guard turned to face Litchfield and Stephanie and dropped his weapon.
"I never thought I'd actually fire this thing," the third guard said, clearly disturbed by what he'd seen. "I thought it'd be fun in security...never thought..." Simon pointed the gun at Kingsford.
"Drop your weapon!" he yelled over the horrible chugging noise that filled the cave. Kingsford, who held her gun weakly in her hand, merely pointed towards the rings.
"The fool," she said, though no one could hear her. "The damn fool!" Energy poured off the rings and into the bloody heap that was Max. Still, he managed to raise his left hand and make a rudimentary "thumbs up" sign before the arm started spasming.
"Simon!" he croaked. "Not afraid! Didn't want to die...something stupid." Litchfield, whose expression fell into one of both admiration and horror, could hear the caver's words over the whine of the machine. He tried to speak, but he was thrown back by a sudden blast of energy. The power surging through Max triggered the fuse, and the exploding oxygen bottle finished the job that Max's body had already begun. Simon looked up in time to see the green energy closing in on the vase, but this time it was wobbly and asymmetrical.
"Dr. Kingsford!" Stephanie yelled. "Help us! We've got to get these guys out of here!" Kingsford turned, her face awash in devastation and horror.
"The field's unstable," she yelled with a voice that crackled with grief. "It'll implode...it'll destroy..." She fell to her knees. The chaotic energy was nearly upon the vase. Stephanie helped the man she'd hit to his feet, the other two guards taking over just after that.
After one last look at where Max had been, Simon turned and ran with the others.
As the energy fell unevenly upon the vase, the object distorted and appeared to be in four places at once before it, along with most of the surrounding machinery, collapsed to a small green point. A wall of energy then flew out as that part of the cave lost its structural integrity. Up the passage, the runners reached Sable, who was struggling to his feet. Once they had him, the guards headed down one passage while Stephanie and Simon ran for their exit.
****
Simon and Stephanie stumbled their way into increasingly darkened passages, the artificial lights giving way to the natural state of the caves. Fortunately, Stephanie still had a small flashlight, and though it was not very powerful, it provided enough light to allow them to avoid the worst obstacles. The mountain shook violently from moment to moment, shaking loose rock and debris down upon them.
Stephanie was the first to notice. “Do you feel yourself slowing down…not just physically, but…but…” Simon nodded slowly and suddenly felt as if he were on the end of a piece of bungee cord reaching its limit.
“Time,” Simon murmured with great difficulty. “We’re being…pulled…” The bungee cord snapped back, and events rewound around them almost as if the two were part of an old-fashioned videotape. Bullets returned to their guns. Explosions reverted to their previously stable states. Vases returned from the dead, and as the events flew past, Simon felt himself falling into despair. It’s going to happen again! Not again!
The rewinding slowed until Simon found himself once again walking with Max to view the time machine’s test for one last time, one final view of its pathetic state before leaving Kingsford to fail on her own.
"Mr. Cory," Simon chuckled, again, "Kingsford has dropped the ball. These tests, according to my sources, have been going in one form or another for nearly five years.” Simon was painfully aware that everything was a replay, but he was unable to do anything to change his actions. Mercifully, Max didn’t seem to recognize the situation.
They witnessed the test, returned to the base, and received Tom’s fateful call. Afterwards, Simon determined that things were worse than he ever imagined, that the machine had to be stopped. Simon of the present and Simon of the past went with his colleagues to retrieve the information needed to shut down the machine.
"And what's so funny," Simon chided. "I simply don't see the humor. Without the sequencing code we'll never be able to stop her starting the time machine again!"
"Don't be so preachy," Stephanie said, tapping more keys, loading other patches from the hard drive. "I just think this encryption is pretty damn clever.” They narrowly avoided detection, went to the control room, started to sabotage the computer. Max! Simon tried to yell. There’s another way! When I reset the levers, replace me on guard duty! We can buy more time! Fuck you, Simon! Don't just stand there trying to make up your mind. Say something you asshole! But Simon couldn’t speak, couldn’t say anything that hadn’t already been recorded in the etchings of time, the correct etchings. In all of the new conversations, all references to the time jumps seemed to have been omitted.
They were captured, their equipment taken away. By good fortune, however, the hastily erected partitions were not as strong as needed, and the three of them were able to reach the storage room where they hatched their explosive plan. Simon tried to close his eyes, but he couldn’t.
We should have taken a more circuitous route, he said over and over again in his mind as they were caught again by Dr. Kingsford, as he stalled for time, as Max made the same choice again and ran for the time machine.
He saw Max in the final moments of his sacrifice, his final thumbs up before the time machine did its work. All without being able to alter even the movement of one speck of rock.
****
The stretch of cave was empty and quiet, and a raccoon was nestled comfortably in a hollow of rock, sleeping off the day. Suddenly, its eyes flew open, and its nose twitched in alarm. It sniffed the air, and then it fled just as a spinning tempest invaded the area. Two meteors trailing colorful streams of energy shot from within the caves and stopped at the point of the maelstrom. Dr. Simon Litchfield and Stephanie Keel reformed, and the streams of energy flew into them like a snapped rubber band. Both fell to the floor.
Groggy and having difficulty focusing, Stephanie felt around for Simon, finally grasping his sleeve. “Simon,” she whispered with difficulty. “Doc…we’ve got to get a move on.” Behind them in the distance, the sound of collapsing rock could be heard. “Come on, Simon. It’s through…time’s normal.” A tremor shook their location, and bits of rock fell. Stephanie shook the doctor and hit him lightly about the face. Finally, Simon slowly pushed himself up.
“All right,” he said groggily. “We’ll help each other out of this.” Stephanie stood up first and then leaned against the wall for support as Simon pulled himself to his feet. Using each other as support, they walked on, the sounds of cave-ins growing ever closer.
****
The sun shone down in brilliant yellow hues upon the plateau. From a grass-covered hole just beneath a rock face, Stephanie emerged. Turning around, she extended a hand to Simon. As the two of them emerged, they each collapsed in an exhausted heap on the ground. Seconds later, a geyser of dirt, smoke, and debris shot into the air from the hole.
“At least everything is buried,” Simon whispered. “Dead…and buried.” Stephanie crawled over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“We did what we could,” she rasped, swallowing hard afterwards. “If you had gotten there instead of him, you would have…” Her voice trailed off as she fell asleep, and Simon after a few plaintive whispers of I should have known fell asleep as well.
A few minutes later, Tom pulled himself up from the trail. He looked down upon the chaos in the valley, the workers running from the collapsing caves. He was about to call Stephanie on the handset when he saw the two of them lying on the ground. For a second, Tom wondered if they were dead. However, it was soon obvious that they were asleep. Not wanting to wake them until he had to, he unpacked and unzipped his large sleeping bag, unfolding it until it was as wide as a king-size blanket. Placing it over them, he headed for the Hummer so that he could drive it in as close as possible.
In the morning sun, a hawk flew from its mountainside nest, its home disturbed by the underground motion. Simon rolled over. “I should have known,” he mumbled in his sleep. “I should have known…I should have known…I should have known…”
by Kate Thornton
Nightwatch created by Jeff Williams
It was pleasant in Georgetown in the early fall. The leaves were just beginning to turn from green to light yellow, and the evenings had turned cool, with just a hint of the nip that would herald the reds and oranges of real autumn.
Tom Weldon looked like a priest hurrying through the cobbled streets of the old part of town, past antique stores and little restaurants. His black suit and black tee shirt gave him the look of a well-fed vicar until you saw the Wild Turkey belt buckle, not a part of any known ecclesiastical outfit, not even Episcopal, not even in Georgetown. Tom was solidly built, with a weightlifter's stocky grace, and was a psychologist, not a priest, although the parallels between the two professions occurred to him every time he passed Christ Church.
He looked at his watch and turned to hail a cab. He would be late for his dinner with Simon if he didn't get a move on. The Cannon Moon Cafe was too far on foot and he had spent more time than he wished at the University Library. His practice in Arlington, Arlington Counseling Group, was now moderately successful and this success allowed him the time and finance to pursue more arcane endeavors. This one involved investigating the origins of auditory delusions and had been suggested to him by a patient who insisted on making sense of the background noise in elevators.
His other arcane endeavors all involved Dr. Simon Litchfield.
Simon Litchfield was nowhere to be seen in the Cannon Moon. Tom was disappointed until he remembered the little private room in the back. He headed back toward the storage area and knocked hesitantly on an old wooden door.
"Come in, Tom," Simon's voice was almost a whisper. "Close and latch the door behind you."
Simon was seated at the single table, and the candlelight threw strange shadows on the rough-hewn walls. The back room of the Cannon Moon was reserved for storage, spiders, gunpowder plots and Simon whenever he asked for it. His khaki pants were still pressed and his tan safari jacket was open to reveal a glimpse of an old silk shirt, frayed a bit at the cuffs, but soft with time and care. The glint of gold on his wrist was an expensive watch, but he didn't check it. He seldom kept track of the exact time anymore.
Another knock sounded. Simon unlatched the door for Gillian Eckelberry, the Cannon Moon's proprietress.
Gillian was a woman of a certain age, meaning that time could not dim the sparkle in her eyes, even if she needed a little help to keep the highlights in her hair.
"Here's your favorite wine," she said, holding out a bottle of Andreas Montepulciano d'Abruzzo. She deftly opened the bottle and poured half a glassful into the tall balloon on the table. Simon took his eyes off her long enough to savor the color, sniff at it and swirl it around a few times. Not the best idea with the Cannon's superb lobster bisque, but ideal with a steak. It would be perfect in about twenty minutes, changing subtly throughout the meal.
Gillian, however, was perfect now – always had been, always would be. Simon could smell her scent, an intoxicating mix of Norell cologne and lobster bisque. She left the bottle and disappeared toward the kitchen.
Tom latched the door again. Simon looked at his friend, Tom Weldon. He had counted on Tom's help in the past, but this was different. Simon's work at the Nightwatch Institute for Strategic and Economic Studies had taken him to some very unusual places, and in spite of his rather mundane-seeming profession of civil engineer, it hadn't been all dams, irrigation and power stations. Well, officially maybe it had, but on a politically grand scale.
The Institute was privately funded, and provided the kinds of services the government could not. In addition to extensive global analyses and situation assessments, the Institute also provided hands-on recovery for war-torn areas, agricultural technology, and other engineering projects. But there was another side to the Institute – a less public side. The covert side of the Institute – the Lower Echelon - had sent Simon on more dirty, dangerous and fascinating assignments than he cared to remember. Okay, some of them were best forgotten anyway, but all of them were important and used his unique skills. It wasn't exaggerating to say he had saved the world once or twice, and not just by surveying dirt and building pipelines.
"Simon," Tom Weldon smiled. They had been through a lot together. "What's with the secret room?"
"Tom," Simon smiled back but didn't answer. "Have a seat and a glass of wine and tell me everything you know about Shakespeare."
"English poet, 1600's, plays and sonnets."
Simon laughed. "Okay, now tell me what you know about Pico da Neblina."
"Brazilian mountain, Argentine and Colombian border, tallest in Brazil."
"Very good." Simon happened to know that Tom had once been on Jeopardy and had paid off a student loan with his winnings. "Anything else?"
"About Brazil?
Yeah, a few things. I know
Nightwatch has some interests there.
The rainforest is a hot topic all over, especially with the big
pharmaceutical companies. Pico da Neblina National Park is in the northwestern
corner of Amazonas, along the banks of the Negro River. It's a mature,
undisturbed evergreen forest in one of the wettest parts of Amazonia. NASA and LBA-Eco both have extensive field
research projects in the area. NASA you
know, LBA is the Large Scale
Biosphere-Atmosphere Experiment in Amazonia, an international research
initiative led by Brazil to understand the climatological, ecological,
biogeochemical, and hydrological functioning of Amazonia, the impact of land
use change on these functions, and the interactions between Amazonia and
the Earth system, to use their own words. You know, how destroying the
rainforest causes irreversible damage to the planet."
"Sounds like
you know more about the rainforest than you do about Shakespeare," Simon
said dryly, impressed with Tom's understanding of the Amazonas region. Tom was right about Nightwatch's interests
in the area, too. Nightwatch had legitimate
research projects in the area, some under contract to NASA.
"Hey, I know a lot
about Shakespeare, too," Tom protested. "But something tells me
Brazil is more on your mind this evening. So what's the big deal at Pico da
Neblina? Got some wells to dig or
pipeline to lay out there?"
"Not
exactly," Simon replied as he sipped the Montepulciano d'Abruzzo
appreciatively. "Nightwatch was
assisting at a village in the Pico da Neblina National Park. Not really a village, more of an assembly of
huts and sheds around a partially completed research tower. The LBA turned most
of the data collection operation there over to Nightwatch some time ago. The two fellows responsible for the major
studies in that area were quite busy, so the Institute sent out a couple of
data analysts and kept the local help.
Some of the Brazilian researchers from other field sites and the
occasional NASA field worker dropped by up from time to time, but mostly it was
just data collection and recording."
"So what
happened?" Tom asked.
"The research
station, village, whatever, disappeared three days ago."
"What do you
mean, disappeared?"
"I mean it
can't be found. One of our data
analysts, a woman, was at the site manager's station about a mile away when it
happened. She said one minute it was there, visible from the window, and the
next minute it was gone. She called the
site manager, a guy named Luis Camacho.
He was out at a different collection site at the time and drove straight
back.
"He picked her
up in his vehicle and they drove to where they thought the tower should
be. Only no matter which road they
took, they couldn't seem to get close to where it had been. They drove around for about an hour, and
finally returned to his station.
Camacho called Nightwatch for a satellite reading and the fun started
when Nightwatch couldn't find it either. But it was nothing compared to the
fireworks when NASA called --- even with their resources, they couldn't find
it."
"What about the
people – I assume there were people there? What happened to them?"
"We don't
know," Simon admitted. "There
were two Nightwatch analysts, a Brazilian researcher and at least four or five
indigenous people. They disappeared
along with the structures."
"Well stuff
doesn't just disappear, Dr. Litchfield – it must go somewhere. I guess we're
going to find out where?" Tom
leaned forward and grinned.
Simon smiled
back. "I was hoping you might join
me. I hope Stephanie can come along,
too. We're going to need her expertise. And speaking of expertise, I want you there
to interview the young lady who saw it all. Find out what makes her tick, and
more important exactly what she saw."
For once, Dr. Simon
Litchfield was going to take the initiative ask his boss for permission to
mount a covert study. The prospect both amused and dismayed him. Callow was an annoying twit, but Simon needed
the Nightwatch's Lower Echelon's sanction for an operation like this. And no one could know just why he was so
interested yet – not even Tom.
Callow had that particularly irritating look on his face when Simon and Tom took their seats at the library's big table. The Popular Culture section of the Institute's library was Callow's usual meeting place. While little could destroy Tom's good humor, Simon felt his stomach grab at the sight of his boss.
"How do you do, Mr. Weldon," Callow said, as he failed to extend his hand. "I have heard quite a bit about you." He wrinkled his nose as if he had heard only unsavory bits of gossip about Tom. He knew very well how useful Tom had been on the last Institute assignment Simon had taken.
"And you, Litchfield – I still don't see why you think this Brazil business has anything to do with you or Weldon, here."
"Oh, come now," Simon retorted. "You know you need someone to go look at this thing. Sooner or later you're going to call for me so you can have the pleasure of sending me to one more Godforsaken piece of undeveloped dirt somewhere."
Simon looked cooler than he felt. His khaki jacket sported a crisp military press and the creases in the matching pants were sharp enough to cut. His hat occupied the chair to his left while Tom occupied the chair to his right. Callow stood, or rather paced back and forth like a frustrated cat, keeping his position of power.
"All right, Dr. Litchfield," Callow leaned with both hands on the table, his face too close to Simon's for comfort. "You'll get your wish." Callow allowed himself a smirk, "but you'll have to take the assignment on the Echelon's terms, not yours."
Simon held still, waiting for the bad news. The Echelon's – or rather, Callow's – terms wouldn't be easy.
"You can't take your friend to the middle of the damned rain forest, Litchfield. But you can go. And I want answers within a week." Callow straightened and turned his back to Simon, but the drama of the moment was ruined by Callow's cell phone.
"Callow. Yes, sir," Callow said into it. "Yes, yes I understand. No, sir, not at all. Yes, yes, that can be arranged." He was scowling when he hung up. "Here," he said abruptly, pushing a small envelope toward Simon. "Take anyone you need. Leave tonight."
Simon accepted the envelope and Callow strode to the doorway. He turned back for a moment. "I still want answers within a week, Dr. Litchfield. A week."
Tom sighed. "If I never work for anyone like that for the rest of my life, I'll be delighted." He smiled and his blue eyes lit up. "At least he doesn't like me, there's a plus."
Simon laughed. "He was a bit touchy today, more so than usual. There must be something about this Brazil thing that bothers him personally."
"Well, it sounds like someone higher up the food chain just gave you the assignment for real."
"Yes, a good thing in the short term, but it may be a long term regret." Tom said nothing, and Simon's expression told him little. All of their assignments had been regrettable in one way or another.
Stephanie Keel wasn't looking for trouble, not that she would duck it if it came sailing toward her. She was looking for an embedded code in the Institute's public website. Hackers had become such a problem lately that she had recommended closing it down, but the brass on high was right – without its legitimate public face, the Institute could never operate below the radar in covert actions. So the public website had to be maintained and she was next on the rotating roster. Overqualified, yes – but all the Institute computer whizzes shared the small duties, too.
She pulled her athletic frame out of the ergo chair and stretched. Her usual outfit of khaki cargo pants and vest was brightened with an electric blue cashmere sweater underneath and a blue and white bandanna holding back her black hair. It almost qualified as formal wear for her. The pants pockets were stuffed with miscellaneous gear: tape, wire, pliers, CDs, paper, electronic gadgets and other bits and pieces of collected stuff. She was too young to have been a MacGyver fan, but she was an unconscious daughter of the character, ready in a pinch to construct anything of out virtually nothing but pocket fluff.
As an integral member of Simon Litchfield's informal team, Stephanie had seen action in nearly every part of the world, setting up communications, breaking into electronic locks, downloading the secrets of madmen – all in a day's work.
She worked hard and played a mean game of racquetball, but her social life was non-existent. If you asked her why that was, she was likely to give a flippant answer about the men she knew being either married or intellectually challenged.
It wasn't true about the twice-married but currently divorced Dr. Litchfield, but that didn't matter because it was just a convenient excuse. The truth was much more complicated.
Her cell phone rang. "Hello?"
"Stephanie, pack for the Amazon, we're leaving tonight." Simon Litchfield's voice had its usual slightly arrogant tone, but it was also harried. "Nightbird," he said before she could ask. "I'll brief you in the air."
She closed her phone. The Amazon – okay – cargo pants, khaki vest and a supply of tee shirts should do it. And a poncho. Nightbird was the Institute's jet reserved for urgent use. She wondered where it would land – the Amazon wasn't known for its high-tech airports. She hurried off to pack.
Stephanie kept a small but brightly-lit apartment just blocks from the Nightwatch Institute.
The living room looked more like the console room of a security company, with eight monitors in a rack, several processors and drives and a plethora of high tech gadgetry. A neat workbench sported several expensive pieces of test equipment, a micro-soldering station, pegboard storage for dozens of small tools and a power strip labeled in different voltages. A curved desk with three keyboards, several telephone jacks and a television set completed the equipment. The only adornment on the walls was a pair of racquets hung next to the door, ready for the next game.
Across the small room were a battered loveseat, coffee table and floor to ceiling bookcases filled with books. A handsome telescope on a polished wooden tripod was aimed out the small window toward the night skyline.
The kitchen was just a cooktop, microwave and minifridge occupying the wall in the living room right next to the front door. An alcove led to the bedroom, small, tidy and completely antiseptic, with less style and personalization than a mid-range hotel room. The old dresser was bare on top, with drawers of plain lingerie, thermal socks, and a couple of racquetball outfits. The closet held a collection of cargo pants, tee shirts, sweaters and boots. A lone and aging black cocktail dress hung like an outcast at one end, dusty matching pumps camouflaged by darkness in the corner.
The bathroom was just as utilitarian – no perfume, makeup or bath oil - just plain soap, shampoo and a comb. It could have been a shared latrine in an Army BOQ.
Anyone breaking in to Stephanie Keel's apartment would have guessed it was the lair of a post-adolescent geekboy with spare change.
Anyone breaking in while she was there would have been seriously injured, thoroughly interrogated and filled with extreme regret.
Stephanie was better at technology - computers and gadgets, as Simon said - than anyone else at Nightwatch. Her natural intelligence, inquisitive mind and excellent training kept her in demand for all sorts of projects. She could take her pick, and it was no secret that she loved the high-stakes, dangerous jobs with Dr. Litchfield.
If anyone bothered to investigate her private life, they might have discovered that Stephanie Keel didn't have a private life, and hadn't had one for almost five years. But they probably wouldn't have discovered why.
****
The drone of the Nightbird was reduced to a pleasant hum in the passenger cabin. Simon, Tom and Stephanie sat at one of the cherry veneered work tables, belted into the plush swivel seats but otherwise as comfortable as in any office. Stephanie had her high power laptop out and was pulling up information on LBA-Eco.
"So what's so important about this disappearing village that you begged Callow for a chance at it?" she asked as her fingers flew over the keyboard.
"I never beg," Simon replied with a sniff. "I merely requested."
"I was there," Tom reminded him. "You begged."
Stephanie grinned. "So, come on – what is it?"
"I have to start at the beginning," Simon said uneasily, "and there are a few, uh, details, I may skip. But please hear me out." He looked down at the envelope in his hands. There was the slightest tremble.
Stephanie stopped typing. This wasn't the confident and sometimes even arrogant Dr. Litchfield she knew. Tom looked at his friend with keen interest.
"A long time ago, in 1605, to be more precise, a Spanish writer who had lost the use of his left hand fighting in a war wrote a magnificent account of the futility of war. This account had many stories woven through it, including one about a man who overthrows a king in order to woo the king's lady. The lady chooses death over the tyrant, and he ends up wooing her corpse.
"Later, so legend has it, another man wrote a play based on this rather gruesome tale. Or maybe he didn't – there's some dispute. Maybe someone else wrote the play, if the play was written at all. Or maybe it was a different story altogether, the story of a man who tries to prove his wife's lack of fidelity by having his best friend try to seduce her."
"Like Cosi Fan Tutti?" Tom inquired, then reddened. He wasn't prone to blurting out his knowledge of opera. Must be the altitude, he thought.
Simon nodded, still looking down at the envelope. "Yes, similar stories abound in art everywhere, including opera – mistaken identity, tragic circumstances, death to all in the end."
"What's this have to do with a missing village in Brazil?" Stephanie asked.
"The play was lost, with several other works by the same gentleman, but enough of his work survived to make him immortal in the literary sense. So scholars have searched for centuries for the lost works. Some of them were probably destroyed by the author as inferior," Simon continued, "some were probably used to wrap fish or light fires. But at least one was probably hidden because of the information it contained."
Simon opened the envelope and pulled out a few pages from it. The handwriting was small, birdlike scratchings written with a real fountain pen. The paper was yellowed and cracked, the edges crumpled and torn. "The lady in Cervantes' tale was called Celinde Gryphius – and in this envelope is a letter faxed to Nightwatch from Celinde Gryphius."
Stephanie sat very still, the color draining out of her face.
Tom leaned in closer. "No kidding? Well, it looks old, but not that old."
"Too right," Simon agreed. "This Celinde Gryphius is the Nightwatch data analyst who survived the village disappearance. When I saw her name on the report, I knew I had to investigate this one. You see, Gryphius is not a common name. In fact, I have only known one other Gryphius, and it was he who caused me to research the name in the first place.
"Stephanie, my dear," Simon said gently. "I know it is your story to tell or not as you see fit. If you don't wish to discuss it, I can give Tom a general outline and we can still pursue our mission. If you wish to back out, it is a little late, and I credit you with more courage and determination than that, but Nightbird can take you back on the return trip if need be. I am determined to see this thing through for my own reasons."
Stephanie shook her head and Tom was shocked to see the glint of tears in her eyes.
"No. It's time I got over it anyway, don't you think?" she asked. "I mean, I know I'm not the only girl in the world to get taken by a smooth talker." She blinked and put on a rueful smile. "Besides, it's just us." She hesitated.
"Look, Steph, …" Tom began but Stephanie cut him off with a scowl.
"No – I said I'd talk. Look, I've spent five years getting over it, okay?" She took a deep breath. "Five years ago a man named William Gryphius wormed his way into my life and promised me the moon. Well, I was young and stupid and believed him. One thing led to another and …"
Tom braced himself for the sad but common tale.
"…he ended up keeping me a prisoner in an underground vault for nearly four months. I had my first contact with the Nightwatch Institute when a team was sent in to destroy his vault and I got rescued along the way. Simon was on the team, it was our first meeting, although I don't remember too much of it. I spent the next two months in a hospital and several months after that in therapy. When I recovered, Nightwatch offered me a job and here I am."
Simon looked away. He knew the parts Stephanie had left out of her brief narrative. He knew what the monster Gryphius had done to her, both to her body and to her mind.
"I'm sorry, Steph," Tom said gently. He was horrified. He hadn't expected anything so violent or destructive. "What happened to him?"
"I killed him," Simon said simply.
Stephanie, who had never killed anyone, winced. She carried Simon's guilt as her own.
"But our mission here is with Celinde Gryphius," Simon reminded them. "Stephanie, there is no one more skilled in identity searches than you, but I hesitated to ask you to perform this one. On the other hand, we really need to know if this Gryphius is, as I suspect, related to that one."
Stephanie fought an involuntary urge to vomit. She suspected there were other prisoners in the underground vaults, but after her recovery, she put the past firmly behind her and never once looked back into the darkness. She threw herself into her work and never again felt truly comfortable with anyone but her teammates. And she had tried hard to forget the monster Gryphius.
"Okay, Simon," she said. But it wasn't okay, not really.
Tom leaned over and put a meaty paw on her strong hand. "I'll help, Steph – in any way I can."
She smiled weakly and withdrew her hand. "What's in the letter?" she asked crisply.
Simon smoothed the sheets. "There are two items in the envelope," he said. He didn't mention the full printout on Celinde Gryphius that Nightwatch had provided. "This appears to be a fragment of a poem – copied, perhaps, or hastily jotted down from memory."
"Virtue and cunning were endowments greater
May the two latter darken and expend;
But immortality attends the former,
Making a man a god. 'Tis known I ever
Have studied physic, through which secret art
By turning o'er authorities, I have,
Together with my practice, made familiar
To me and to my aid the blest infusions
That dwell in vegetatives, in metals, stones;
And I can speak of the disturbances
That nature works, and of her cures; which doth give me
A more content in course of true delight
Than to be thirsty after tottering honor,
Or tie my treasure up in silken bags,
To please the fool and death."
"Well, it sounds old," Stephanie said. "But I don't know what it means. Should be easy to find, though."
Simon pulled another piece of paper out of the envelope. "This is Celinde Gryphius' initial statement in her own words." He passed the statement to Tom.
Simon removed the final piece of paper from the envelope. "We have one more problem out in Pico da Neblina," he said. "In addition to the entire village vanishing, a Dr. Finley St. John was sighted in the vicinity a week before. Apparently he is of interest to the Institute and we are to find him and bring him back."
"Who is he?" Tom asked.
"I'm not sure," Simon admitted. "I was rather hoping Stephanie would help us out on that one, too."
"You got it, Boss," she said, pulling her laptop toward her. "Anything else?" Some of the old spark came back into her face as she began typing on the keyboard, and the ghost of a smile played around her lips.
"No, Stephanie," Simon said, "that should do
it for now. By the way, we'll be
landing in São Gabriel da Cachoeira,
in the Pico da Neblina National Park.
There's a good-sized airport there.
Our NASA contact and someone from the LBA will meet us. I understand it's about 78 degrees
Fahrenheit and raining."
The smell of
Amazonia hit them the moment they stepped out onto the tarmac, an aromatic
mixture of vegetation, mildew, flowers, jet fuel and moisture.
The airport was a
simple affair: a landing strip and runway big enough to accommodate a heavy
jet, a large tin-roofed cinder block building with open windows and a control
tower with blinking lights. A Land
Rover careened right up to them and a pale man in a Seattle sombrero waved.
"Hey! Dr. Litchfield? Hi! I'm Kevin Brady,
NASA." A tall, thin young man
jumped out of the vehicle and opened the tailgate. "Here, you guys can store your stuff in the back." It was pouring.
Tom and Stephanie climbed
quickly into the backseat and out of the rain, which beat down heavily. This was not a "soft" day, as
Simon had heard a misty, drizzly day in London described once. This was real rain, coming down in streams.
He held his hat on with one hand as his cape whipped around him and hoisted
himself up into the front passenger's seat.
Kevin started the engine and splashed through a large puddle. "Carlos Vieira from LBA was supposed to come with me, but he got held up at one of the sites – he'll meet us up at Luis Camacho's place. Get comfy, it's a long drive." Camacho was a Nightwatch contract employee, site supervisor for the area.
There wasn't much to see out the rain-streaked windows, and they all knew they would get a chance to become acquainted with Amazonia soon enough. Tom Weldon tried to meditate to the sound of the rain and Stephanie had her eyes closed, recovering from the emotional trauma she had just put herself through. It was good to have the comfort of solid Tom Weldon close by, although she didn't want any of his professional poking around in her psyche.
"Tell me about your work here, Mr. Brady," Simon prompted.
"It's Dr. Brady, but call me Kevin. Everyone here's a Ph.D. of some sort, so we don't stand on ceremony. In a nutshell, I monitor several sites in the Pico da Neblina area to make sure NASA's interests are represented and the money is being spent properly. Carlos, the LBA guy, actually runs the research end of things, manages the research teams, monitors the data, does the transmissions and things."
"So where were you when the village, um, disappeared?"
"Well, we can pinpoint the time pretty well through satellite photos – you know, one minute we saw it, the next minute we didn't – so I know exactly where I was. I was up at Luis Camacho's place. It's the only place for miles where you can feel like you're actually in a real house instead of a research hut." Simon knew from her statement that Celinde Gryphius had been in the same place at the same time.
"What was going on at the site?"
"Just the usual – recording rainfall chemistry, measuring rates of smoke transfer from the understory to the upper troposphere, measuring carbon dioxide fluxes, looking at remote sensor readings, defining aerosol properties, all interesting stuff related to the importance of Amazonia to the planet's chemistry as a whole."
Simon Litchfield could see beyond the ecological importance of such information. There were plenty of strategic applications as well. "And LBA's role? " he asked.
"Well they own the place," he answered. "Without Brazil's cooperation, the scientific community goes nowhere here. But it's more than that. Brazil is unique, the site of the world's oxygen replenisher, pharmaceutical storehouse, everything. This research is Brazil's ticket into the major players in the world's economic and political markets. And it really might end up saving the planet from global warming and ultimate annihilation."
"What about Pico da Neblina in particular – anything different about that site?"
Brady shook his head.
"No, just another research site with a few huts and a tower. There
are sixteen districts with research sites dotting them. Some of them contain urban areas, like the
sites around Manaus, Belem, and São
Paulo. A couple, like Fortaleza and Natal, are coastal. But most of them cover a lot of rain forest
territory, undeveloped and wild. Pico da Neblina is in the São Gabriel da Cachoeira district. Other wild districts are Rio Branca,
Ji-Paraná and across the border in Colombia, Yapu. It's a big project, with lots of public and private funding from
all over the world, hundreds of participants and mountains of data. No one ever
hears about it, but it's not a secret or anything. There just isn't a lot of public interest in the slog work of
statistics. We get grad students from
everywhere, though. It is the ideal
place for research and publication."
No wonder
Nightwatch had a big, but quiet, stake in the area, Simon thought. It was right up their proverbial alley.
During the two-hour drive to Luis Camacho's house near the Pico da Neblina site, the rain stopped, the sun was brilliant, the rain started again and then it cleared up again. The highway became a road that became a dirt road cleared by bulldozer. The vegetation was lush, with trees and shrubs, all manner of flowers and vines, and the team caught an occasional glimpse of a small animal or very large insect. The cries of birds could be heard in the distance. At one point, the grand sight of Peak 21 or Pico da Neblina rose before them, knobby on top and swathed in a halo of clouds and fog.
The damp sweat everyone had developed in the rain was a nuisance in the humid air. Tom realized his socks would never dry out and resolved to wear his mountain trekking sandals. Even Dr. Simon Litchfield's khakis were a bit rumpled, but he had packed his Canadian set, so he had something comfortable to anticipate.
At the house Luis Camacho greeted them jovially. He was a big, rawboned man, too pale for the Amazon, perpetually sunburned. His watery blue eyes beamed out of a round face and under his decrepit boonie hat a few strands of straw-colored hair escaped. He was dressed in a sweat-stained khaki shirt and faded blue shorts. Scuffed boots and a .45 automatic on a belt holster completed his ensemble.
"Come in out of the heat," he directed, with just a hint of a Portuguese lilt to his voice. "Welcome to the Fog Peak. Pico da Neblina, Fog Peak," he explained. "The most beautiful place in the world."
The house was certainly beautiful. It was large, long and low with a full verandah. Inside, ceiling fans kept the air moving and cool through the well-appointed rooms. Rattan furniture with brightly-colored cushions gave the sitting room the feeling of an excellent hotel. Tea and sandwiches were brought and Camacho offered drinks as well. Kevin Brady poured himself a scotch.
"I am delighted to have Institute visitors," he said. "Please consider this your home during your stay with us."
Simon smiled. Since there was nowhere else to stay, and since they had already made arrangements to stay there, and since the Institute technically owned the house, the offer was unnecessary.
"We often play host to visitors," Camacho explained. "NASA, LBA, Nightwatch, university researchers, government emissaries and just recently a scholar out from Cambridge, England."
"Cambridge!" Simon exclaimed. "Why what a coincidence. I spent time there myself. Who, may I ask, was this visitor?"
"Oh, an interesting old professor – some sort of poetry expert. He was only here a couple of days, then talked about returning to Manaus. St. John something. He went out with Brady there," Camacho gestured toward the NASA representative, "he could tell you more."
Brady seemed puzzled. "He didn't go out with me," he said. "Must have been someone else."
"Well, whatever. Didn't see him again." Camacho turned away abruptly.
He was saved from interrogation on the subject by a man in the field researcher's standard uniform of stained cotton shirt and shorts. His black hair formed a kinky nimbus around his head, and a short black beard looked in need of a trim.
"Hey, Carlos!" Camacho gave the newcomer a bear hug.
Carlos Vieira grinned and shook hands with everyone. "The Nightwatch sends their fashionable team, I see." His glance took in Simon Litchfield's khaki ensemble, Tom Weldon's all-black outfit and Stephanie Keel's cargoes. His glance lingered on Stephanie, and not because of her fashion statement. Nothing could disguise her natural good looks, though she did nothing at all to enhance them.
Simon took the compliment. "Thank you, Mr. Vieira, or should I say Dr. Vieira?"
Carlos grinned and shook his head, "No, no we are all doctors, here, Dr. Litchfield. The LBA and the Brazilian government send you their welcome and hope you will be able to help solve this little, um, dilemma of the missing research site."
"How soon can we tour the area?" Tom was anxious to have a closer look.
"Right now," Kevin Brady offered. "We still have a couple of hours of daylight left."
"Excellent!" Camacho said. "I'll have someone put your things in your rooms – perhaps you'd like to freshen up a bit before going out? My housekeeper, Maria, will help you." He gestured to a small woman in a print dress. She led them down a large corridor and showed them to their rooms
Minutes later they were all piling once again into the Land Rover. Kevin hit the gas and for a few moments the sky cleared to reveal the breathtaking sight of Pico da Neblina – the second tallest peak in the country – in all its fog-encircled glory.
"Over there," Kevin pointed. "That's where the site was. See where those two outcroppings on the side of that hill come together? There was a clearing just below there." He aimed the vehicle in the direction of the hill. "But watch this."
No matter how carefully – or recklessly – Kevin drove, the road went right past the area. At one point, it dwindled down to a track, then a trail, then what must have been merely a capybara run. "This road used to go right through the site."
"It's even weirder on foot," he explained. "There aren't any of the old landmarks or anything. It's just more vegetation."
Kevin maneuvered the vehicle in as close as possible to the coordinates on the NASA map he carried, then everyone got out and walked around. It was warm, humid and lush – the real rain forest they all had read about. It smelled of flowers, rotting vegetation, smoke and water.
Tom was grateful for his cool, dry sandals until he noticed Kevin's boots. Snakes – he hadn't thought about snakes.
"You can get pretty close to the outcroppings," Kevin said, pointing. "But you can't actually find the clearing where the village was. I mean, there is no clearing anymore. It's as if the whole landscape just shifted and that part of the world - the universe, even – just doesn't exist."
Stephanie was busy with a hand-held instrument. She pointed it toward the outcroppings, then in the opposite direction. She made some notes in her PDA and switched instruments. Her second instrument was a digital camera, and she took lots of pictures, including a few of the Land Rover, Kevin Brady, and Simon Litchfield.
"Tom," she said, "stand over there and let me get a picture, okay?" Tom obliged, smiling for the camera, squinting into the last rays of the sun.
The sunset was a spectacular red gold, but midway into it, the sky clouded up and it started to rain again.
"Let's get back," Kevin suggested. "I don't like being out much after dark."
****
Luis Camacho's house was welcoming as it grew dark and rained heavily. The air was still quite warm, and Simon felt sticky.
Camacho was out, but the housekeeper, Maria, brought food and drinks into the great room. Sitting companionably around a low table by candlelight, Simon brought up the subject of Dr. Finley St. John, the poetry expert from Cambridge.
"So, Kevin, Luis Camacho said Dr. St. John left with you?"
"No," Kevin replied. "I mean, yes, Luis said that, but no, the old guy didn't go anywhere with me. I just saw him here that one time, although I know he's been to several of the sites and spent a lot of time in town."
"Town?" Tom asked.
"São Gabriel
da Cachoeira, where you landed. The
airport's a bit out of town, so you didn't see it properly. It's a pretty good-sized town, right on the
Rio Negro. Gabriel of the Waterfall,
but not the Gabriel you might think.
This Gabriel was a soldier. Anyway, it's the biggest town in the
area. It's been there since the old
missionary days, when the Franciscans invaded in the 1700's." Kevin paused. "The Salesians in the
early part of the 20th Century weren't much better. It's a wonder
any indigenous people survive at all, but you'll find at least six different
peoples around here. Anyway, it's a two
hour drive, as you know."
"And St.
John?" Simon prompted.
"Oh, yeah, St.
John. I heard from one of the guys over
at Atmospheric Chemistry that he spent a lot of time in church. Go figure. But no one has seen him for at
least a week. Why, what's the
interest?"
"I think I may
know him from Cambridge," Simon lied with ease. "Now, what about the
people who disappeared with the site? Has anyone seen or heard from them?"
"Not that I've
heard of," Kevin said. "But you might want to ask Celinde. She's staying here, and she was technically
with the site, although she was here when it disappeared."
"She's
here?" Stephanie asked sharply.
"Here in this house?"
Kevin looked up in
surprise. "Yeah, well, she's out right now with Carlos, but she'll be back
in the morning. I think they went up to
the tower site near Cucui, up right next to the border. They should be back by
mid-morning."
"Kevin, we're going to need a vehicle of our own," Simon said. "Where can we get one?"
"Oh, that's easy. Both NASA and the Institute have vehicles here. Just check one out from Luis, but make sure you have plenty of fuel and you know where you're going. It can get pretty dangerous around here. The roads are all really just trails and the weather is unpredictable. Not to mention the wildlife."
Tom thought about snakes again and shuddered.
"Hey, I'd be glad to take you anywhere you want to go, though," Kevin offered. "NASA made it pretty clear that I'm to give you anything you need." He grinned engagingly toward Stephanie, but she was busy with her handheld computer.
Tom felt an uneasy and unusual stab of protective jealousy. There was nothing at all wrong with the NASA kid, he told himself. And Stephanie could use a little distraction. But not now, not on this trip.
"Thank you, Kevin," Simon said, "and I think we'll need to split up anyway, so your generous offer is most welcome."
"Okay, whatever you say. Listen, I got a ton of stuff to do. Why don't I meet you here in the morning and we can go anywhere you want. Oh, and don't be alarmed if you wake in the night – local legend says this place is haunted."
Kevin got up and after a last glance at the oblivious Stephanie, disappeared down the hallway to his room.
The candles had burned low and the three Nightwatchers were silent except for the click-click of Stephanie's keyboard.
"All right, Stephanie," Simon said softly. "Give us what you've got."
Stephanie looked up from her computer. "What do you want first, Simon?" she asked.
"Celinde Gryphius?"
"You could have had the official bio from Nightwatch, Dr. Litchfield," Stephanie said stiffly, not meeting his eyes.
"I know, Stephanie," Simon replied. "As a matter of fact, I do have the official bio. But I want to know what you came up with."
Stephanie stared at him for a moment, then dropped her eyes to her laptop.
"Celinde Gryphius.
Born Emily Jane Kingsford twenty-nine years ago outside of Manaus,
Brazil. Parents noted as David and
Emily Kingsford. One sibling, an older
sister, Laura. Emily Kingsford, the mother, was a physician and
died in an accident in the Amazon when the children were little. David
Kingsford, an historian and sociologist, then moved to Canada with his two
daughters.
"Kingsford was
involved in a complex project of his own when he met William Gryphius in
Canada. They set up shop together and
the older daughter joined them. Emily was an odd duck, and grew up around the
research laboratories. She married
Gryphius after an explosion killed her father.
The older daughter took over the father's work, but didn't get along
well with her sister or with Gryphius.
Gryphius and Emily moved to England for a couple of years. Emily began calling herself Celinde during
this time.
"I couldn't
find out exactly where the money came from," Stephanie admitted, "but
I think Kingsford left them pretty well off.
Kingsford, as you both know, was working on some sort of temporal displacement
theory, and his older daughter damned near got us all killed.”
Simon
grimaced. He remembered Max Cory,
remembered with guilt that he had been responsible for his death.
"Yeah, same Kingsford. Anyway," Stephanie continued, "Gryphius dabbled in the temporal displacement stuff in England for a while, but then got interested pharmaceuticals. Celinde had some of Emily Kingsford's papers from her work in the Amazon and Gryphius thought he could find the fountain of youth or eternal life or something. But things apparently got hot for him and he surfaced later in the States, setting up a series of underground labs for his research
"That's what he was working on when you found me. His experimentation involved human subjects, mostly young women. Twelve women were identified, including myself and Celinde Gryphius. Of the twelve, only four survived. The other two also work for Nightwatch, one as a fitness instructor and one as a pilot.
"Celinde Gryphius has been working as a data researcher here in the Amazon. She speaks Portuguese and one of the indigenous dialects, and requested an assignment in Amazonia, which she considers her home."
Stephanie paused. "There is nothing on Gryphius before his association with Kingsford in Canada. Nothing."
Dr. Litchfield's eyebrows went up. "That usually means a very careful backstory by a very sophisticated intelligence agency," he mused. "Stephanie, if you can't find it, it's not there. What else?"
Stephanie took a breath. "Well, the fragment of verse is a passage from Shakespeare, but from an obscure play. It's from "Pericles, Prince of Tyre" and appears to refer to natural medicine. But it's a disputed speech from a character who is sometimes omitted from stage productions."
"Odd. And Dr. St. John?" Simon prompted.
"Oh, lots and lots on the good doctor," Stephanie said with a satisfied grin.
"Finley Robert Swithin St. John, - pronounced 'Sin Jin,' by the way - born 74 years ago in Bantwick, Kent, England. His parents were Christopher Colin St. John, Queen's Counsel – that's a lawyer – and Viscountess Carolyn Finley de Brettville, minor aristocracy. Upper middle class upbringing, public school education – that's private schools to us – graduate work at Oxford, specialties in history, languages, drama and poetry. Unmarried, no family. Professor at Cambridge teaching Shakespeare, currently on sabbatical. Has published extensively on Shakespeare's so-called "lost" plays, and is said to be obsessed with a particular play, Cardenio. He has spent time in Italy, France, Canada and America, and most recently has traveled to Brazil."
Stephanie looked up from her laptop. "And no one has seen him or heard anything from him for several days."
"Well, where was he seen last?" Tom asked.
"Here," Stephanie replied. "Last recorded contact was with his publishers via telephone call from this very house four days ago. Something about the Franciscan invasions."
"Very well," Simon said, "Tomorrow, Tom, you take Celinde Gryphius. Give her a thorough debriefing and find out everything you can." Simon felt another pang of regret over Max Cory. His arrogance had caused his death, and it would always haunt him.
"Stephanie, I'd like you to stay here and see what you can find out about this area – take some readings, see if anything shows up. Maybe the village is still there and we just can't see it." Simon gave her an encouraging smile. "I am going out with Kevin Brady – I have a feeling I know where to look for Dr. St. John. Get some sleep, team – we are going to need all our wits tomorrow."
Tom Weldon slept late. By the time he awoke Simon and Stephanie were already gone and the house was quiet. Maria, the housekeeper, left a tray of tea and sweet rolls by his bedroom door, and he took it out to the great room with him. He had given up his hope of sandals and was dressed in his usual black garb, this time with sturdy boots.
Carlos Vieira dropped Celinde Gryphius at the front door about an hour later and Tom greeted her. He introduced himself and they went out onto the back veranda to talk. The view was spectacular.
Stephanie rose early, packed some equipment and supplies into her rucksack, and set out with her handheld GPS. They had all abandoned their cell phones – there were no signals in that part of Amazonia. She was slathered in bug repellant and carried what looked like a ski pole. It was actually a telescoping antenna which doubled nicely as a hiking stick.
She walked slowly and deliberately toward the area where the village had disappeared, listening to the sounds of the Amazon and watching for any movement.
Simon Litchfield and Kevin Brady drove the two hours to São Gabriel da Cachoeira to the Catholic
church. It was a simple structure with
a tall steepled belltower, overlooking the wide Rio Negro River. A Salesian father in the colors of a Bishop
greeted them inside. Simon was startled
to note the man was Asian by his features.
"Gentlemen,
you are early for Mass," he said. "But you are welcome to meditate
here for the next hour or so."
Simon gave a small
bow. "Thank you Father, but we are
here on different business. May we talk
to you for a few moments?"
The priest returned
the small bow. "Yes, as you wish. Please follow me." He led them through a side entrance and down
a short flight of stone steps to a spacious and remarkably cool room. The stone walls were unadorned except for a
rather large and startlingly realistic crucifix. A simple wooden table with chairs and a large, battered old desk
completed the furniture.
"I am Jose
Wei-Song," the priest said, seating himself at the desk. Simon and Kevin pulled up chairs and Simon
did the introductions.
"I want to ask you about a colleague of mine, Dr. Finley St. John. I understand he has been spending some time in your church."
"Yes, that is so."
"Is he here now?"
"No, I am sorry. I have not seen him here for four days. He was most interested in our historical collections, and spent many hours looking at our records. A scholarly man, well read in many languages."
"What was he looking for?" Simon asked.
"Ah, I don't know that he was looking for anything in particular," the priest said. "He was most interested in the early records of the Franciscans, and wanted to look at everything. Of course, many of the records are in Rome, where the climate can be controlled. The Amazon is not conducive to the preservation of old records."
"May we see what he as looking at? He seems to have disappeared and I was hoping his work might shed some light on his whereabouts."
The priest nodded. "Of course. But I can tell you where he went when he left here. The young lady picked him up, and he was most excited to be visiting a village."
"Young lady?" Simon asked.
"Yes, from the research team. Celinde, he called her. I'll get the papers, if you will wait here." The priest left them.
"What would Celinde be doing with the Cambridge guy?" Kevin asked. "I didn't even know she knew him."
"Weren't they staying at Camacho's at the same time?" Simon asked.
"Well, yeah, but lots of people stay there and he didn't really seem like her, uh, type." Kevin blushed. "No offense, Dr. Litchfield, but he was, well, you know, old."
Simon winced. He was a far cry from the Cambridge doctor's seventy-nine, but he doubtless seemed old to this pup.
The priest returned with a sheaf of yellowing documents. "These are copies made of the originals. They are primarily Franciscan records of the first schools for indigenous peoples from the end of the 1700's through the early 1800's. The records of our order, the Salesians, begin in the 1920's."
Kevin and Simon studied them for about an hour. Although Simon could not read Portuguese, Kevin's was passable, and between them they could read Spanish quite well. They found the small marks Dr. St. John had made on the copied texts.
"I think I know what the good doctor was after," Simon finally said. "The Franciscans practically destroyed the indigenous peoples through forced and systematic cultural indoctrination. They took the young from their tribes and families and forced them into Christian schools. They took their language, religion and customs, and substituted their own on pain of death. It was that substitution – particularly of Shakespeare – that caught Dr. St. John's curiosity. The Franciscans bore no particular love for the secular poet, yet a reference to the Shakespeare studies repeatedly pops up in the school records. I'll bet the doctor thought he was hot on the trail of his missing play."
"How would it get here?" Kevin asked.
"South America was a trade destination in the late 1600's," Simon explained, "and the Franciscans colonized here in the late 1700's. The folio could have traveled through any number of routes and ended up here. The question really, though, is why. Why would it end up here?"
"I guess only Dr. St. John can answer that," Kevin said. What he didn't know about Shakespeare could fill volumes.
"No, wait. These are records of the schools – costs, headcount, curriculum, that sort of thing, but not what was actually taught. I find it hard to believe the Franciscans taught Shakespeare to the indigenous peoples her, when they were primarily concerned with forced conversions. What we really need to see are the actual texts. If any of those are still around, they would have the key to this, I think." Simon's excited voice carried in the stone chamber.
He hurried to find the priest, but he had to wait for the conclusion of the Mass before he could ask Bishop Wei-Song about any educational materials used in the late 1700's and early 1800's.
"Yes, of course," the Bishop smiled when the Mass was concluded and Simon approached him in the sanctuary. He left and returned with an ornate silver and glass casket which he carried back to the stone walled chamber where Kevin was pacing impatiently. He set it down on the polished wood table and opened the top. Inside were several hand-written copies of the Holy Bible and several parchment documents.
"The Franciscan fathers were of the third order regular," the Bishop explained, "and included a number of Italian friars. Some of the texts were annotated in Italian, but for the most part everything taught was from the Latin Vulgate Bible, although the common language of the fathers here was Portuguese. There were a few items written in Spanish, I think, but it is difficult to elucidate the differences between the Portuguese and Spanish of that time."
He placed a large leather-bound bible on the table and opened it to display a color illustration, not as detailed or beautiful as a real illumination, but handsome nonetheless. "I am afraid these items are very fragile, Dr. Litchfield," he cautioned. "Please take care in handling them."
Simon began to turn the pages slowly. The Spanish inscription became apparent only if you were looking for it. There was a word on nearly every page, made to look as if it were an annotation of some sort. Simon wrote them down in order as Kevin translated them.
When he came to the end of the annotations, he read it all back:
"virtue and cunning were endowments greater than
nobleness and riches careless heirs may the two latter darken and expend but
immortality attends the former making a man a god it is known I ever have
studied physic through which secret art by turning over authorities I have
together with my practice made familiar to me and to my aid the blest infusions
that dwell in vegetatives in metals stones and I can speak of the disturbances
that nature works and of her cures which doth give me a more content in course of true delight than to be thirsty after tottering honor or tie my treasure up in silken bags to please the fool and death"
"What's it mean?" Kevin asked. "Sounds like nonsense to me."
"It sounds like Shakespeare to me, my boy," Simon replied. "Or maybe Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. I think it's what the good Doctor St. John was after, only I don't think he knew it. And there must be more to it. It is the account of some sort of potion, maybe something from a plant extract. But there must be another piece to it, a missing piece which would give more details, maybe a recipe or location."
"Recipe for what?"
"I don't know yet." Simon reached for the next bible and they leafed through it page by page, but found no similar annotations. The parchment documents were hundreds of hand written hymns and poems, most referring to St. Francis of Assisi, the order's founder. They too were written in Latin, except for one, which appeared to be written in doggerel Spanish.
"Translate this one, Kevin," Simon said as he read the words and wrote the translated version on the same page as the other annotations.
"to my aid the best infusions drawn from natures own flower which doth halt the course of years and impart fair youth to all who live her secret found and kept but to the church's own destruct and in the fires burn to dust the resurrection gone"
Simon re-read the words, his face a serious study. Then he folded up the piece of paper with the two mysterious sets of words and put it in his pocket.
"What's it mean?" Kevin asked again.
But Simon just shook his head. "We need to find the good doctor, Kevin." He called out for the Bishop who appeared instantly.
"Did you find what you were looking for?" Bishop Wei-song asked, gathering the documents back into the glass casket.
"I don't know," Simon confessed. "I rather think not. Did you say you had seen Dr, St. John recently? I think he might hold the key to our little mysteries, not the dusty papers of past centuries, although we are grateful to have seen them. Do you know, Your Grace," Simon used the formal address for the first time, "if Dr. St. John looked at these items?""
Bishop Wei-song smiled. "No, I am sure he did not. He did not ask for them. But I do remember his last conversation here. He was most interested in the indigenous peoples, especially the Parumami, who had been schooled here in the early 1800's. They were less enlightened times, I am sure you will agree."
Simon did agree. Forced religious conversion was indeed an unenlightened practice, barbaric even. There must have been a powerful reason for such a thing, something he did not yet understand. "And Dr. St. John left here in the company of the young lady researcher you say?"
The Bishop nodded. "They were going to one of the villages to a shabono or Parumami house," he said. "The Doctor was very excited."
Simon thanked the bishop for his hospitality and ushered Kevin out into the warm humid air. "So what do you think of the Shakespeare?" he asked in the intermittent sunlight as they got into the vehicle.
"Shakespeare was never my best subject," Kevin admitted. "But I know one thing: if the doctor left here with Celinde, why don't we ask her where he is."
"Excellent suggestion, my boy," Simon agreed.
Stephanie's instruments indicated nothing more than lush vegetation. Whatever had been at the research site's coordinates was simply no longer there. The site itself, the ground itself, still existed. But roads leading in and out, all structures, and people were just not there. It was as if that little piece of Paradise had never existed.
The tumblers in her mind clattered into a different configuration – maybe because she was still fighting the images of Gryphius. Could it be that she was looking at a former version of the site – one from before human habitation? Had the Kingsford legacy of unstable time travel somehow marbled into this?
She shook her head to clear it. Discount nothing, she told herself, but don't be too hasty to believe the improbable.
She continued her slow trek to the center of the area where the site had been. Faint underground rumblings might have been just her imagination, but the difference in vegetation and the beginnings of a headache were not. Under the forest canopy, the plants growing in the site area seemed different. She photographed a couple of the low shrubs, unusual in their almost blue color.
She pulled up some botany information on her hand-held and let out a low whistle. There was something odd about the blue plants, but there was no record of them in her online Encyclopedia Botanica. Not a problem, she told herself. They just haven't been catalogued yet. There must be thousands of 'undiscovered' plants in the Amazon. Pharmaceutical companies from all over the world spent lots of time and money researching the Amazonian flora. It was odd, she thought, that the Nightwatch crew hadn't run into any of them.
A rustling noise caused her to duck behind the substantial trunk of an ancient tree. She pulled out her pistol and half expected to see a giant snake. Snakes weren't high on her favorites list.
A tall, beautiful blonde woman dressed in a tight cotton blouse and form-fitting shorts dragged a large duffle bag through the undergrowth. The bag looked full and heavy, and the woman's well-toned muscles strained at the load. She had a semi-automatic rifle slung across her body and a long knife strapped to one tanned thigh. When she shook her head to toss her hair out of her eyes, Stephanie recognized Celinde Gryphius from her Institute photo.
A groan issued from the duffle. "Shut up," Celinde said in a clipped accent, "or I'll give you something cry about." She dragged it deeper into the blue bushes. "You'll go to sleep here, Mr. Weldon, and never wake up."
Stephanie tightened the grip on her pistol. If she fired now she could take the Gryphius woman down, but she wanted – no, needed – to know what was going on. There was no doubt that Tom Weldon was in the bag, but what was Gryphius doing with him?
Gryphius dragged the bag a bit further, then let the end fall hard to the ground. The bag was still. Gryphius looked around suspiciously, listening for any unusual noise. Then she got down on her hands and knees and began feeling around on the rich rainforest floor. She found what she was looking for and pulled a length of heavy rope out of the decaying foliage. She used it to open a large trapdoor.
As Gryphius started disappearing down into the earth, Stephanie holstered her pistol and threw herself onto the woman from behind, grabbing a handful of hair and jerking the surprised face back sharply while yanking an arm up behind the woman's back.
Gryphius let out an enraged scream and twisted to claw at Stephanie. Stephanie tried to haul the woman out of the hole in the ground, but Gryphius went for her knife with her free hand and slashed out at Stephanie. The blade caught Steph across her upper arm in a shallow red line of blood. She let go for a second, then lunged at the semi automatic rifle slung around the woman's body. She knocked the knife away with the woman's own rifle, then tightened the sling around Gryphius' neck, turning the weapon on its strap until it dug into her throat and stifled the screams.
Gryphius clawed at her throat helplessly as Stephanie dragged her out of the hole by both ends of the rifle attached to the asphyxiating sling. Gryphius began to lose consciousness. Stephanie pulled her out onto the ground and rolled her roughly onto her face. Then she pulled a length of thin wire from her pocket and fastened the woman's hands tightly behind her back. Only when Gryphius was securely tied did Stephanie loosen the rifle sling and disengage the weapon from the near-comatose woman.
Using her own knife, Stephanie cut open the duffle bag to release Tom Weldon. Weldon's shallow breathing had a peculiar wheeze to it, and a purple bruise above one eye looked serious. He was out cold, his eyelids fluttering and his arms trussed in front of him with what looked like clothesline. Stephanie cut the line and massaged his wrists for a moment, then sprinkled a little water over his face from her canteen.
"Hey, buddy," she said softly, "come on, it's okay, everything's gonna be fine."
Tom groaned and twitched, then gasped and started to come around. Stephanie saturated a scarf with more water and placed it over the swollen bruise. He opened his eyes and tried to speak, but spluttered and coughed , then heaved himself up on one side facing away from Stephanie to retch in the foliage.
"Sorry," he muttered, embarrassed.
"What's going on?" Stephanie asked. "I thought she was on our side."
"I did, too," Tom admitted. "But I never got much of a chance to find out. We met out on the back terrace and when I started to ask her a few questions, she slugged me in the face and tied me up. Look, I'm no lightweight, Stephanie, but that woman is strong. She tied me up and put me a bag. No explanations, nothing. And did I mention how strong she is?"
Stephanie nodded. Gryphius had been uncommonly strong and only the leverage of the automatic rifle on its sling had given Stephanie any advantage at all.
Tom sat up and took a few breaths. "Phew!" he said, "what stinks?"
"I think it's those bluish plants." Stephanie replied. "We seem to have bruised a few in the scuffle." She tossed the automatic rifle to Tom. "Keep an eye on Sleeping Beauty – I want to check out that hole in the ground."
****
Kevin Brady drove back to the house with a reckless abandon that caused Simon to grab the frame of the vehicle more than once. The scenery, which was enough to elicit gasps even without the speed, flashed by in a brilliant panorama of green, blue and the scarlet of birds in flight. Simon could well understand how people became enchanted with the Brazilian forests and refused to leave. He hoped the beauty of the rainforest and nothing more sinister had captured Dr. St. John.
They met Carlos Vieira about six miles from the house. He pulled his Land Rover right up next to theirs and rolled the window down.
"Hey, how's it going?" He asked with a grin. "Any luck finding our missing site?"
"We're still working on it," Simon assured him. "Right now, I need to find Miss Gryphius and ask her about the Cambridge professor who was out here last week."
"I dropped her off at the house this morning," Carlos said. "But I was going back to leave some LBA taskings for Luis. I don't know where he is, I think he's still up near the border."
"Cucui?" Kevin asked. "Weren't you guys up there too?"
Carlos' grin faded. "Uh, yeah, Celinde and I were there last night. I thought I saw Luis there too, but I, uh, I'm not sure." Carlos seemed hesitant and his manner changed. "Look, I'll catch up to you guys later, okay? Will you just leave these folders for Luis?" He handed a small stack of bright blue folders through the open window, then turned his Land Rover around in the muddy track and sped off.
"What's with him?" Kevin asked. "You'd think there was something going on at Cucui, but I've been up there, and it's a lot of nowhere full of a lot of nothing. Well, rainforest, you know, and more rainforest."
"That's a lot of something to some people," Simon said dryly and Kevin laughed.
When they got to the house, they were frustrated to find it empty except for the housekeeper, Maria. Simon left the blue folders on Camacho's big table.
"Why don't we go out to the missing site," Kevin suggested. "Maybe we'll run into someone." He hoped to run into Stephanie, and had been keenly disappointed that she hadn't come with them to São Gabriel da Cachoeira.
Simon agreed a bit reluctantly. He was anxious to find Celinde Gryphius, but there was no sign of her or Tom Weldon, and he felt a momentary stab of jealousy. Celinde was a remarkably fine-looking young woman from her photograph, and Simon was eager to see her in the flesh. He was partial to blondes. And brunettes. And redheads, come to think of it. And he was especially partial to enigmatic young women with intelligence and mystery.
Kevin drove fairly close in, and they parked the vehicle off to the side of the road. Although he didn't intend to hide it, the vehicle was nearly invisible from the roadway.
They set out toward the site, dense vegetation and the fear of snakes making them careful and quiet. They were quiet enough to hear hoarse and ragged breathing, then the growl of an animal. Kevin drew his pistol, expecting a jaguar or capybara.
Tom Weldon and a blonde woman were wrestling on the ground. The growls came from Tom as he tried to pin the woman down. The ragged breathing was the woman's. She broke free of his grasp, and Simon saw that her wrists were blood-streaked. An automatic rifle lay in the bushes about ten feet away.
Simon sprinted toward it and hit an unseen obstacle. Stunned, he fell backward, blinking and groaning and rubbing his forehead. He had hit something solid – hard.
Kevin aimed his pistol at the woman. "Hey! Get back!" he ordered. She paid him no attention, but lunged for Tom.
"I said, get back! I'll shoot you, Celinde, now get away from him!" Celinde Gryphius looked up into Kevin's pistol and stopped struggling.
"What are you doing, Brady?" she hissed. "He attacked me!"
Simon meanwhile recovered his wits and carefully felt his way around the unseen obstacle. He grabbed the rifle and aimed it at the woman.
"Tom, what's going on here?" Simon peered at Tom's bruised face, then at the marks on Celinde's throat.
"He attacked me!" Celinde croaked again. "He's a madman!" She got to her feet and her hand went to the long knife on her thigh.
Simon waived the rifle at her. "Leave the knife alone," he ordered crisply. "Now, sit down, young lady, and let's talk about what's going on here."
"Watch her, Simon," Tom said. "She's a lot stronger than she looks."
"She'd have to be, to overcome you." Simon slipped the knife off her thigh, the back of his gnarled hand brushing her taut silken skin. "What happened here?"
****
Stephanie eased herself down the hole in the forest floor. Her pistol was in one hand and she gingerly felt her way down with the other. The air was rich and dank and smelled of indefinable organic decomposition, like hot compost. Her feet grabbed purchase on a rough stairway and she crept down further into the ground, down into darkness.
The sounds of human activity became louder as Stephanie inched down the dark earthen stairs. A faint glow gave her direction. She crept toward it, her eyes adjusting to the darkness.
She reached the bottom of the stairway and blinked. In a large room, the farthest reaches stretching beyond her sight, the glow emanated from several rows of large baskets, each equipped with a small light. A few haggard-looking indigenous people tended to them, their bronze skins glowing in the eerie light. They looked elderly, bent, their skins in wrinkled folds and their masses of bushy hair greyed. Stephanie blinked again. Inside each container, a baby kicked and thrashed. The walls were lined with stacks of bundled leaves, looking like tobacco. Off to one side a vat of some sludge-like material gave off a foul odor. In a wire enclosure near her, a child of about six or seven sat dejectedly on a plastic chair, his pale skin reflecting the dim glow. He was dressed in an adult's tee shirt which hung on him like a dress. One wrist was tied to the cage.
Stephanie started forward, but a hand on her shoulder startled her.
"Don't," Simon hissed in her ear. "This is a very dangerous place." He was close enough to smell her hair, and feel the warmth of her skin.
Stephanie reached back to Simon and held on to his arm. "What is it?" she asked. "What's going on here?"
A bright light momentarily blinded both of them as Luis Camacho's deep voice boomed out. "Well, well, the visitors from Nightwatch. I have been expecting you."
He stepped into the light and Simon saw the heavy automatic rifle. Camacho motioned with his flashlight toward the enclosure where the young boy was held. "Please step into the pen with Dr. St. John."
He saw Stephanie's pistol. "Drop it or I kill the kid right now." She threw it on the earthen floor and it slid to a darkened corner. They both stood up and walked toward the pen.
"Don't be a fool, Camacho," Simon said. "Nightwatch knows where we are. You can't get away with anything."
Camacho laughed. "Well, as a matter of fact, they don't know where you are. They don't know where any of these people are. They can't even find the research site."
"What is this? Who are all these children?" Stephanie asked as Camacho herded them toward the pen with the boy. "What makes you think this child is Dr. St. John?"
"You really don't know anything, do you?" Camacho sighed. "I am disappointed in the great Simon Litchfield. I expected you to figure out part of it by now, but maybe your reputation is a bit exaggerated." He shoved Simon into the enclosure roughly, but let his hands linger on Stephanie. She recoiled.
Stephanie put her arms around the little boy. He seemed lethargic and disoriented. She untied his wrist from the cage, but he didn't react.
Simon spoke up, his hand on Celinde's long knife in his pocket. "Well, I know you have somehow found a plant, or maybe several plants, capable of reversing the aging process. And I suspect you are negotiating with a pharmaceutical company to get rich on it."
"Ah, you have figured out a small part of it, Dr. Litchfield. Yes, there are several plants which have a remarkable effect on human aging processes. And yes, we are in negotiations with a pharmaceutical company. But you don't know everything, do you?"
Camacho closed the pen and locked it. "You don’t know about Celinde or the Parumami. You don't know how the research site is hidden, do you?"
"I know about Celinde," Simon said. "I don't see how you figure in any of this, though. I would have thought Celinde smarter than to involve someone like you in something this important." Simon needled the man, hoping to get a rise out of him.
Camacho laughed again. "Don't bother, Litchfield," he said. "I'm going to be very rich very soon." He said something to one of the ancient attendants and left, taking the earthen stairs two at a time.
When Camacho reached the top he saw Celinde tied up on the ground and gave a sharp cry. He raised his weapon, but before he could get a single shot off, Kevin winged him with his pistol and the big man went down heavily, screaming and clutching his damaged shoulder. Tom retrieved the rifle as Camacho continued to whimper and Celinde hissed obscenities.
"You stupid moron," she said. "Why'd you come out this way?"
"Well, now what?" Kevin asked. "We have the heavies, but Simon and Stephanie are down that hole, and I'm not real anxious to go after them."
Tom nodded. "I guess one of us will have to." He thought about snakes again and shivered. At least he had his boots on. He thought about his deep, abiding fear of enclosed spaces. At least… "I'll go,” he said, praying his most recent round of analysis had taken. “But don't take your eyes off her," he pointed at Celinde, "she's a lot stronger than she looks. I mean it."
"What about me?" Camacho wailed. "I need a doctor!"
"Oh, I can fix that," Kevin said, pointing the pistol at him again.
Camacho shut up.
Tom went carefully down the stairway. He knew Stephanie and Simon could take care of themselves, and he also knew there was another way in and out of whatever was down there. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he took a moment to let his eyes adjust and take in the scenery. He saw the same incubator baskets, attendants and wire cage. Stephanie, Simon and a little boy were in the cage and Tom waited for an elderly attendant to walk away. Then he sprinted to them.
The cage was already unlocked – Stephanie had taken care of that – and the little boy was on his feet, one hand in Stephanie's.
Simon broke into a smile. "What took you so long?"
"Well it doesn’t look like you need me," Tom replied. "Who's the kid?"
"Allow me to introduce Dr. St. John of Cambridge. But let's get out of here before that old man comes back. I think we're going have an earthquake or something."
Simon started toward the stairs, but Tom shook his head.
Celinde Gryphius hurried down the stairs, Camacho's rifle in one hand. The elderly attendants swarmed to her in the dim light, groveling pitifully.
Tom aimed for her, but Simon stopped him. "No!" he hissed. "No shooting unless we have to. Let's get out of here before she sees us. We can take care of her later."
"C'mon," Tom said. "There's another way out."
Stephanie scooped the little boy up and carried him as they ran away from the lighted baskets and into the darkness. They heard several shots and the anguished screams of the attendants.
Wiry arms caught them in the darkness and they were propelled into a wet tunnel with a hard surfaced floor. They ran for what seemed hours, but was really about forty minutes. Tom's side was aching and Simon's breath came in heaving gasps. Only Stephanie seemed able to run forever, and with the boy in her arms, too.
The tunnel shook several times, as though large explosions were taking place somewhere. Earthquakes in the Amazon were a rarity, but explosions around criminal activities were not unheard of.
They kept running until the tunnel ended abruptly.
"Look!" Stephanie said, pointing upward. There was daylight and a series of rungs in the wall. Litchfield went up first, then Stephanie and the boy, with Tom bringing up the rear. They looked back, but there was no sign of Celinde Gryphius. Several of the elderly attendants were making their way through the tunnel, but were unarmed.
The tunnel opened into the back garden of Luis Camacho's house, nearly four miles from the disappeared site.
Simon started to drag a heavy cover over the entrance, but the boy cried out. "No!" He said. "We have to let them out!"
"They're trying to kill us," Simon explained kindly.
"No, Camacho and that awful girl are trying to kill us. But we have to let the Parumami out! Their whole existence is in jeopardy." The boy was frantic, his energy fully returned. "Please, Doctor Litchfield, we must help them! "
"Let's get into the house," Stephanie said, anxious for some cover. "We can handle this from there."
"Tom," Simon said, "watch for the woman, but leave the others alone."
They dashed into Camacho's beautiful house – the Institute's house. It was cool and considerably dryer inside. Tom stationed himself at a window and watched the hole in the ground, pistol in hand, ready to shoot Celinde Gryphius if she emerged. She did not emerge, but a single file of elderly men bearing baskets on their heads came up out of the ground.
Maria, the housekeeper, ran to them and directed them to rooms in the back of the house. Tom watched, perplexed.
"Where's Kevin?" Simon asked. The room was quiet.
"He shot Camacho, just winged him," Tom explained. "I left him guarding the Gryphius woman."
Stephanie bit her lip. Kevin was probably dead. Too bad, she thought. She had liked him. "Well, let's get the bitch," she said calmly. She pulled out her laptop and began typing.
"It will be easier to find her if you understand what she is," the little boy said. He climbed up on the long sofa and made himself comfortable. He was pale and bruised up a bit, and pulled his oversized tee shirt down modestly.
"I think I have figured out some of this," Simon said, "but I am sure you know far more about it than I do. It started with the Shakespeare, didn't it?"
"Yes, although the exact connections are a bit murky. It really started here with the Franciscans and their barbaric conversions of the local people. You know they took children from their homes and forced them into the religious schools, forbade them their language, customs, families."
Simon listened, fascinated. He knew this young child was really an old Cambridge don, but it was uncanny to watch.
"But the indigenous peoples were here for centuries before the invading Europeans, and knew much more than the Franciscans could imagine. Here at the very font of the plant world, where the world's oxygen is created, this is where the arrogance of the Christian invaders met with an ingenious solution. The Parumami had known of the youth plant for centuries, although their customs forbade the use of it except in ceremonial situations. Yes, there really is a plant, which can restore youth to those who ingest it. I am living proof. But the effects are not controllable, and differ widely from person to person. And there is an unfortunate side effect. When a person is regressed to youth, the additional mass of their body is excreted in an unpleasant way."
St. John paused and grimaced. Stephanie remembered the vat of foul-smelling sludge in the tunnel. The boy continued.
"The Parumami, fearing extinction at the hands of the invaders, came up with a clever plan. They fed the plant to their strongest warriors, and when they had physically become as children, sent them to the Franciscan schools. That way they could withstand the rigors of the Franciscan discipline without forgetting their language and customs. The real children were raised in hidden villages, and the strongest among them were selected for the treatment and servitude in the Franciscan schools. These people who had experienced a true second childhood then became part of an elite class, and an elaborate – and very secret - religious caste grew out of this. They are called the Old Ones. The Parumami still raise their children collectively in crèches.
"But it was bound to come to light sooner or later. As it happened, it was not a Franciscan who found out about the plant, but a trader. He ingested the plant, physically regressed and went mad. A trading ship took him back to Portugal as a cabin boy, where he disappeared. Well, I was unable to trace the poor wretch, anyway. But the fanciful tale lived on and re-surfaced later when the name of the plant figured in both Miguel de Cervantes' stories and a lost play of Shakespeare. I am sure you have already deduced, Dr. Litchfield, that the name the natives gave to this regenerative plant was cardenio.
"The obscure references in Shakespeare's texts reflect an abject fear or the process, which would have been seen as an unimagineable evil, a work of the Devil, by the Church of that time. Thwarting the God-mandated process of aging and death would have wreaked havoc on the discipline of the Church, and brought into question the very fundamentals of the Christian doctrine of death and resurrection. I am sure Shakespeare had some inkling of the danger of this idea when he destroyed the copies of Cardenio lest the veiled references in the verse become open knowledge. The verses must have made their way back here somehow.
Simon nodded. "We found that connection for you, Dr. St. John," he said, thinking of the hymns in Spanish.
The child smiled. "But of course it didn't stop there. The Parumami have had no need for the cardenio for many years, and have been merely the caretakers of its forest habitat. So many precious, and perhaps life-saving plants have been destroyed through the destruction of the Amazonian rain forests, that the Parumami have moved these crops from site to site for their protection many times. And not just the cardenio.
"There were other compounds – one plant, the bluish one I am sure you saw today – is a powerful hallucinogen. Others distort the sense of time and space and still others can cause or cure a stroke, incapacitate a person or kill instantly. I am sure you are familiar with the poison, curare..."
"But where does this Gryphius woman come in?" Stephanie interrupted. She was itching to get out and find Kevin Brady, and give the second Gryphius in her life what was coming to her.
"Yes, I am coming to that." The boy smiled and looked both young and old at the same time. "But you should already know that part, Miss Keel. You did your homework on her, I am sure."
Stephanie played back the history she had compiled on her computer.
"Celinde Gryphius.
Born Emily Jane Kingsford twenty-nine years ago outside of Manaus,
Brazil. Parents noted as David and
Emily Kingsford. One sibling, an older
sister, Laura. Emily Kingsford, the mother, was a physician and
died in an accident in the Amazon when the children were little. David
Kingsford, an historian and sociologist, then moved to Canada with his two
daughters.
"Kingsford
was involved in a complex project of his own when he met William Gryphius in
Canada. They set up shop together and
the older daughter joined them. Emily was an odd duck, and grew up around the
research laboratories. She married
Gryphius after an explosion killed her father.
The older daughter took over the father's work, but didn't get along
well with her sister or with Gryphius.
Gryphius and Emily moved to England for a couple of years. Emily began calling herself Celinde during
this time.
"Wait," Stephanie said. "That's it, isn't it? The mother, Emily – she wasn't killed. There was only one daughter. The accident – if it was one - didn't kill her, it made her into a child. Kingsford was forced to raise her as his daughter. Celinde Gryphius is actually Emily Kingsford, isn't she?"
"That would make her nearly sixty years old!" Tom shook his head. "No wonder Kingsford was obsessed with time travel," Tom said. "He spent all his time trying to find a way back, to undo the mess. And the daughter – the only daughter – kept at it too, trying to go back until we stopped her. But Emily/Celinde fell in with Gryphius and that changed everything."
"So she wasn't the victim in Gryphius' underground labs, then, was she? She was part of it." Stephanie's voice grew softer and her eyes took on a new glint.
Simon shuddered. He had never seen Stephanie filled with cold loathing before.
"I've got to go," she said simply. "I have to find her."
Simon nodded. There would be no stopping her.
"Wait! You have to know the rest!" The boy-doctor's voice was high and insistent. Stephanie paused. "The effects of the cardenio are different on different people, but prolonged usage generally results in super human strength and occasionally a total regression back to infancy. It is my opinion that this woman has been taking the drug in small doses for a long time to stay youthful. Anything might happen."
Stephanie nodded and checked her pistol. She put her laptop away and patted her pockets.
"What about you?" Tom asked the boy-doctor.
St. John sighed. "I am going to have to age normally. I don't relish going through puberty again, and I have no idea how I can resume my old life. I don't know what I will do."
"I'm sure the Institute can look after you for a while," Simon assured him. He found himself wishing for just a little of the drug, just enough to feel youthful again, enough to dash out at Stephanie's side, enough to...well, it didn't matter. It was out of the question.
"Tom, go with her," he ordered. "I'll stay here and get in touch with the Institute. And we still haven't found out where the disappearing site went to."
"Yes, you have." The doctor's high little voice piped up. He grinned and pointed.
Simon smiled and rubbed the bruise on his forehead. Yes, he had indeed.
Tom and Stephanie took the tunnel back to the site. They needed to end up at the other side in order to find out what happened to Kevin Brady, and there was always the chance Gryphius was still in there. It was quiet and dark, and because they couldn't risk being surprised by Celinde Gryphius, they kept their flashlights off.
In their mad dash to get out, they hadn't noticed the huge bundles of dried leaves lining the passageway. Now they saw them, tied up with twine and each one labeled in Portuguese.
"Don't touch them," Stephanie warned. She was sure they were cardenio, or maybe some of the other plants Dr. St. John had warned them about. "Maybe we shouldn't even be breathing them." She tied a handkerchief over her nose and mouth and Tom pulled the neck of his black tee shirt up over his face as they continued.
The bundles were ready to market, either to a pharmaceutical company or to some other unsavory buyer. The impact of such a drug on the open market made Tom's stomach lurch. You could destroy an enemy by regressing them to infancy and then killing them in their helpless state. A battlefield of dead babies. It was a grisly thought.
The tunnel seemed even longer this time. Tom was beginning to feel the toll of the day's activities, starting with his morning capture and abuse by Celinde. They came to a fork which neither of them remembered. They opted for left.
It wasn't the right choice. The left fork tunnel led to a large storeroom filled with more bundled leaves. They turned around and retraced their steps to the fork, then went to the right. This time it was familiar and they ended up in the now-empty nursery.
It was dark and smelled strongly of something unpleasant. They crossed the area quickly and found the stairway. The floor was littered with several bodies, the elderly Parumami who had been shot. An overturned basket revealed a tiny body and Tom felt a wave of revulsion. He started to go up the stairway first, but Stephanie pushed him out of the way. "Mine," she said and he understood.
She went up quietly and with both hands on her weapon. Tom followed, glancing behind them to make sure there were no surprises. He fought an irrational urge to nuzzle the strong tanned legs he knew were under the rough cloth of her cargo pants and decided he must have breathed too much of the drug dust in the air.
She carefully approached the opening and looked out over the top. It was raining again, and a soft mist wafted into her face. She looked around, and saw a body on the ground a few feet away. She felt a catch in her throat.
As quietly as a cat, Stephanie came up out of the hole in the ground. She listened for anything that might warn her of danger, but the sounds of the rain and the jungle were loud.
She ran over to Kevin Brady's inert form. There was no sign of Camacho, although there was a great deal of blood around. Tom emerged and covered her, pivoting slowly around, rifle at the ready.
Kevin was unconscious, and unresponsive to Stephanie's touch. "We've got to get him to a doctor," she said and Tom nodded.
Tom slung Kevin over his shoulder and started toward the road where Kevin's partially-obscured vehicle was parked. "Be careful," he said to Stephanie.
Stephanie set out in the opposite direction, following the trail of blood and broken leaves.
****
Simon peered out of the windows in the front of Camacho's house. He had secured the house and seen to the makeshift nursery the Parumami had set up. The front of the house opened out onto a magnificent view of the jungle and Pico da Neblina. He checked the safety on his pistol.
"How did they make the site disappear?" He asked Dr. St. John.
"Oh, that was easy. Celinde Gryphius has known for years about the various properties of the sacred plants, but it's ironic that although her father and sister both dedicated their lives to time travel, it was Gryphius who came up with the basic formula to stabilize the machines they built. Not that it is perfect. But she has built another of those machines somewhere here in Amazonia. I thought it was below the site, in the tunnels where we were, but I think it is here, under the house."
"Here?" Simon said in alarm. "Right here?"
"Well, I don't know for sure," the boy said uncertainly. "I heard her talking about it before they drugged me. She built it from her sister's – or daughter's, rather – plans, but it works differently.
"The temporal line can be geographically controlled, like it was before, only with much more precision. When the site disappeared, it was because the Gryphius woman changed the temporal lines around the site, sending it into the past or the future – to some time before or after the buildings and some of the vegetation existed. The people who were at the site should all be in that past or future, and they should be alright, but I don't know..." The boy's voice trailed off.
"Anyway, the site is still there, just not now."
"What did I run into in the forest then?" Simon asked, touching the purple bruise on his face.
"I think the time line has become unstable and some of the site is re-entering our time. I think it comes and goes, and is probably dangerous. That's why I wanted to get out of there, and get the Parumami out of there, too. I think you ran into a tree that used to be there and is now going in and out of the time line."
Simon paled. "Tom and Stephanie went back that way," he said.
"I think we'll know when the whole thing blows, Dr. Litchfield," the boy said. "There will probably be a deafening explosion of some sort."
"We have to find that machine." Simon remembered the explosions when Kingsford's time machines blew before. He thought of Max Cory, dead now, with a painful sense of guilt.
"Let's search the cellars," the boy suggested. "And don't even think of leaving me here. I am older than you, Dr Litchfield - and younger, too."
Simon couldn't argue with this. "All right. Here, take a weapon. And for God's sake let's get you dressed."
Minutes later Maria showed them the stairs to the cellars. Dr. Litchfield's smart khakis were still presentable and Dr. St. John wore a loose shirt and a pair of Stephanie's cargo pants rolled up at the cuffs. He looked even more of a little boy with his toothy grin and a Beretta 9mm in both hands.
They went down the stairway to the cellars and found themselves in a brightly-lit modern basement full of Ikea cabinetry and open shelves of cleaning supplies, toilet paper, paper towels and laundry detergent. A tool bench with the latest in nail guns, mitre saws and even a small drill press occupied one side. The air was cool and fresh, coming in through a ventilator, and smelled faintly of lavender.
"Where are we?" Dr. St John asked.
"Martha Stewart's workshop," Simon replied. He was puzzled. He poked around, opened cupboard doors and finally found what they were looking for: a steel door set into the back of one of the storage cabinets. He leaned on the horizontal bar that stuck out like a handle and felt the mechanism inside fall into place. The heavy soundproofed door swung inward on silent hinges. "This way," he said.
A low moaning in the earth told him they were in the right place. He moved carefully through a hallway, over a smooth polished floor, heading toward an ethereal green light. His stomach tightened in the familiar light, the sickening green light of the Kingsford temporal displacement rings. He crept closer and halted with the boy behind as the hallway took a sharp turn.
"Camacho, you whiner. Just shut up!" Celinde Gryphius' voice could be heard over the moaning which had changed in timbre and become a deep buzzing. "I swear, if I didn't need you to finish the deal with GKN Drugs and keep the peace with the damned Indians, I would kill you right now!"
"But the site! If it shows up again, there will be hell to pay with the LBA. We'll never get the Brazilian government's cooperation on the plants." Simon moved around to where he could get a clear shot at Gryphius, while the boy inched to the other side and drew a bead on Camacho.
"What makes you think we'll need their cooperation?" Celinde asked as she made some adjustments to the bank of computer and dials in front of her. "We have the coordinates of the Parumami's crèche. We can blast their kids – and their Old Ones – right into the next century if the government doesn't keep on helping us. The LBA is no threat. Besides, I have Carlos Vieira right where I want him."
"Maybe not." Carlos stepped out from behind the huge rings of the Kingsford time machine. He held a compact semi automatic in his hands and aimed it at Celinde. "Maybe you're not as attractive as you think, pretty lady," he said, advancing toward her. "Maybe you're not as smart, either. This is my country, my resources, my people. The Parumami are my kin, and the sacred plants are my heritage. This," he motioned toward the huge green glowing rings, "is an abomination."
Celinde laughed. "You gotta be kidding, Vieira," she said. "We are going to make a fortune on the drugs, and we are going to continue here. Luis is going to make sure the research goes on as a cover, I am going to make sure the site stays hidden and you are going to make sure the money keeps on coming without any interference from the Brazilian government. The drugs were a fantastic discovery, and the Parumami are going to be a fine captive work force. But the real beauty for me is getting the cream of the Nightwatch Institute out of the picture."
Simon saw that part of the disappearance of the site had just been a trap, a way to get Nightwatch to send their crack team out. In the future, he would have to be a bit more careful about jumping into assignments and taking his friends with him. He wondered where Stephanie and Tom were, and felt a momentary panic.
The rings rumbled in their peculiar way again, giving Simon a flashback of misery as he thought about Max Cory. He stepped out into the open.
"I think your operation is over, Celinde," he said calmly.
Carlos looked up long enough for Celinde Gryphius to grab his weapon and leap behind the glowing rings. She shot him before she fell to the floor. Camacho screamed and used his good arm to start smashing at the controls of the rings. The deep buzzing changed to an ominous rumble and a small earthquake knocked him on his butt. Simon rushed forward, abject fear of the Kingsford rings propelling him toward the danger of Celinde Gryphius.
As she reached up from her position on the floor and pulled the trigger, Dr. St. John shot her neatly through the upper torso and cut short her scream of rage. Her shots went wild and echoed into the console. The rumbling in the ground increased.
Simon grabbed the boy doctor. "We must get out of here before the whole thing blows," he said.
"No!" Dr. St. John squirmed in Simon's grasp. "Don't you see? We have to turn it off!"
St. John was right. If the machine blew up it could take the Parumami with it, not to mention the missing researchers, if they were still alive.
Simon released the boy and ignoring the whimpering Camacho, stepped up to the front of the console. It was different from the one he had seen in the nightmare caves with Max Cory, but he could figure out the power supply part. He flipped a couple of switches and nothing happened. "Damn!" he swore. Then he spotted the huge power connection and twisted the lock ring. The green light dimmed and the rumbling in the earth became a humming sound. He gave a heaving shove and disconnected the ring.
The room went dark and silent except for the sound of heavy breathing and a weird loob-dub sound. Right, he thought, recognizing his own heartbeat.
Dr. St. John switched on a little flashlight from the pocket of Stephanie's cargo pants. "I think it's okay now," he said, the light playing over the wounded Camacho. A groan from Carlos Vieira brought the light and showed him to have a large red stain spreading across the upper part of his shirt.
"Go back upstairs," Simon said, "and get Maria to help. See if you can get Stephanie or Tom on the radio, too." He took the little flashlight.
Simon jerked a length of wire from the damaged console, then peered behind the silent rings to where Celinde had fallen. He intended to truss her up, breathing or not.
But she was gone. A smear of blood on the floor was all that was left of her. He shone the small light into the recesses behind the rings and saw the hallway which continued back into darkness. She had escaped again.
****
Stephanie made good time through the Amazon rain forest, stepping lightly and following the track of the broken leaves and blood. She could tell that it was doubling back toward the house, and sighed. How many different ways were there?
The ground rumbled and she looked up, expecting the heavy clouds to account for thunder. But the sky was clear above the latticed canopy and all she could make out was the fog-shrouded heights of Pico da Neblina in the distance. She almost missed the opening in the ground, identical to one she had come out of several miles away. She would never have found it without the trail of blood.
She didn't hesitate for a moment, quickly stepping down into the dank earth and into another tunnel. She checked her black box signal in her cargo pants pocket so someone could find her – or at least her body – if anything happened. It had been on since she arrived in Amazonia.
She paused at the foot of the stairway long enough for her eyes to become accustomed to the dark, then set out lightly and silently, following the tunnel. The rumbling in the earth became an annoying – and familiar – buzzing and she caught her breath. She knew that sound. She fought the urge to turn around and run, replacing it with the image of Celinde Gryphius. Fortified, she went on.
She held her pistol in both sweating hands as the tunnel took a sharp turn and the sickening green light glowed further down. She felt ready for anything.
She was not ready for the heavy projectile that collided with her in the dim light. She went down heavily, but held on to the pistol. She knew what it was, and her rage propelled her to her feet even as Celinde Gryphius scrambled on the wet floor.
Stephanie did not feel anything as she fired. She emptied the clip and then everything went absolutely quiet. The green light was gone, and in the darkness nothing moved.
The clink of wineglasses and convivial laughter filed the
living room at Luis Camacho's house.
Camacho was in the hospital at São
Gabriel da Cachoeira, recovering from his wound. It wasn't serious, but the charges
the Brazilian government was preparing against him were.
Carlos Vieira's
collarbone had been set and he was in a cast, but still able to enjoy the
party. He was talking to the released site researchers who had been found in
one of the many tunnels snaking under the property. The government had taken
over the contents of the tunnels and the care of the Parumami. Carlos would be intimately involved in their
future, and in the disposition of the plants.
The Brazilian government had agreed to destroy the cardenio from
the tunnels and return its secrets to the Parumami who guarded it.
Simon Litchfield's
immaculate khakis were pressed and he spent part of his time talking to the
housekeeper, Maria, who had dressed up in a plain black dress for the occasion.
The rest of the time he spent trying not to stare anxiously at Stephanie.
Stephanie sat in a
corner, talking earnestly to Kevin Brady, who had been released from the
hospital on the same day as Carlos. She was animated with him, but slightly
awkward with Simon.
Dr. St. John
objected to the soft drink he was offered, but Simon reminded him he was going
to have to get used to living as a pre-adolescent for a while. The Institute did indeed have a job for him,
but there was no getting around the liquor laws in Washington, so he might as
well start practicing.
Tom Weldon grappled
with his conflicting emotions. He wasn't satisfied with this trip, not like he
had been before. Maybe it was time for him to beg off these wild adventures.
When they had found Stephanie alone in the darkened tunnel, catatonic and with
her pistol empty, he had felt an icy stab of horror. He counseled strangers professionally, not his dear friends. At least she seemed animated with that Brady
fellow.
They didn't find Celinde Gryphius, although Stephanie claimed over and over to have shot her.
Simon met Callow's deadline with three hours to spare, but knew the final report would take days to write. He felt old and tired and was looking forward to going home.
"Simon!" Carlos Vieira grinned, "Tell me you'll come visit us often, now that Nightwatch has given the care of this fine house to me." One of the researchers, a woman, had her arm around Carlos' waist and a drink in her hand. She smiled and her pretty face seemed to light up. For a moment Simon wished mightily for just a small amount of the cardenio.
Bishop Wei-Song took an old wooden tray out of his desk in the dusty church office and put on his cotton gloves. There was no reason to ask for absolution – he had not lied to the gentlemen. It could not be a sin to protect one of the Church's greatest treasures, but it was time to extend that protection. The Papal Envoy would be arriving in a week, and would expect the treasure to be sealed properly. The Bishop carefully took one last look through the folio and then replaced it. Mr. Shakespeare would have been proud of the care the Bishop took of this play. Or maybe he would have been annoyed that it hadn’t been destroyed as he had wished. Cardenio was never his favorite.
Nightwatch
created by Jeff Williams
Developed by Jeff Williams and Robert Moriyama
Simon Litchfield raised his arms over his head and stretched until the vertebrae
in his spine crackled and popped into better alignment. He opened and closed his hands several
times, spreading the fingers as far apart as possible each time and flexing his
wrists. Finally feeling that he had
temporarily banished the stiffness and pain that had begun to plague him more
frequently over the past months, he laid his right index finger on the
fingerprint reader to unlock his office computer.
"Good morning,
Doctor Litchfield," the computer said.
"It is Tuesday, October 22nd, 8:05 AM. The temperature is 59 degrees Fahrenheit,
humidity is 72 percent, and the probability of precipitation is estimated to be
32 percent."
"What's on the
agenda today?" Simon asked. He
could have consulted his handheld computer, but the damned thing hadn't been
picking up wireless updates reliably since his trip to the Amazon -- probably
mold in the works, or dust from the underground lab-cum-slave pens.
"You have no
meetings scheduled," the computer said.
"The scheduled Major Projects Committee meeting has been postponed
due to an emergency situation."
Simon frowned. On the one hand, anything that got him out
of a Major Projects Committee meeting was a blessing. On the other hand, Jared Molinski would not postpone the meeting
unless there was a serious problem somewhere in the world -- one already
involving the Nightwatch Institute or one where its services were likely to be
needed.
"Any
messages?"
"You have 12
messages, none marked urgent. Would you
like to review them now?"
Simon pulled his chair
closer to the desk with its built-in display.
"Might as well."
"The first
message is a voice-only communication from Melvin Squibb."
"Hey, Doctor
Litchfield. I received your request to
have someone take a look at your handheld.
One of my boys will pick it up this afternoon and bring a loaner to
ya. Hope the wireless protocols are
working well enough to dupe your data..."
Simon rolled his
eyes. Squibb was a master of gadgetry
-- procuring it as soon as it was released from exclusive use by intelligence
agencies, manufacturers, and -- for all Simon knew -- little green men. But somehow, his expertise did not cover the
proper use of a microphone. This
message, like every recording of Squibb's voice that Simon had ever heard, was
punctuated by the sounds of Melvin's
breathing, the scraping of the microphone against his clothing or hair,
something that was probably chewing and swallowing ... The remark about using
the handheld's wireless communications capabilities to copy data to the loaner
unit was also a bit ridiculous, since it was the wireless communications that
seemed to be failing. It was
unfortunate that Stephanie Keel's group had given up its role in supporting the
unending stream of new hardware that Squibb kept supplying. Thanks to Stephanie, they were the most
competent bunch of circuit and software jockeys that Simon had ever dealt with.
"Next
message," Simon said.
The following messages
were mostly routine business -- updates on engineering projects that Simon had
overseen on behalf of the Institute on three continents, a few forwarded jokes,
one brief greeting from Morna -- still tinged with a mixture of affection and
contempt, unfortunately. But the final
message was something special.
"The twelfth and
final message is from Erik Stevensson. It
is in video format. Playing
message."
Simon grinned. He hadn't heard from Erik Stevensson in
several years. The Swedish bridge
building specialist had worked on more than one project with Simon and
personnel from UNESCO and other agencies, but had semi-retired almost five
years ago. They'd had some interesting
times together, though -- the big Swede was more than a decade older than
Simon, but had proven himself in more than one of the 'situations' that Simon seemed
to attract.
"Simon, my
friend, greetings from the land of the most beautiful blondes in the
world! When are you coming to Sweden so
I can introduce you to some of my favorites?"
Simon shook his
head. Stevensson was still lean and
fit; his hair was as thick and wavy as ever, although it had probably been
snow-white long before Simon's had even started to turn gray. No doubt he could still charm a roomful of
women -- the bastard had stolen more than one from Simon's clutches.
"If that is not
enough reason to come visit me, maybe this is -- I shot it last week while
hiking in Abisko Park, near Mount Kebnekaise."
Stevensson's image was
replaced by a grainy view of a late-twilight sky. Various digital artifacts suggested that the video had been
enhanced to bring out more detail in the poorly lit landscape.
"The dark lump in
the middle is Mount Kebnekaise," Stevensson's voice said. "You can make out a few stars, too --
the air is very clean in Sweden, compared to your cities -- and especially
above the Arctic Circle. But it is not
the mountain or the stars that will interest you, my friend. Watch the upper right corner of the picture
-- now!"
At the indicated
moment, two pinpricks of light appeared, brightening until they overwhelmed the
camera's contrast circuitry and the picture dissolved into a chaotic pattern of
black and white rectangles. Just before
the image broke up, Simon thought he had seen the specks elongating, stretching
from points into streaks of brilliance like sunlight penetrating a scratched
piece of smoked glass.
Stevensson's face
reappeared. "Whatever that was, it
almost ruined my camera," he said.
"Maybe you remember the stories of 'ghost rockets' over Sweden near
the end of the Second World War, and again in 1947 -- this reminded me of those
stories."
Simon grimaced. "Maybe you remember them, my friend -- I'm not quite that old." On the other hand, he was talking to a recording.
"The rockets
observed during the war were early versions of the V2," Stevensson
said. "The Swedish government even
traded the remains of one to the British for other military materiel. But the ones from 1947 were never
explained. Some theorized that they were
Russian rocket experiments, performed with the help of captured German
scientists from Peenemunde."
"Bloody
fascinating, Erik, but why would you think I'd care?"
"You are
interested in strange occurrences, as I recall," Stevensson said, almost
as if he had heard Simon's question.
"For some kind of rockets to be flying over Sweden is strange, but
maybe not strange enough for you. But
there is more."
Simon frowned. Now that he thought about it, the sudden
appearance of the rocket exhaust in mid-air was peculiar. An aircraft going to afterburners would not
have generated light anywhere near as bright as what he had just seen; on the
other hand, any chemical rocket would have been visible as a moving spot or
streak of light from the moment of launch until engine shutdown.
"I think I
captured images of rockets carried to high altitude using balloons,"
Stevensson said. "That way, there
would be no visible trace until the engines were ignited."
"The Canadian
daVinci Project entry in the Ansari X Prize competition was like that,"
Simon said to himself. "Odd that
someone would be recycling the idea now, but --"
"What is
especially strange is that neither the hypothetical balloons nor the rockets
ever showed up on radar," Stevensson said. "I have contacts in the Swedish Air Force who checked for
any reports of unusual activity, and they came up with no unidentified radar
tracks at the time of the recording."
"Stealth
balloons? Stealth housings on the
rockets as well?"
"So, my friend
who enjoys mysteries -- why would someone be launching rockets in the far
north, and making them as close to invisible as possible? Something to think about!"
"End of
message," the computer said.
"Draft reply to
message just played," Simon said.
"Voice only. Message start:
Erik, you old bastard, you've captured my interest. I don't think I'll be able to come to Sweden to tramp around the
frozen north hunting more of your ghost rockets -- at least not right away --
but I would like to follow up on the ones you saw. If you can, please send me as much info as possible on the
location where you shot that video -- map coordinates from your GPS, the exact
time and date, and the approximate bearing.
No, scrap that last -- if you provide your GPS coordinates, we can
calculate the bearing from the image of Mount Kebnekaise."
"The only reason
I can imagine for someone using stealthed
balloons to launch stealthed rockets
is that they wanted to keep the launches secret -- and failing that, they
wanted to disguise the origin of the rockets.
That's not a good sign, as I'm sure you guessed."
"Hope to hear
from you soon. Save me a blonde or two
-- depending on what I can uncover, maybe I will make it there for a
visit. I've got cold weather gear, but
a warm blonde beats a parka any day.
End message. Transmit."
Simon absently
massaged the knuckles of his right hand, trying to lessen the stiffness that
was already creeping back in after his morning exercises. Did he need to involve Callow and the Lower
Echelon in this? Perhaps not -- from
the sound of things, they were likely to be occupied with whatever the crisis
of the day turned out to be. In fact,
once they had decided on a course of action, Callow would probably call on
Simon to go forth and risk his impeccably clad butt yet again.
"Carpe diem," Simon said. "If I want answers on this, I'd best
pursue them myself while I have the time."
While he waited for a
reply from Erik, Simon researched the park that the Swedish engineer had
mentioned. It was, indeed, above the
Arctic Circle, somewhere only Erik would go in winter for 'fun'. The whole of Sweden, of course, was tantalizingly
close to former Soviet territory -- the southern coast was a few hundred
kilometers from the old Riga base, while the northern portion was separated
from the Northern Fleet base at Murmansk by only four or five hundred
kilometers. Dirigibles had crossed the
Atlantic nearly a century ago -- the distance from former Soviet borders to
Sweden was tiny by comparison.
Of course, as Alexei
Yakonov had pointed out in Afghanistan only a few months ago, Soviet hardware
and expertise had been for sale to anyone with enough money since the early
90's. And money -- especially hard
currency, euros or American dollars -- could buy cooperation from governments
struggling to function without the collective economic and military clout of
Mother Russia behind them.
So -- postulate a
group, not necessarily affiliated with any
government, with the money to buy Soviet stealth and booster technology, able
to operate from somewhere within dirigible range of Sweden. What
were they launching? Not missiles
-- at least not yet. There had been no
reports of large-scale explosions attributable to any kind of high-yield
warhead.
If the boosters were
powerful enough, they could put fair-sized payloads into orbit -- polar orbit,
anyway, like some of the ERTS mapping satellites. Polar orbits rather sucked for military or surveillance purposes;
they passed over areas of interest for only a tiny fraction of the time. But why hide the launches if they didn't
have some military or nefarious (he loved that word, and sadly, did get to use
it a lot, working for Callow) purpose?
Maybe once he received
a reply from Erik, he'd have enough to feed to his friends at the NSA and
CIA. Stealthy or not, the ignition of
rocket boosters at altitude had almost certainly been detected by the web of
launch-detection satellites still orbiting from the good old days when ICBM
attacks had been the expected mechanism for the start of Armageddon...
"Incoming
message," the computer said.
"Origin?"
"Mr. Callow's
office," the computer replied.
"Message is in text format.
Message follows: Dr. Litchfield, please meet me in the usual place in
ten minutes. End of message."
"Thus endeth my
free time," Simon grunted. He
stood, brushing the wrinkles from his crisp khaki trousers and jacket, and
headed for the library.
####
On the way to the library, where Callow
insisted on holding his semi-clandestine briefings, Simon found Stephanie
standing outside the room that housed the Institute's main file servers. She had a handheld computer in one hand, and
a few crumpled pages of some arcane report in the other, but her gaze was
directed -- elsewhere.
"Stephanie, my dear, you look a bit
lost," Simon said.
Startled, Stephanie took a step backward,
exhaling sharply as her back hit the wall.
"What?
I -- no, I was just thinking --"
"She's not dead," Simon said. "Celinde Gryphius is not dead. There was no body, and not even much blood
anywhere near the spot where we found you."
Stephanie looked at him sharply. "I wasn't thinking about that," she said. "I -- she deserved to die, anyway --
the things she did to those people, the things she planned to do --"
Simon laid one hand on her shoulder. "You have to let it go, Stephanie. Celinde was a monster -- is a monster -- like her husband. Someday, she will emerge from hiding, and we
will deal with her then. But you can't
let what she did, or what you tried to do, take over your life."
"I
tried to kill her," Stephanie said.
"Whether she's alive or not, I tried
to kill her, put at least three bullets into her. After all the times I've criticized you for -- for --"
"For taking lives," Simon said. "Don't imagine for a moment that I ever
take a life gladly, or that I ever forget what I have done. I am an engineer, when Callow lets me be one
-- my business is building things, fixing things, making life better for
people. But there are times when
innocent lives are in the balance, or my own life -- I haven't counted myself
as 'innocent' in a long, long time. And
at those times, sometimes taking one life, or even several, is the least of the
available evils."
"Hardly a fit subject for discussion in
the hallway, Dr. Litchfield," Callow said.
Stephanie seemed to retreat into herself,
almost cringing, and Simon was torn between comforting her and breaking
Callow's jaw.
"I was just on my way to see you,
Callow," Simon said. He reached
for Stephanie's hand, but she turned and vanished through the door of the
server room.
"You should leave the psychotherapy to
your friend Dr. Weldon," Callow said.
"He knows far more than he should about our affairs, but that makes
him a suitable resource for dealing with problems like Ms. Keel's."
"That's quite enough, Callow," Simon
said. "Let's get your little
briefing out of the way."
The Popular Culture section of the Nightwatch
Institute library was empty, as usual.
The bookcases and racks of magazines and discs formed a self-contained
alcove near the rear of the room, insulated by distance and snobbery from the
more frequented areas. Simon suspected
that Callow had special sound-deadening materials built into the floor,
ceiling, walls, and the bookcases themselves -- anything short of a shouting
match would be unintelligible from more than a few meters away.
Callow had his handheld computer and a large
fold-out display set up on the table as he had often done. There was a large, muscular man standing by
the table, apparently standing guard; he left the area when he saw Callow
returning.
"That's new," Simon said. "You've never posted a guard over your
little home theater before."
"If you will please take a seat, you'll see that we've never faced a threat like
this before, either," Callow said.
Grimacing, Simon complied. "So what is this 'threat'? Does it have anything to do with the
emergency that made Jared cancel this morning's meeting?"
Callow said nothing, but tapped the screen of
his handheld computer and gestured toward the larger screen.
An image appeared -- a satellite view of --
"Alaska?" Simon asked.
Callow nodded, but said nothing.
A dark silhouette filled the center of the
screen, blotting out most of the satellite image. Then an electronically generated voice began to speak.
"You do not know us. You do not need to know us. What you do need to know is this: we have
the means to cause devastating earthquakes in the state of Alaska and adjacent
areas. This will destroy pipelines and
refineries that provide a major part of the petroleum and natural gas supply of
the Western United States. It will also
trigger tsunamis -- tidal waves --
that will cause hundreds of billions, if not trillions, in damage to coastal
areas around the northern Pacific. I
need not mention that thousands of lives will also be lost."
Simon shook his head. "Is this from some straight-to-download spy movie?"
"Shut up, Dr. Litchfield. And watch, and listen."
The voice continued, "Gradual thawing of
the permafrost in Alaska and the Canadian Arctic has already caused minor
seismic events. We will accelerate this
process a thousandfold, causing subsidence of the soil on a massive scale. Imagine the shock wave caused by a mass
equal to that of the island of Manhattan dropping perhaps half a meter..."
The screen showed footage from the California
earthquake of 1989 -- collapsed and burned out buildings, the top level of the
Cypress viaduct of Interstate 880 pancaked onto the roadway below. Then the scene changed, showing news footage
of quake damage in China, India, Mexico City ... Finally, a view appeared of an
intact city that Simon recognized as Fairbanks, the largest city in Alaska.
"We will carry out this plan unless a fee
of one trillion euros is deposited in the following accounts..."
Callow tapped his screen, pausing the
playback. "The few experts who are
cleared for this information say that the threat is plausible."
"Plausible? Exactly how would they melt a few trillion tonnes of frozen
ground 'a thousandfold' faster than global bloody warming is already
doing?"
"We don't know," Callow said. "But watch this next part." He tapped his screen again, and the video
playback resumed.
"... Naturally, you doubt our ability to
do what we have said. Accordingly, we
will trigger a small seismic event -- approximate Richter magnitude 3.2 -- at
68 degrees 21 minutes north by 147 degrees 13 minutes west, at precisely 3 PM,
Pacific Standard Time, on the date you receive this message "
"Those coordinates fall just east of the
National Petroleum Reserve," Callow said.
"It's almost 3 PM Eastern Time,"
Simon said. "I guess we'll know in
a few hours whether the threat is real."
Callow snorted. "Perhaps I should have mentioned that the message was
received yesterday. We were called in because the predicted seismic event
happened on schedule. It was a 3.1, not
a 3.2, but that hardly matters."
"My God," Simon said. "What is being done? Are the governments in the affected
countries raising the ransom?"
"They are trying," Callow said. "Obviously, a trillion euros is a
rather significant sum, even for the United States or the European Union. The major part of the burden is falling upon
the United States and Japan, as the two nations with the most to lose, but
other Pacific Rim nations are contributing -- somewhat."
"They can't be using land-based equipment
to do this," Simon said. "I
can't think of anything that could affect that broad an area that wouldn't be
screamingly obvious to even crude detection methods."
"Yet there are no orbiting facilities with
anything resembling the specialized capabilities required for this,"
Callow said. "And a suitcase nuke
would be a threat in itself, not something you would use to melt
permafrost."
"Shit.
There are no known orbiting
facilities," Simon said. "Let
me tell you about a message I just received from a friend of mine in
Sweden..."
####
"I don't know what to do, Tom,"
Stephanie said. "I'm almost afraid
to close my eyes, because every time I do, I'm back in the jungle. I can feel the gun jump in my hand, smell
the smoke, hear the crack of each shot as I pull the trigger again and
again. And I see her --"
Stephanie had called Tom Weldon as soon as she
had finished her work in the Nightwatch Institute file server room -- something
that had taken at least twice as long as it should have. Tom had agreed to see her immediately,
rescheduling his afternoon appointments, and Stephanie had made the drive from
Georgetown to Arlington before the worst of the afternoon rush turned the 395
into a parking lot. That, too, had
taken longer than usual; all Stephanie's skills as a driver seemed to have been
swept away by the rising maelstrom of guilt and anxiety. But finally, she had reached the L'Enfant
Building and the safe haven of Tom's office.
Stephanie sat in one of the guest chairs, her
hands gripping the carved wood of the armrests hard enough to make the tendons
in her wrists stand out. Tom was in his
big, battered leather captain's chair, the only piece of furniture in the room
that looked sturdy enough to support his heavily muscled frame. Two cups of brandy-fortified coffee occupied
the table between them, next to the not-quite-antique intercom box.
Stephanie took a cautious sip from her cup,
wary of the amount of brandy that Tom had added. As she had suspected, the coffee to brandy ratio was perilously
close to one to one.
Tom sighed.
"Simon mentioned that you seemed agitated and distracted this
morning," he said. "It's been
several weeks now since we got back from Brazil. I thought you were coming to terms with what happened there --
but apparently I'm not as smart as I like to think I am."
He took a drink from his own cup, closing his
eyes as the warmth of the brandy snaked its way through his body. After a moment, he said, "It would be
more understandable if you had actually killed Celinde -- taking a life under
any circumstances goes against conditioning that is deeply-ingrained in all of
us. Except for psychopaths, of course,
like Celinde and her not-so-dearly-departed husband."
Stephanie shook her head, hard enough to
dislodge the pins holding her hair back.
"I keep telling you, and Simon too -- what matters to me is that I tried to kill her. That cardenio somehow gave her the strength
to escape even with three or four bullets in her doesn't matter -- I pulled the trigger. I
tried to end her life. I was close
enough to see what each bullet did to her, saw the blood spray, saw her body
jerk with each impact, but I kept firing..."
"You knew what she had done," Tom
said. "She had enslaved the
Parumami, was working them to death, and was killing without conscience anyone
who got in her way. God knows what
kinds of hell her test subjects endured -- I suspect that the victims we found
were only the latest in a long series.
And you knew what she planned to do, selling the secrets of cardenio and
other unique and dangerous drugs to the highest bidder. Any court on the planet would condemn her to
death, or at least to life in prison."
"It doesn't matter!" Stephanie
said. "I trained -- after Simon
got me out of William Gryphius's clutches, I spent months learning to fight, to
shoot -- Ora Namir, a female Mossad agent, taught me krav maga, taught me to
use pistols, submachine guns, knives.
But I never, never wanted to learn to kill."
"You're a long way from being a pacifist,
Stephanie," Tom said. "Since
I've known you, you've probably done more damage than I have --"
Stephanie laughed bitterly. "Only a fool or an egomaniac would pick
a fight with you," she said.
"I, on the other hand, am just
a woman, so a lot of people figure I'm an easy target. That's what William Gryphius saw when he
picked me to join his little menagerie -- just
a woman, someone he could overpower and abuse at will."
Tom smiled.
"Nobody makes that mistake anymore. At least not more than once."
Suddenly Stephanie's face crumpled and she
began to cry. "It wasn't a mistake
then. It wasn't."
Tom stood and walked around the table and took
Stephanie in his massive arms. He and
Simon were among the very few men whom Stephanie would allow to hold her
without asking permission.
"This isn't just about Celinde,
Steph," Tom said. "I see that
now. It's about everything that's
happened to you over the past few years.
It's about control of your life -- William Gryphius took it away from
you for a time, and Celinde Gryphius made you give it away, made you go against your most sacred beliefs out of
rage and -- fear. God knows she scared
the hell out of me -- I can take a
punch, but she dropped me with one shot."
Stephanie laughed again, and this time it
sounded more like the woman he knew -- allowing for the runny nose and the
muffling effects of his shirt, of course.
Stephanie put her hands on Tom's chest and
pushed him away, gently. She frowned,
peering closely at his shirt, then laughed again.
"I think I left a little snot on your
shirt," she said.
Tom winced, gingerly tugging at his damp
shirtfront to unstick it from his chest.
"I'll add the cleaning bill to your account," he said.
While Tom returned to his seat, Stephanie took
a longer drink of her now-cooling coffee.
"Do you think it's true?" she asked. "Are my nightmares about shooting Celinde tangled up with
memories of what William did to me?"
"I think it's worth exploring," Tom
said. "Having feelings you had
safely buried exhumed on the trip down to Brazil, and then finding new horrors
linked to another Gryphius -- I can't imagine how hard that must have been for
you."
"I thought I had it under control,"
Stephanie said. "But Kevin getting
shot, the Parumami, the dead infant -- who might have been an adult before
Celinde started working on him -- I was afraid, and angry, and lost. And when Celinde jumped me, all I could
think of was lashing out at her, making it all stop."
"And you had a gun in your hand, so
'lashing out' turned into pulling a trigger," Tom said. "If you had been unarmed, you probably
would have tried to fight Celinde hand-to-hand. With her unnatural strength and speed against your training, I
don't know who would have won -- but I'm betting that you would not be feeling
as guilty as you do now. Assuming that
you survived, of course -- Celinde wouldn't have hesitated to kill you."
Stephanie said nothing, so Tom continued. "You didn't set out to kill
Celinde. She attacked you, and you
reacted instinctively. With your stress
levels already off the scale, maybe one might say you overreacted -- but there was only one killer in that dust-up, and
it wasn't you."
"I lost control," Stephanie said
slowly. "I let Celinde -- and the
situation -- overwhelm me."
"I think that's part of what is causing
you so much pain," Tom said.
"After William Gryphius, you did everything you could to make
yourself strong, so nobody could control you or abuse you again. Trying to kill Celinde seemed to show that
you were weaker than you thought you were, weak enough to abandon your
principles under pressure."
"That makes sense, I guess,"
Stephanie said. "If I'm weak, then
I have cause to be afraid again."
"You're not weak, Steph," Tom
said. "You're one of the strongest
people I know, in every sense of the word.
You've been on missions that Navy SEALs would turn down, faced danger
and just plain weirdness that would turn most people into permanent basket
cases. But everybody has limits, and at
Pico Neblina, you had too much land on you at once. I'd bet my life that you'll be as effective as ever once you get
your head around that fact. Failing
once doesn't mean that you'll fail again -- it just means that you're
human."
Stephanie sighed, then drained the last of the
brandy-laced coffee from her cup.
"Thanks, Coach, she said.
"I feel a little better.
Just talking to you about it helps a lot. The brandy doesn't hurt, either."
Tom laughed.
"I'm charging that to your account, too. Normally I save this bottle to go with my monthly cigar."
"Simon tries to help me, but somehow
talking to him about this makes me feel even more anxious," Stephanie
said.
Tom nodded.
"Makes sense, when we consider the William Gryphius factor. Simon was your knight in khaki armor -- but
he was there, he's tangled up with the worst moments of your life. And he killed Gryphius, practically right in
front of you, so he's both a hero -- and another monster."
"Promise me you'll never tell him
that," Stephanie said. "I
love him -- although not the way he might want me to -- and I know it would
hurt him to think that being around him might cause me pain."
"Therapist - patient privilege," Tom
said. "I don't tell him things that come out here -- and I
don't tell you things that he tells me, either."
Stephanie paused in mid-sip. "You know all his secrets," she
said.
Tom grinned.
"Probably not all, but I know a few things that you don't."
Groaning, Stephanie said, "Now that will give me something different to
obsess about!"
####
Within a few hours of
Simon's query, Erik Stevensson sent back the GPS coordinates where he had
recorded the 'ghost rocket' video. Simon
relayed the information to his CIA and NSA contacts -- as it turned out, they
were part of the task force assigned to deal with the massive blackmail scheme,
and were able to give top priority to the new data.
"This is hot
stuff, Simon," Alan Delarue said over a secure video link. "Fortunately for us, the satellites
tasked with covering the sub bases at Riga and Murmansk were already performing
surveillance of that general area. Once
we knew where to look and what to look for, the computers flagged dozens of
launch indications in the same general area as the ones your friend saw."
"And no one
thought this was worth mentioning?"
Delarue shrugged. "The launch indications didn't match the
profile for any known weapon or military aircraft, including air-to-air and
cruise missiles. Besides, they were
over Sweden -- not exactly a haven
for terrorists or world-conquering armies."
"What in God's
name could they be doing?" Simon
asked. "Why dozens of
launches?"
"If you're right
and they're putting some kind of hardware up there to make Baked Alaska
--" Delarue waited for Simon to
laugh, but gave up after a few seconds and continued. "Ahem. They'd want
as many birds in orbit as possible. If
each launch put one or more doohickeys into a polar orbit, they'd need a lot of
them to ensure they could get fairly constant coverage of the target
area."
Simon nodded. "Whoever is behind this scheme may need a trillion dollars just to pay the
bills. Any chance that the orbiting
weapons we're not supposed to have could shoot some of these 'birds'
down?"
Delarue shook his
head. "The missile defense
platforms were never intended to intercept stuff that's already achieved
orbit. They were designed to catch
things during the launch or reentry phases of a ballistic trajectory. Also, we still haven't been able to track
the damn things -- the stealth technology is state of the art, way too
effective for any of the space surveillance radar to see them."
"Then we have to
find the launch site," Simon said.
"Not Sweden, of course. I
mean the place where the balloons or dirigibles or whatever they are being
released."
"That could be
tough, even if we retask every satellite that can have its orbit shifted to cover
the area," Delarue said.
"Your 'ghost rocket' carriers have a pretty low infra-red signature
until the rocket engines are ignited, and they're probably camouflaged -- white
on top, black on the bottom for night flying over snow, so they'll be hard to
detect optically, as well."
"What about radar
tracking?"
"Are you going
'deef', Simon? I told you, these things
-- the rockets, the satellites, and even the balloons or whatever they're using
to get them up and over Sweden -- they're all damn near invisible to any
radar."
"Then they should
cast a shadow of sorts," Simon said.
"Suppose you did a radar sweep from high altitude, aimed
downward. The signal would be reflected
by the ground -- but not by our oh-so-stealthy dirigibles."
"Huh. If we put AWACS aircraft above the altitude
where the launches take place -- not too much higher, because we'd want the
targets to block a wide enough angle to make things obvious..."
"I leave it to
you and our military counterparts to see if my idea is practical," Simon said. "Of course, we must hope that our
extortionist friends keep launching more satellites until we can at least
obtain a vector to their base."
"That, and that
we can pull this off before the deadline," Delarue said. "I wonder if we can put in for a cut of
the ransom money if we manage to stop this scheme?"
Simon grinned. "Perhaps I might -- but you work for
the government, remember."
"Damn. Guess I'll have to settle for saving a bunch
of people from getting quaked or tsunami-ed to death."
"Let me know how
it goes," Simon said.
Delarue nodded and
closed the video link.
####
It was painfully
obvious to Simon that Stephanie's skills might be vital in the field once the
extortionists' base was found. An
assault team could storm any structure, no matter how well defended, but simply
blowing up the control center for the rogue satellites might be worse than
doing nothing at all. As an engineer,
Simon guessed that the satellites had enough 'intelligence' built in to carry
out their mission unless countermanded
from the ground -- it was how he would have arranged things, if he were a
psychopathic genius (or the group equivalent of one). No, someone would have to penetrate the control center and take
over the computers controlling the operation of the satellites -- and Stephanie
was the best-qualified person for the job.
But she had been
suffering terribly since the events at Pico Neblina, doubting herself in
everything she did. Tom Weldon, while
refusing to discuss specifics, had hinted that her current state might be too
deeply rooted to be easily cured.
Simon shook his head,
hating himself for even thinking of asking her to go on another mission, but he
could see no way around it. No one else
at the Institute had Stephanie's combination of physical prowess and technical
skills; even the NSA and CIA had indicated that they would depend on a radio
link with experts based in Washington to talk field agents through any
computer-hacking tasks required.
The eerily artificial
voice from the video message came back to him, cold, emotionless, promising
chaos and death:
... Hundreds of billions, if not trillions in
damage ... thousands of lives will also be lost...
Simon knocked softly
on the closed door to Stephanie's office.
He'd never seen it closed before, not while she was in the building, and
the polished wood seemed to be silently rebuking him for asking more from
Stephanie when she might have nothing left to give.
"Come in,
Simon," Stephanie said. "It
is you, isn't it?"
Simon opened the door
and entered the room. Stephanie had
dimmed the overhead lights so the only illumination came from her computer
display and an incongruously ornate Tiffany desk lamp that he had given her
some years ago.
"I'm sorry to
disturb you," he said. "I
know that things have been difficult for you since our Brazilian --
vacation."
"I know what
you're going to ask me," Stephanie said.
"Callow already briefed me on the situation, because he said you'd
probably be hesitant. The bastard was positively
proud of himself for being too professional to care about my sanity."
"Stephanie, if
you don't feel up to going into the field again so soon, I'll find someone
else," Simon said.
"More likely two someone elses," Stephanie
said. "One hacker, and one
bodyguard for the hacker, big enough to carry the dweeb on his back if
necessary. Hey, maybe Tom could be the
beast of burden --"
"Stephanie, I
--"
"I'm coming on
the mission, Simon. I know what's at
stake -- not just money, although the sum is large enough to seriously disrupt
the U.S. economy, but lives and property on both sides of the northern
Pacific. And if we don't neutralize
these psychos now, there is nothing to stop them from using their equipment to
do something worse. Think about it -- their
plan depends on melting a huge expanse of permafrost in a short time. That means their satellites can deliver a
huge amount of energy, either as heat, or as something that will be converted
to heat when it strikes its target. I'd
bet on microwaves -- did you know that there were 'masers' before there were
lasers?"
"If you're
correct, their satellites could be used to target anything that contains
water," Simon said. "Crops,
animals -- people..."
"Imagine Yankee
Stadium with 50 thousand people in it -- and imagine those people being cooked
in their own juices."
"My God,"
Simon said. "It's too horrible to
contemplate -- but not too horrible to believe that the blackmailers might
resort to such a thing."
"That's why I'm
coming along whenever your NSA and military buddies find the bad guys'
base," Stephanie said. "I've
been driving myself crazy with guilt for even wanting to kill Celinde Gryphius.
I am not sitting on my ass while thousands of innocent lives are at
risk."
Simon nodded. "You are -- you have always been -- one
of the bravest people I have ever met."
"One thing,"
Stephanie said. "I am not carrying
a gun on this trip. If you put a gun
into my hands, I will hand it back to you.
Melvin Squibb can load me up with every non-lethal gadget in his
inventory, but I will not even risk killing someone."
Simon sighed. "I hope you'll forgive me if I have to kill someone to protect you
while you work."
"We'll see,"
Stephanie said. Then she leaned back in
her chair, away from the light cast by the computer screen and lamp, and said,
"Close the door on your way out, please."
####
"Secure video link with Alexei Yakonov
established. Reciprocal encryption
protocols enabled. Live feed in five
... four ... three ... two ... one --"
"Simon, are you there? It is Alexei, or what is left of Alexei
after last trip we took together."
Alexei Yakonov's craggy, bushy-eyebrowed face
filled the screen of Simon's desk display unit, looming close enough for Simon
to count the pockmarks and deeply incised lines around the big Russian's eyes
and mouth.
"Yes, Alexei, I'm here," Simon
said. "You might want to lean back
a bit -- I can only see half of your face at a time when you lean into the
camera like that."
"Ha!
With this face, you should be grateful!"
Yakonov moved back -- to a distance of perhaps
20 centimeters from the camera. Simon
supposed that Yakonov still distrusted modern communications gear -- it had
taken decades from the fall of the USSR for the last of the tech-export
restrictions to be lifted, so reliable state of the art equipment had not been
part of Alexei's life for long.
"I understand that you have been asked to
be the Russian liaison with our little task force," Simon said.
Yakonov nodded. "They think we work well together. Me, I have bullet scar that says different, but no one listens to
me."
Simon laughed.
"I was not the one that
shot you. They tend to be reluctant to
let me have a gun, for some reason.
Anyway, did you receive the latest data from our search for the
blackmailers' base? Our AWACS planes
and satellites have narrowed the search to northern Finland, but they haven't
been able to pinpoint a location."
"Russian planes were able to fly closer to
Finnish airspace than yours without causing big international fuss, of
course. We have found the target, we
believe, using your suggestion -- very clever, looking for holes in reflected
ground clutter. There is a cluster of
buildings in the middle of Finnish Lappland, about 100 kilometers inland from
the Norwegian coast and 70 kilometers north of Inari -- buildings which do not
exist according to our contacts in the Finnish government."
Simon grimaced. "I hope your sources aren't in direct contact with the
blackmailers. It would be a shame if
our little surprise party wasn't a surprise at all."
Yakonov shrugged. "They have been trustworthy in the past. But if the little we have been paying them
could buy their loyalty, who knows what far more money might buy? Surprise ruined or not, the deadline for
delivery of the ransom is only days away.
Now we must decide how to proceed."
"The operation must be clandestine, of
course," Simon said. "We'll
be going in without any warning to the Finnish authorities, since we don't know
who might be working with the ghost rocketeers."
Yakonov's eyes drifted downward. "We do not know who in Finnish
government might be helping to conceal the blackmailers' base. But we believe we know who is brains of
operation. I am embarrassed to say he
is Russian, formerly an important man at Baikonur Cosmodrome."
Simon raised one eyebrow. "Disgruntled due to downsizing?"
"What?
Down -- ah, I understand. Yes,
after USSR broke apart, there was little money for space program. Doctor Yuri Baranoff was head of program to
develop orbital habitat as stepping-stone to Mars and asteroid belt. Then the Earth became more important than
the stars for government struggling to decide what it should be, so..."
"Well, a trillion euros would certainly
solve his funding problems for a while."
Yakonov shrugged. "Even with cheap launching method, this scheme must have
cost billions. Question is, who funded
scheme? Governments not in circle of
destruction? Corporations that will
profit from reconstruction if disaster occurs?"
"With no material from the balloons or
whatever or from the rockets or satellites themselves, it's impossible to even
guess," Simon said. "If we
are able to capture the base relatively intact, we'll be able to identify the
components used, and perhaps find records -- or people who can be persuaded to
talk."
"Before Iraq, I would have said leave
interrogation to us," Yakonov said.
"Now -- we can flip nice shiny euro coin."
"Let's figure out how to take the base
before we worry about that little detail. This can't be a purely military
operation. If troops or materiel from
any nation were to be captured or left behind, it would be tantamount to a
declaration of war --"
"Between U.S. or Russia and Finland? Declaration of very short
war."
"Short or not, I think we would all prefer
to avoid that sort of 'fuss', as you put it earlier. That's why it'll be a group from Nightwatch that will be the tip
of the spear."
"If you are supplying spearhead, you are
giving Russia the shaft, of course."
Simon sighed.
"It's amazing how your English is quite fluent when you want to
make a joke, and so -- unfluent at
other times."
Yakonov grinned, displaying several gold teeth
that he hadn't had the last time Simon had seen him. "I am just poor Russian peasant, working his way through
military and diplomatic ranks."
"I've seen pictures of your dacha on the
Black Sea. If you're a poor peasant,
I'd like to know where I sign up."
"I will send you application forms. But for now, let me tell you about the
'shaft'."
"Oh, by all means, Alexei. Give me the shaft."
"We will send submarine from Murmansk base
-- old Shchuka-B attack boat Tigr, converted to transport for
Spetznaz. Not that we send commando
units anywhere they are not wanted, of course."
"Shchuka-B?"
"Is what NATO called Akula-II. Very confusing --
what we called Akula, NATO called
Typhoon. Tigr was hunter-killer, not missile boat. With most of torpedo storage replaced with quarters for covert
operations troops and their equipment, we will have to hope that Dr. Baranoff's
backers don't have private navy to go with fleet of space weapons."
Simon shook his head. "We can't have Spetznaz troops involved in the actual
infiltration of the base."
"What, you don't trust us?"
Simon rolled his eyes. "The temptation to, er, re-acquire
Doctor Baranoff and his miniature weapons satellites might lead your boys into
doing things that would strain our countries' current friendship."
"Send along SEALs or Rangers, CIA black
ops types if you like. Your Nightwatch
friends may need help to get through defenses anyway."
"I'd prefer it if we had neither Spetznaz
nor SEALs on the mission. Both groups
are prone to blow things up rather than taking them intact -- and we need the
equipment on the base if Stephanie Keel is to have any chance of reprogramming
the dozens or hundreds of satellites in Baranoff's fleet."
Yakonov frowned. "Your Ms. Keel is on mission? I had heard that she was -- indisposed."
"Bloody hell, Alexei, how could you
possibly know that? It's hardly public
knowledge, and it's not even something the U.S. intelligence community would
have on file."
Yakonov shrugged. "To most of world, Nightwatch is think tank and charitable
aid organization. We know it is more. So --
we watch Nightwatch. Especially we
watch you, and Ms. Keel, and that
large fellow, Weldon, who does not work for Nightwatch, but so often goes on
your little expeditions."
Simon scowled. "It's bad enough I have Callow -- I
suppose you have a file on him, too -- prying into my affairs. Now I have to worry about Moscow's opinion
of my actions as well."
"Ha! It is hard to do cloaky-daggery things when
you are famous for appearing wherever there is trouble."
"Believe me,
Alexei, I'd rather be building hospitals and schools than chasing mad
scientists and the horrors they create."
"Is lousy job, but
someone has to do it. Better you than
me!"
Simon said nothing,
but called up a map of northern Finland and found Inari, the Finnish town that
Yakonov had named.
"Looks like it
would be faster to take the highway from Murmansk to Inari than to sail into a
fjord and continue by what, reindeer-drawn sleds?"
"Faster,
yes. But we wish our arrival to be a
surprise. The Finnish Border Guards are
few, but one place they are not so few is on the border with Russia. Norwegian coast and border between Norway and
Finland are practically undefended by comparison."
"I notice you
didn't contradict my remark about reindeer-drawn sleds," Simon said. "Please tell me that we will not be
staring at the buttocks of reindeer for 100 kilometers of cross-country travel."
Yakonov laughed. "If we had time, it would probably be
most stealthy way. But the trip would
take many hours. Do not worry -- we Russians
have much experience with traveling in deep freeze."
"I would have
suggested that we parachute in, but we can't risk that Stephanie might be
injured on a jump. Her skills are the
key to neutralizing Baranoff's satellites."
"Is hard to find
geek who is not a geek, eh?" Yakonov said. "SEALs and Spetznaz can blow up computer, but take control
and use? Nyet."
"Indeed. Time is short, and dwindling as we
speak. I will make arrangements to
assemble our part of the team, and contact you to confirm our ETA in
Murmansk."
"Pack thermal
underwear, my friend. It is balmy minus
25 Celsius where we are going."
Yakonov leaned to one
side and then the screen went blank.
"Video link terminated."
Simon sighed. Callow would insist on arranging for SEALs
or CIA black-ops types, as Yakonov had suggested, balancing the presence of the
Spetznaz troops. It would be a challenge
to keep the clandestine infiltration he had in mind from turning into a
full-scale invasion, but he had to find a way.
Baranoff would only need seconds to destroy the equipment that Stephanie
would need to countermand the attack program; Stephanie would need to be practically
at the control console before Baranoff even knew his base was under attack.
"Call Melvin
Squibb," Simon said.
"Voice link
open," the computer said.
"Melvin, we are
planning a little trip to Norway and northern Finland. We'll need your best Arctic gear for myself,
Ms. Keel, and a rather large friend who will be assisting us. I'm sending you his measurements
now." Simon tapped out Tom
Weldon's rather unusual measurements on his keyboard and clicked on 'send to'.
"Arctic clothing
isn't something I keep in stock -- especially not in those sizes, don't ya know
-- but I'll get ya what ya need quick as can be. When will ya be leaving?"
"As soon as
possible, Melvin. Within the next 12
hours, if everything can be arranged within that time."
"I love a
challenge, Doctor L., but I gotta say, ya sure push the envelope in that
area. I'll be burning some favors on
this one..."
"Thank you,
Melvin."
Now to break the news
to Tom and Stephanie...
####
The passenger cabin of
Nightbird One had more than enough seats to accommodate Simon, Tom, Stephanie,
and the three CIA black-ops agents drafted to accompany them, but it seemed
crowded. Tom and the CIA agents all
were considerably larger than average through the chest and shoulders, making
Simon feel positively spindly by comparison.
To make things worse, the CIA agents had insisted that their gear stay
in the passenger cabin rather than in the spacious cargo hold, and Simon,
irritated by their unaccustomed presence, had insisted that the same should
apply to his, Tom's, and Stephanie's packs as well. The rear of the cabin was filled with the packs, secured in cargo
nets fastened to the legs of the unoccupied seats.
Several hours into the
flight from the Manassas airfield to Murmansk, the CIA agents had not so much
as offered their names. Simon hoped
that the Spetznaz troops would be more sociable -- and dreaded having to
convince Alexei to limit their numbers to match the CIA contingent.
Simon decided that the
Nightwatch and CIA groups at least needed to confirm that they would not be
tripping over each other in the field.
"Agent -- Agent -- you, the one with the dark hair -- I trust you
have been briefed on the mission objectives and the -- rules of engagement?"
The dark-haired agent,
who seemed to be in command, had a solid, sharply defined jawline, deep-set
eyes, and prominent cheekbones -- not quite handsome, but appropriate for his
overall action-hero appearance. His
face had none of the puffy appearance common to steroid users, so Simon guessed
that he had come by his impressive physique the hard way. His voice was the one aspect that didn't
match Simon's expectations -- it was almost boyish, tenor where basso profundo
would have seemed more fitting. Perhaps
that was one reason the man had spoken so little.
"Yes, sir. The primary objective is to get the little
lady there in to the control center of the enemy base. We are not to destroy any infrastructure
until and unless she indicates that her job is done. Secondary objective is to neutralize any enemy combatants
--"
"You mean
kill," Stephanie said.
"Capture or kill,
yes ma'am."
"Let's cross
killing off the list, shall we?"
"Ma'am, I
--"
Stephanie was out of
her seat and had her stiffened fingers within a few centimeters of the agent's eyes
before anyone could react.
"Don't call me
'ma'am' or 'little lady'," she said.
"And don't patronize me by assuming that I'm harmless because I
don't like killing."
To his credit, the
agent had barely flinched when Stephanie's fingertips came rocketing toward his
face. Nor had he tried to defend
himself; he knew that he was expendable, but Stephanie was not. Still, his forehead shone with perspiration
that hadn't been there a few seconds before.
Stephanie returned to
her seat, shaking the tension out of her hands. "I don't expect you to stand there and let someone shoot you
or gut you with a bayonet. But I do
expect you to kill only as a last resort.
We need to get in there without raising an alarm. That means getting around any guards without
being noticed, if possible. Rendering
them unconscious would be the second choice -- and we brought weapons designed
to do that, even if they're wearing full Arctic gear and maybe body
armor."
Simon exchanged looks
of concern with Tom. Stephanie had
always been 'feisty', but neither man had ever seen her so close to the edge
before. If she was forced to watch as
lives were taken in her defense, or worse, if she had to kill, it could undo all the healing and growth she had
attained since her ordeal in William Gryphius's chamber of horrors.
"Perhaps this
will make things simpler," Simon said.
"We three -- Dr. Weldon, Ms. Keel, and myself -- will perform the
actual infiltration of the base. Before
you object, I will remind you that this team has performed missions of this
type before -- something I'm sure was included in your briefing by the Agency
-- and we have special equipment that should improve our chances
considerably. You, and your Russian
counterparts, will get us there, and secure the perimeter to prevent the escape
of any of the technical staff, and Dr. Yuri Baranoff in particular."
"Sir, this is not
acceptable. We are --"
"Not in charge of
this mission," Simon interjected.
"Keep in mind that we are engaging in an unauthorized incursion
into another country. The U.S.
government is not involved in the operation -- officially. While Nightwatch is sometimes viewed as an
arm of the government, it is not. To be
rather pompous about it, we are watchmen for the world as a whole, not just the
United States."
"Sir, I
object. My men and I have undergone the
most rigorous training imaginable.
We've been through shit that would make SEALs and SAS guys crap their
camo pants. But we can't do our jobs if
you tie us down with a bunch of namby-pamby civilian rules."
Simon laughed. "I suspect that I've been in more real
firefights than you have, Agent Whatever.
People try to kill me on a regular basis, even when I am doing nothing
more and nothing less than trying to make their lives better by building a new
school or a bridge or a power plant -- but I'm still here."
"Sir, that
doesn't make you a professional."
"For which I am
duly grateful," Simon said.
"If you wish to confirm the command structure on this trip, you are
welcome to use the communications suite in the next compartment. You'll have to move some of the gear out of
the way, of course."
"Never mind --
sir."
"We'll be landing
in Murmansk in about two hours," Simon said. "We should probably try to rest, or review the maps and
satellite photos if sleep seems impossible."
Agent Whatever saluted
Simon with a crispness that went well beyond the boundary separating respect
from contempt. "Sir, yes
sir!"
Simon hoped that the
old Vietnam era practice of 'fragging the lieutenant' had not evolved into 'shooting the engineer' in the 21st
Century. Failing that, he hoped
Stephanie and Tom would be watching his back while he watched theirs.
####
It was dark in
Murmansk when Nightbird One touched down.
Of course, at that latitude, it was dark most of the time during the
winter.
Alexei Yakonov was
waiting on the tarmac outside the plane with two guards and a pair of old ZiL
limousines. The cars were enormous by
modern standards, hulking masses of gleaming black metal. Simon had vague memories of hearing that they
had some ridiculous horsepower rating more suited to a medium tank than a
passenger car.
"Simon! Welcome to the True North, strong and --
strong. Those Canadians took the good
slogans, but we are as True North as they are." Yakonov's breath emerged in white clouds as exhaled moisture
condensed in the bitter cold.
"Hello,
Alexei," Simon said. "Your
choice of transportation is a bit conspicuous, don't you think?"
Yakonov grinned,
exposing tobacco-stained teeth.
"You have spent hours in little plane. Soon we will all be spending more hours in little submarine. For a few minutes, all deserve a comfortable
ride."
"In ZiL limos
that look older than either of us?"
"You exaggerate
as usual. These are classics -- ZiL
41041's, only 42 years old and driven by little old babushkas to visit the
wonderful monuments and museums of Murmansk."
"At least they
look big enough to take all of us," Simon said. "With Tom Weldon and the three traveling companions supplied
by you-know-who, we'll need a lot of room.
And that's not counting the 25-kilo backpacks."
"Not a
problem. Trunk on one of these could
hold all three of your -- friends.
Believe me, I know from experience." He winked, a remarkable sight as one caterpillar-like eyebrow drooped
to obscure most of one eye socket before climbing back to its usual position.
"Alas, they will
be traveling with me all the way to our destination, and with luck, back home
again. Are these two young fellows your special friends?"
Yakonov glanced at his
two companions. "These? No, no, they are here only as our
drivers. To be frank, they were too
small to qualify for special-friend status."
Both 'drivers' were
just shy of two meters in height and probably weighed as much as Tom Weldon,
although their height made them seem slender by comparison. Simon found himself wondering where the
Russian and American governments were finding their Special Forces types --
assuming they weren't growing them in a lab somewhere.
"Simon, can we
get going? It's freaking cold out here,
and I don't care what Melvin says about the 'superb thermal properties' of
these suits, my butt is going numb."
"Doctor Weldon, I
presume?"
"Yeah. You must be Alexei. I hear you got your leg shot up the last
time you went somewhere with Simon. Me,
I haven't been shot -- yet -- but I've had the crap beaten out of me more than
once while following him around."
"And yet, here we
go again," Stephanie said.
"I'm Stephanie Keel, and I'll be your hacker on this little trip to
Santa's workshop."
Yakonov's smile grew
even wider, revealing a few back teeth that looked like stainless steel. Noting the direction of Simon's gaze,
Yakonov said, "I insist on gold where it shows, but steel is better for
chewing Russian beef. Ms. Keel, I have
heard much about you. I am charmed, and
I hope charming."
Stephanie
snorted. "Very, in your own unique
way. I'd offer you my hand to kiss, but
I'm not sure you could find it in this damn glove -- mitten -- whatever it
is."
Within minutes, the
six backpacks had been stowed in the limos' trunks, which were indeed large
enough to transport several bodies, and the Nightwatch and CIA groups had found
seats in the padded-leather passenger compartments. To Simon's surprise, the seats looked and smelled new, and the
cushions were quite comfortable.
"Recently
refurbished," Yakonov said, noting Simon's expression. "They would not let me take nice new
Mercedes up here, but I managed to get 'rich Corinthian leather' to make old
cars feel like new."
"It's
lovely," Tom said, "but it would be lovelier if you'd turn the heat
up."
Yakonov sighed. "Heat is up. Otherwise there
would be frost on nice leather."
Tom groaned. "At least tell me that the sub will be
warmer than this."
Yakonov frowned, and
Tom wondered if he had offended the big Russian. But then Yakonov grinned again, and said, "I did little
arithmetic, and you will be warm enough.
With so many big bodies in confined space, body heat will keep us all
cozy."
The trip to the docks
took no more than ten minutes. What
little traffic there was moved out of the way when the lead limousine flashed
its lights. The sheer size and power of
the cars commanded respect, even now, when a Mercedes would have indicated that
the occupants were wealthier, more powerful, or both.
The six Americans
climbed out of the limousines and retrieved their gear from the trunks. Yakonov exited last, then nodded to the
driver of the lead car, and both limousines rolled away into the night.
Simon shouldered his
pack and moved to stand next to Yakonov.
"Alexei, I have two concerns about the arrangements you have
made. First, we need to keep the size
of the party traveling to Baranoff's base reasonably small -- we're trying to
sneak in, not overrun the place and give him time to do anything nasty. That means that we shouldn't take any more
than two or three of your Spetznaz boys with us. Second, you said that we'd have about 100 kilometers of overland
travel from landfall in Norway to our objective. We can't afford to take more than a few hours to cover that
distance, especially considering that it will take at least several hours on
the sub at -- what, 25 or 30 knots? -- to reach the inlet you indicated."
Yakonov raised his
gloved hands in a placating gesture.
"To make your large CIA friends happy, only one Spetznaz soldier
will come with us to Baranoff's base -- yes, I am coming too -- but then only
two of them can make trip. That way Russia will have two men, America
will have two men, and Nightwatch will have you three. Our government trusts yours no more than
your government trusts ours, but both sides trust Nightwatch -- they don't know
you like I do. As for covering distance
from Norwegian coast to base in Finland -- we have sent transportation ahead
along with Spetznaz contingent. You
will like these vehicles, I think, but I want to surprise you."
"I can't
wait," Tom said, shivering.
Stephanie laughed, and
Simon smiled. She sounded much better
than she had during the flight from Virginia.
Perhaps the prospect of imminent action that would make use of all her
talents had broken through the guilt and confusion of the past weeks.
Agent Whatever
shouldered his way between Simon and Alexei.
"Did I hear that right? Did
one of us come halfway around the friggin' world for nothing?"
Alexei shrugged. "Spare CIA man and spare Spetnaz troops
can cover our overland escape route -- and keep eye on each other. Or one can stay here in comfort of nice
Nightwatch plane, play video games, whatever.
I leave it up to you."
Agent Whatever grabbed
Simon's arm and was surprised when Simon pivoted, breaking his grip, and came
perilously close to executing an arm bar and foot sweep before reason could
override reflex.
"God damn it,
Litchfield, what is with you people?
First your hacker friend, now you, practically trying to kill me."
Simon stepped back,
his face red. "I am sorry,
Agent. My mind was wandering, and you
startled me. As for Ms. Keel, she has a
very low tolerance for being patronized --"
"Don't apologize
for me, Simon," Stephanie interjected.
"Agent -- damn, it's hard to talk to someone who won't tell you his
name -- Simon is too polite to say so, but I can be a bitch when I'm tired and
stressed out. You happened to push the
wrong buttons at the wrong time, and I overreacted."
Shaking his head, the
CIA agent retreated to the safety of his own group. The three men spoke in low voices for a few moments, then Agent
Whatever returned to speak to Simon and Alexei again.
"Did you see
that? I'm surprised they didn't bang their
helmets together and yell 'break!' when they finished their little
huddle."
Stephanie snorted and
jabbed Tom in the ribs with her elbow.
"Hush. I've been hoping
that they won't be too trigger-happy, but if we piss them off any more, we'll
be lucky if they don't shoot us."
Floodlights snapped
on, illuminating a metal gangplank leading up to the deck of a looming black
hulk.
"My friends, I
give you K-157, the Tigr. Once one of our best attack submarines, now
a cruise ship for peaceful pleasure trips."
"Well, it'll be
peaceful if we don't get caught," Stephanie said. "I thought you said this thing was
small. It's the size of a small
football stadium."
"Compared to a
Typhoon guided missile boat, it's a minnow," Agent Whatever said. "And the exterior size is deceptive --
with the double hull and miles of plumbing for the ballast system, plus torpedo
and missile tubes, the inside is pretty cramped."
"I suppose you
have interior layout memorized," Yakonov said. "Joke is on you then, because much of 'plumbing' is
different now, with most of weapons and weapons storage removed to make room
for passengers and their baggage."
"You mentioned
something about it being cozy," Tom said.
"Cozy as in warm. Cozy as
in having some sort of bathroom facilities."
"I told you to go
before we left Nightbird One," Stephanie said. "Honestly, we can't take you anywhere."
"Settle down,
children, or we're all going back to Washington."
The CIA agents
exchanged looks of disgust.
"Goddamn amateurs," Agent Whatever muttered.
Yakonov moved closer
to Simon and whispered, "These men could use good drink of vodka to
dissolve broomsticks." Then he
walked up the gangplank, waving his arms and shouting, "All aboard Good
Ship Lollipop!"
####
As both Alexei and
Agent Whatever had said, the exterior dimensions of the Tigr seemed to have little to do with the available space
inside. The Nightwatch and CIA party
had to snake their way single file through corridors so narrow that Tom had to
walk with his shoulders at an awkward angle to avoid brushing against the
bulkheads. In some areas, exposed pipes
and conduits lined the walls and ceiling; the air smelled of old sweat, cooking
odors, and pine-scented air freshener that added to rather than covering the
olfactory chaos.
Their destination was
a space that had been carved out of the former torpedo room, a 10-meter cube
into which a dozen bunk beds in four triple-decker stacks and a large storage
locker hand been crammed.
"Choose a berth,
throw packs in unused berths," Yakonov said. "Rations will be delivered here so you will not have to go
wandering around top-secret Russian boat.
Head -- watercloset -- is just outside hatch we came through."
"Russian
hospitality -- there's nothing like it," Agent Whatever said. "We wouldn't be jammed into a damn
closet like this on one of our
boats."
"Also would not
know where you were going," Yakonov said.
"It was Russian planes that found our objective, and it will be
Russian vehicles that take you there."
"Can't we all
just get along?"
Everyone turned to
look at Tom, who had adopted an expression of child-like bewilderment to match
the near-falsetto voice he had just used.
He had also removed his coat and bulky sweater, so his powerful arms and
chest were on display, only thinly covered by the usual black T-shirt.
One of the other CIA
agents, a beefy-faced blond man whom Simon had designated as Agent Whoever,
snorted. Then he turned toward his bunk
and lowered his head. After a moment,
his shoulders began to shake.
The third agent, a
black man whose lean face seemed out of place on his heavyweight boxer's
physique (dubbed Agent Whynot by Simon) blinked several times, then
laughed. "Ah, screw it man. We've ridden in worse things than
this."
"I gather we are
having borscht or cabbage rolls or both for dinner," Simon said. "At least, it certainly smells like
it. Tomatoes, onions, cabbage, beets --
you can smell the sugar content --"
Agent Whatever shook
his head. "Guess you've never been
on a sub before. That could be
yesterday's dinner you smell. Or last
week's."
"Or worse --
could be exhaust gases from last
week's meals," Yakonov said. Now
he was grinning. "Is very
glamorous way to travel."
Yakonov squeezed past
Tom and made his way back toward the exit.
"I will go and have meals prepared. We will get under way immediately -- at flank speed, the trip of
over 300 kilometers will take about 6 hours.
Then we will have another 100 kilometers to travel over land. We will have little time to spare when we
arrive."
"Tell me again
why we couldn't have HALO jumped in," Agent Whatever said. "It would have been a hell of a lot
faster."
Simon frowned. "You do recall that Ms. Keel is the key
to this operation," he said.
"Yeah. She looks pretty fit -- even if she isn't jump-qualified,
she could have buddy-jumped with one of us."
"And if she were
injured on the landing, I suppose you would carry her on your back to the
control room she would be trying to reach.
Assuming that she wasn't injured in such a way that she would be unable
to work, that is."
"Look,
Litchfield, we're the pros here. Our
people could have planned a mission that would not have us relying on some
Russian colonel to deliver us to the target zone, instead of this half-assed
amateur hour --"
"Infra-red,"
Simon said. "Against an Arctic
sky, any aircraft and any jumper would be impossible to miss. And our adversaries would need only seconds
to render our mission pointless, as opposed to the minutes it would take
jumpers to land and mount an attack. General Yakonov assures me that he has
ground vehicles that will allow us to approach the base undetected."
"Anyway, I refuse
to jump out of a perfectly good airplane," Tom said.
"And I refuse to
go if he's not with me," Stephanie said.
"And I'm in
charge," Simon said.
"Dinner is
served," Yakonov announced.
"Nice cheese piroshki
with sour cream and fried onions."
"Oh, my
god," Tom groaned. "My
stomach says yes, yes, yes, but my nose says we'll all regret it later."
"Indigestion?" Stephanie asked.
"Exhaust gases," Tom said.
####
The meal, while rather
heavy for a group embarking on a dangerous journey, had been both satisfying
and delicious. Unfortunately, Tom's
joking prediction had turned out to be true, and Stephanie had taken to suspiciously
frequent trips to the head, where the air was actually less pungent.
"Are we there
yet, Simon?"
"No, Tom. And that last one was definitely you, and
I'm pretty sure it was deliberate."
Agents Whatever and
Whoever exchanged looks of disgust.
"I still can't believe they put these
guys in charge of us."
Stephanie returned,
this time with Yakonov close behind.
The big Russian's eyes actually crossed for a moment as he stepped over
the sill of the watertight door and caught a noseful of the air in the torpedo
room.
"American bellies
do not cope so well with good Russian food," he said. "Is good thing that we are almost at
point where we must leave Tigr. I have brought video player for final
briefing."
Yakonov set up a fold
out video screen near the watertight door and connected a small black box.
"Is that a
--?"
"Yes, friend
Simon. Latest toy from Korea. Price in rubles had many zeroes."
Yakonov pressed a
thumb switch and the screen filled with video footage of a thin man with
reddish brown hair, dressed in baggy coveralls. The man was standing in front of a window overlooking the floor
of what looked like the Russian equivalent of a Vehicle Assembly Building. In the background, strap-on rockets were
being mated with a Proton-M main booster.
"This is Dr. Yuri
Baranoff at Baikonur in 1989. As you
can see, he was involved in Soviet space program. For a Russian, he was well paid, had many privileges. Was Chief Designer on Project Dzarowit, developing plans for missions
to Mars and asteroids."
"1989,"
Simon said. "A few years later,
the USSR fell apart."
"And with it,
Project Dzarowit. Baranoff was not happy man, although he
retained most of special privileges on new job. No video for next part of his career -- he worked on Russian
stealth technology, very secret."
"Rockets and
stealth technology," Simon said.
"I can see why your people think Baranoff's a good candidate for
the science and technology side of this scheme."
"Even more
interesting -- Baranoff also worked on directed energy project, microwave power
transmission..."
"Put 'em all
together, you have ghost rockets and satellites that can melt a million acres
of permafrost."
"Da.
Baranoff dropped out of sight almost two years ago. Made Federal Security Service crazy to have someone
with so much secret knowledge running loose."
"Well, now you
know what he's been doing with his time," Agent Whatever said. "If your intelligence agencies were
better at their job, we wouldn't be in this situation."
"Is true. Is not helpful to say, but is true,"
Yakonov said. He glared at the CIA
agent from under eyebrows lowered so far that they seemed to be trying to mate
with the salt-and-pepper stubble on his cheeks.
"Baranoff
certainly has all the scientific and technical skills for the role of Mad
Scientist, but what pushed him over the edge?" Tom asked. "What made him give up a relatively
comfortable life to hide out in the middle of deep-frozen nowhere?"
"Baranoff was
born when Soviet space program seemed to have big lead in race to Moon,"
Yakonov said. "Grew up wanting to
be cosmonaut -- but could not pass physical, had middle ear problems that
caused attacks of vertigo. But was
smart, genius even, so next best thing for him was to be rocket
scientist."
"Which was fine
until the USSR broke apart, and the money for 'pie in the sky' projects like
Zar-oh-witch dried up."
"Yes. For next decade, most space money went to
building and patching up military satellites.
Then effort shifted to International Space Station. Baranoff called ISS orbiting money pit that
made no progress toward deep space.
This is speech Baranoff gave to Russian Science Academy in 1996. I have had interpreter's voice put on
alternate audio track..."
Yakonov pressed the
thumb switch again. "You can see
most hair has gone gray, in only seven years."
Baranoff's face had
grown shockingly gaunt in the years between his glory days at Baikonur and this
speaking engagement. As Yakonov had
said, his reddish brown hair had been replaced with an unruly mass of yellowish
gray with only a few traces of the original color still visible.
"Jesus Christ, he
looks like a zombie," Agent Whynot said.
Baranoff began to
speak, and the interpreter's voice provided a simultaneous translation. The effect would have been almost comical,
as the rhythm of the interpreter's voice was badly out of sync with Baranoff's
lip movements, but the expression on the man's face drove any thought of
laughter away.
"Once, I was
proud of our nation, of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. We were on the verge of leaping ahead of the
West, taking Mars and the asteroids as stepping stones out into the
cosmos. But now -- now we crawl in the
mud like swine rooting for scraps of food.
I have heard that we will join with the Americans to make a space station. Ha!
A collection of space junk is what it will be, a symbol of cooperation
instead of a true platform for science and exploration."
"This is what glasnost and perestroika have brought -- our eyes search the gutters for pennies
when we should be reaching for the stars!"
Yakonov thumbed the
switch again, and the screen went black.
"There is more -- much more -- but is all like that."
"Man, for
somebody involved in a plot to extort a trillion euros, he seems kind of down
on the whole capitalism thing," Tom said.
"I do not think
money matters to him, except as way to build his rockets," Yakonov
said. "Next I show you latest
satellite views of target."
The screen lit up with a satellite photo that
showed a white landscape dotted with dark splotches.
"Baranoff's base is here, with communications center and most activity centered in
largest structure near center of camp."
A large red circle covered a jumble of rectangles and less-regular
shapes.
"That's our objective, then," Simon
said. "A lot of open ground to
cover, no matter which side we choose for our approach."
A klaxon sounded, followed by a staticky
announcement in what Simon guessed was Russian, although the distortion was so
bad it could have been Esperanto.
"Ah.
We are surfacing soon. Please
prepare yourselves." Yakonov
folded up his display screen and stuffed it and the video unit into a pouch
attached to his belt.
The Americans
struggled back into their cold-weather gear, something of a challenge with
bulky clothing, bulky packs, and several larger-than-average men in a confined
space. By the time the last zipper had
been closed and the last Velcro tab fastened, they were all sweating.
Yakonov, in his own
white Arctic camouflage suit, appeared in the doorway. "All ready? Follow me, please, for lovely ride in best Russian inflatable
launches."
The Russian general
led the group back to the hatch through which they had entered Tigr six hours before. One at a time, they ascended the ladder and
stepped out onto the slick black metal of the deck.
"Holy crap, it's cold out here," Tom
said.
"But at least the
air doesn't smell like -- the air doesn't smell," Stephanie said.
"Two boats. Best to divide large men between them,"
Yakonov said.
"Er, Alexei,
you're not exactly a dwarf yourself," Simon pointed out.
"True. So I go in one boat, you and Stephanie go in other boat -- should
be close enough to even loads."
"Simon, I think
Alexei is saying that we're small,"
Stephanie said.
"I'd prefer the
term svelte, but yes, I suppose he is," Simon said. "You must admit that by the standards
of this group, we are rather puny."
"We can have the
in-depth group therapy session about discrimination based on size when we're on
dry land," Tom said. "I'm
freezing, and the way this deck is rocking, pretty soon you won't just be
smelling our dinner, you'll be seeing it."
"Into boats
quickly, please," Yakonov said.
"We do not want Tom Weldon's stomach juices burning holes in
submarine hull."
Per Yakonov's
instructions, Agents Whatever and Whoever joined Simon and Stephanie in one of
the inflatable launches, while Agent Whynot, Tom, and Yakonov climbed down into
the other. The Tigr crewmen cast off and started the outboard motors, and the
boats surged forward across the mercifully calm water. Still, there was enough salt spray that they
had to shield their faces with their gloved or mitten-clad hands.
They made landfall on
a narrow rocky beach at the foot of what appeared to be almost perfectly
vertical cliffs. Once Yakonov and the
Americans had disembarked, the Tigr
crewmen pushed the boats back into the water and started the return trip to the
submarine.
"That thing I
said about wanting to be on dry land? I
was kind of hoping it would be drier than this. Also a lot warmer."
"We will not stay
here long, Dr. Weldon," Yakonov said.
"We should move on. To your
left, look, there is a trail we must all follow. It will lead us to the top of this cliff..."
"That's about 30,
maybe 40 meters of vertical distance," Stephanie said. "We're going to be sore tomorrow."
"Not if we
fall," Tom said. "If we fall
part of the way up, we'll be feeling no pain at all."
"Thank you for
that morale-boosting thought, Tom," Stephanie said.
"Hey, Alexei --
wait for the rest of us!"
But Yakonov only waved
without looking back, setting a moderate but steady pace up the narrow trail up
the cliff face.
"Moves pretty
good for a fat old Russki," Agent Whynot said.
"Also has
excellent hearing," Yakonov called.
"Less talking, more walking, please."
Simon winced at the
prospect of the long uphill hike, his knees already aching from the damp cold
that seeped through the vents in his white camouflage coverall. Tom looked at him, recognizing the signs of
discomfort and understanding their cause immediately. Simon had admitted to Tom -- and only to Tom -- that his
arthritis was flaring up with increasing frequency, in spite of a steady dosage
of anti-inflammatory drugs.
"Need some help
getting up the cliff, old man?"
Simon turned and
glared at Agent Whatever, who seemed to know more than he should about Simon's
problems. "No, thank you, son.
I've managed a lot worse in my time."
"Hey, no offense
intended," Whatever said in a low voice.
"My dad's got arthritis pretty bad. I know it can make things tough."
"I'm not your
dad," Simon said. "I will get
through this on my own. I'd suggest you
hurry and catch up with General Yakonov.
I have some things to discuss with Dr. Weldon."
The CIA agent opened
his mouth as if to say something else, and Simon braced himself for a complaint
that this mission was no place for an arthritic old man. But Whatever just shook his head, pushed
past Simon, and headed up the trail.
"How bad is it,
Simon?"
"A bit like
having an abscessed tooth the size of my fist in each leg," Simon
said. "But sadly, I'm getting used
to it."
"You could stay
here," Tom said. "I'll get
Alexei to call one of the boats back to pick you up."
Simon took a deep
breath, forcing his diaphragm outward so that his lungs filled completely. Then he let the air hiss out between his
teeth in a thin stream that flash-froze into a swirling cloud of ice crystals
in the frigid night.
"I will be fine," he said. "Stephanie needs both of us, and the
world needs Stephanie. From what Alexei
told me about Dr. Baranoff, the man may carry out his threats whether the
ransom is paid or not, if not today, then tomorrow, or next week. His satellites must be neutralized to
prevent that possibility, and only Stephanie has both the skills to do the job
and the physical toughness to make the trip."
"All right,
Simon," Tom said. "If you're
sure --"
Simon shook his head
and laughed. "I haven't been sure
of anything since Max Cory died. Doing
Callow's bidding has never been without moments when I have wondered if I am
doing more harm than good, but in those caves..."
"You made a
mistake --"
"And Max Cory
died. I have no regrets about some of
the lives that I have taken, or that have ended because of my actions -- the
late William Gryphius being the best example -- but Max was a good man, a brave
man, trying to help me."
"Simon! Tom!
Come on! Alexei's men and our
transportation are up here waiting!"
"Just as
well," Tom said. "This
freakin' ice palace isn't what I consider to be an ideal place for a therapy
session."
"Your office is
much warmer," Simon said.
"And it has a good selection of brandies and beers."
"Ah! Now that's what I call a good motivational
speech! The sooner we get this job
done, the sooner we can be warm, inside and out."
Simon grinned and
headed up the trail. His strides grew
longer as the exercise worked some of the stiffness out of his joints and let
his still-strong muscles propel him upwards.
Tom followed, alert for any signs of unsteadiness, but soon found that
it was all he could do to keep up.
"I have to start
doing more cardio in my workouts," he muttered. "This is just embarrassing."
####
When Tom finally
caught up with Simon at the top of the cliff face, he found the engineer
talking quietly with Yakonov while running his gloved hand over the oddly
angled surface of an ungainly-looking white monstrosity. There were two more vehicles parked nearby,
identical to the one Simon was examining, and three men in outfits matching
Yakonov's.
"Those big white
APCs are our rides, Tom," Stephanie said.
"Weird-looking brutes, aren't they?"
Tom nodded. The three identical vehicles resembled the
snow-white offspring of a dune buggy on steroids and a stealth fighter.
"I can't believe
those things are stealthy. If they're
as loud as they are large, we'll be causing earthquakes in Finland before the bad
guys can shake up Alaska."
At the sound of Tom's
voice, Simon turned and gestured for Tom to join him. "Tom, come over here," Simon said. Alexei's people have come up with some quite
remarkable toys."
"Alexei, give Tom
the sales pitch," Simon said.
Smiling with pride,
Yakonov struck the side of the big white whatever-it-was with his fist. There was surprisingly little noise; Tom had
expected a solid thump -- or maybe the crack of a fracturing knuckle.
"The BTR-95X,
designed for Arctic conditions. Sound-absorbing
materials inside radar-absorbent shell in low-radar-return shape. No open ports to leak noise or heat, air
intake and exhaust fed through filters and baffles. Best of all -- very quiet."
Tom looked dubiously
at the hulking white vehicle. "I've
been around a few APC's in my time.
They sound like garbage trucks with bad mufflers."
"BTR-95X uses
electric motors, powered by fuel cells.
Much quieter than diesel to start with.
Then we add something special.
Pavel Andreievitch, start engine please."
The big vehicle
started to vibrate slightly, but almost no sound reached Tom's ears. "Pretty impressive, although I'll bet
it's not quite that quiet when it's moving."
Yakonov laughed. "You would lose bet. Pavel, hush!"
The faint whine of the
electric motors stopped, but the vehicle continued to vibrate.
"What the hell
--" Tom stopped, worked his jaw to clear what he assumed was a pressure
buildup in his ears.
"Is based on
technology intended to reduce noise from aircraft. Microphones take in noise from engine, computers generate same
noise, 180 degrees out of phase, and broadcast through directional speakers
under skin of vehicle. Result --
silence."
"Do we have
anything like this? If not, can we
steal it?"
Yakonov waved his
finger back and forth. "Tsk
tsk. Typical American, taking results
of Russian genius for own selfish use."
"Yeah, like the
Russian SST wasn't based on the Concorde."
Yakonov clutched his
chest. "Ah! You wound me. But better words than bullets, I think." He trudged over to the closest APC and set
one foot on the bottom rung of the short ladder leading to the front
hatch. "Time is short. All aboard, please. I will drive lead vehicle, Pavel
Andreievitch will drive second vehicle.
Passengers can distribute themselves however they like, but please do
quickly."
Simon scratched his
chin. Tom and Stephanie should stick
together; Tom could hardly play the role of Stephanie's therapist in a vehicle
overflowing with testosterone and adrenaline, but she had seemed to find Tom's presence
reassuring since their return from Brazil.
That meant that he would have to ride in the other vehicle, so at least
one non-military type was on board as a buffer between the Russian driver and
whichever CIA agent came along. The
situation reminded him of the old logic problem with the farmer who has to get
a fox, some hens, and himself across a river...
"I'll go with
Alexei, if that's all right," Stephanie said.
"And if there's
room, I'll ride with her," Tom added.
"I'll go in
Pavel's vehicle," Simon said.
"Perhaps I can pry more information about the sound suppression
system from him. Alexei, alas, knows me
too well to succumb to my devious ways."
Agent Whatever said,
"I'll ride with Litchfield and Pavel what's his name. Agent Thiessen will ride with General
Yakonov."
"Agent
Thiessen! At last, a name! Glad to meet you, Agent Thiessen,"
Stephanie said.
The blond CIA agent
smiled. "Likewise." He had been sneaking sidelong looks at
Stephanie ever since her dazzlingly swift attack on board Nightbird One. Tom hoped that the man wouldn't do anything
silly like making a pass at Stephanie.
He wasn't her type -- especially since she didn't really have a type these days.
Yakonov's and Pavel's
groups quickly clambered into their eerily quiet vehicles, the drivers through
hatches near the front of each vehicle, the passengers through a second hatch
on top.
The remaining CIA
agent climbed into the final APC with the last two Spetznaz troops. Simon wondered if the lean-faced black agent
could find a way to get along with his Russian counterparts without a civilian
to keep their respective territorial instincts in check.
As they climbed into
the second APC through the rear hatch, Agent Whatever said, "Great --
another sardine can. How can this thing
be so tight inside when it's so huge outside?"
"Apparently
Russian sound insulation isn't exactly compact," Simon said. "You must admit the electronic sound
cancellation system is quite remarkable."
"Please to take
seats," Pavel Andreievitch said.
"The terrain is quite irregular and suspension can not compensate
for all bumps."
Agent Whatever
squirmed his way into one of the oversized bucket seats, which fortunately had
been designed for men of his size in bulky winter gear. "How long is this going to take?"
Simon took one of the
other seats. "General Yakonov said
that we should make about 50 to 60 kilometers per hour, so we should reach our
destination in at most two hours -- assuming we are able to follow a fairly
straight course."
"I should have
brought a book to read."
"I'm afraid I
can't help you there -- but I must say that I am pleased that you read
books. So few people do these
days."
"Never did like
reading from a screen, even those flexible 'electronic paper' things. Reading's better when you can hold a world
in your hands, feel the texture of the paper, smell it. Plus you don't have to worry about the
battery giving out just when you get to the best part."
"How did a man of
letters end up in your line of work?"
"CIA grabbed me
up when I was at Georgia Tech on a football scholarship. They pretty much paid my way through, which
was a good thing, because I hurt my knee halfway through our first season. Not so bad that I couldn't go into -- this
line of work, as you called it -- but bad enough that they wouldn't risk
letting me play anymore."
"That was what --
ten years ago?"
Whatever laughed. "This round face of mine makes me look
younger than I am," he said.
"I'm closing in on 40. Not
too many years before I'll be too old for this kind of running around."
Simon frowned, but
said nothing.
"You think your
lady friend can pull this off, if we can get her inside? Take control of those satellites and shut
them down?"
Simon sighed. "She is my friend, but she is only a
lady when it suits her. And yes, I
think she can do the job. She has a
remarkable talent for improvisation in matters of electronics and other
technology, and I have never seen her fail at a task of this kind."
The vehicle hit a
particularly large bump, causing both men to clutch at the sides of their
seats.
"Sorry -- we just
crossed road and started up slope on other side."
"If it was me
driving, and we were in a good old Humvee, we'd be riding smooth as --"
"Welcome to walk
the rest of way," the Russian said.
They rode the rest of the
way in a silence much deeper than any electronic device could ever generate.
####
"You've known Simon a long time, haven't
you, Alexei?"
"Da. We first met in Angola, 1995, I think. I was there as advisor to new government's
security forces; he was building desalination plant. Insurgent forces -- hangers-on from old regime -- made
trouble. By time I led half-trained
police in, he was wounded, badly, but half-dozen of his attackers were
down."
"He killed six people?"
"One or two did die, I think, landed badly
when thrown, but most were out of fight because of broken limbs. Japanese technique, I think, aikido, judo,
jiu jitsu, maybe. I was very impressed
that skinny American could do so much."
Tom whistled.
"I knew Simon was pretty dangerous in a fight, but I never realized
he was that good."
"He trained under Japanese masters in
Tokyo, even met aikido o-sensei. Never awarded high belt ranking, he was not
there long enough, but yes, he is very good."
"Alexei -- I don't know if Simon spoke to
you about this, but I -- I need to know that you and your man -- Pavel? That you will try not to take lives unless
there is no other choice."
"Ah, Stefanya. I can not promise no one will die. We are invading foreign country in small
way, and many lives are at risk. We
will try, yes, because our goal is to infiltrate, to get you to center of
things before we are detected. But once
you are there, we must do whatever is needed so you can carry out task."
"I guess I can't ask for more than
that," Stephanie said.
Tom saw the look of fear in Stephanie's eyes
and he knew that hearing it put in those terms, that her companions might kill
to defend her, had revived her qualms about being in the field again.
"Hey, Alexei. Got any really juicy stories about Simon? I'd love to have some new dirt to use on him
the next time he gets a little too full of himself."
"Doctor Weldon, I am shocked you would ask
such a thing. I would never tell you about that bar fight in
Brazzaville..."
####
"We have arrived," Yakonov announced. "Baranoff's base is just over next
hill. From here, is best we walk."
The big Russian climbed out through the
driver's door while Stephanie, Tom, and Agent Whoever made their way out
through the rear hatch. The second
BTR-95X pulled up and Pavel, Simon, and Agent Whatever also disembarked.
Once everyone had gathered, Yakonov reached
into his pockets and produced the fold out screen and video unit again. "Now we are out of water, we can see
live transmission from satellites."
The screen lit up with a view similar to the
one they had seen while on board the Tigr,
but this time there were two additional white blobs some distance from the
cluster of buildings. "We are here.
If screen was larger, we could make out little bugs moving around,
namely us."
"Looks like we’re about a hundred and
fifty meters from the main building," Simon said.
"Then you're screwed," Agent Whatever
said. "There's no way you can
cross that free-fire zone without being seen."
Simon smiled.
"Actually, there is. You
said there were no guard dogs, and very little human activity at this time of
night, correct, Alexei?"
"Is too cold for man or beast to spend
much time outdoors. Unfortunately,
people on mission like this don't qualify as either."
"Any indication that the ground is mined? I'm quite fond of my legs and would like to
keep them."
"We made sweep with unmanned miniature air
vehicles at very low altitude. Found no
magnetic traces that would indicate mines or buried pressure pads -- but sweep
was not thorough, only a few passes.
Probably okay."
"Probably? How much am I getting paid for this
again?" Tom asked.
"Same as usual," Simon said. "My thanks, a chance to see the world,
a nice bottle of wine if we make it back."
"You mean when we make it back."
"What?
Oh, of course, when we make it
back."
"No guards, no dogs, no mines -- maybe --
but I'd bet there are surveillance cameras, with men or A.I. watching for any
suspicious movement." Agent
Whatever shook his head, crossing his arms over his massive chest.
Sighing, Simon pulled a gray box the size of a
small pack of cigarettes from a zippered pocket on his left sleeve. "Tom, Stephanie, you both have your
fuzz boxes?"
Tom and Stephanie each withdrew an identical
device from the corresponding pockets on their sleeves.
"Agents, you may or may not have seen or
heard of these devices before. Alexei,
I would hope you haven't heard of them, but wouldn't bet much on the
proposition, since Tom and I used a prototype when we visited Russia a few
months ago."
Alexei nodded.
"These are your electronic surveillance blockers, yes? I read reports of something that caused
interference with surveillance tapes found at Alconost project site."
Agent Whatever spluttered, "What the hell
are you people doing with those things?
They're still being tested, haven't even been issued to our field agents
--"
"Apparently, we've been doing the testing," Simon said.
"Nice to know that we're expendable guinea
pigs, so the spooks don't have to risk their butts by trying stuff out in
life-or-death situations," Tom said.
"Melvin -- he handles logistics,
equipment, and general scrounging -- says that these have been improved from
the model we tried out. Still no good
against ultrasonic motion detectors, but more reliable for anything that depends
on electromagnetic imaging -- infrared, visible, or ultraviolet."
"Jesus Christ, Litchfield, showing this
stuff to a Russian general probably qualifies as espionage, treason even,"
Whatever said.
"He showed us his -- the stealth APC's
with sound cancellation systems -- so it's only fair that we show him
ours. Besides, he already knew that
they existed in some form."
"My superiors are going to hear about this
when we get back," Whatever said.
"Then maybe you and your fellow clowns will be shut down and jobs
like this will be left to professionals."
"It is heart-warming, this display of
solidarity, but we have only few hours before Baranoff's deadline. Let us do job first, strangle each other
later."
"You tell 'em, Alexei," Stephanie
said. "I wish these boys would
just drop trou, compare dicks, and get it over with -- er, not with me
watching, of course --"
"Gee, and me without my notepad," Tom
said. "I'll just have to remember
this for our next session."
"You're her therapist?"
"Mine too, actually," Simon
said. "But he's also quite useful
when there are heavy objects to be moved, including recalcitrant people of
size."
Red-faced, Stephanie said, "I'm going
now. I might even turn on the stealth thingy, although at this particular
moment, being captured and killed is actually kind of appealing."
"I suppose we should come with you,
providing you'll allow us to keep our pants on," Simon said,
laughing. "Alexei, Agent -- stand
by for our signal. When we reach our
objective, you will use any means at your disposal to draw attention away from
the center of the base so Stephanie can have as few distractions as
possible."
"No blowing up buildings," Stephanie
said. "We don't know where the
generators are, and I can't afford to lose power in the middle of hacking into
Baranoff's computers."
Alexei nodded, and at his prompting, Pavel
nodded as well. Agents Whatever and
Whoever did likewise, although it was obvious that they did so reluctantly.
"Tom, Stephanie, activate your fuzz boxes,
and let's see how reliable 'more reliable' is."
The Nightwatch operatives and their therapist /
companion each pressed a sequence of three recessed buttons on their gray
boxes.
"Nothing's happening," Agent Whatever
said. "Are you sure those things
work?"
Simon turned to Yakonov. "Have Pavel take a look at us through
the BTR-95X cameras."
The Spetznaz soldier glanced at Yakonov for
confirmation, then quickly climbed back into the cockpit of the stealth
APC. After a few seconds, his head and
shoulders appeared in the hatch, frowning when he saw Simon, Stephanie and Tom
standing exactly where he had left them.
He vanished back inside, then emerged again almost immediately, as if
hoping to catch the Americans running away to hide. Finally, he shrugged and shook his head.
"To my eyes, they are there. To the cameras, they are not."
"If you're a good lad, Agent Whatever, I'm
sure they'll let you have one of these sometime soon," Simon said. Then he turned and walked up the hill
towards Baranoff's base, with Tom and Stephanie close behind.
####
The walk over the hill and across the open
ground to Baranoff's base was torture.
With every step, Simon expected alarms to sound, spotlights to zero in
on him and his companions, bullets to punch through the light body armor built
into their cold-weather gear. In spite
of the biting cold that turned every breath into a miniature snow squall, he
was sweating, and he felt his hands quivering with tension.
They walked without speaking, painfully aware
of the crunch of fracturing ice
crystals that accompanied every move they made. Simon thought it would be nice to have Alexei's sound-cancelling
device added to the functions of the fuzz box, but then he realized that the
box probably would have to be the size of a briefcase to provide enough
separation between the microphones and speakers.
It took about two minutes to reach the building
that Alexei said contained the control room and communications center. The single-story building looked like any
pre-fabricated structure thrown together quickly to provide shelter, except
that flat roof had a makeshift slanted covering tacked on to allow it to shed
snow before too much weight accumulated.
Aside from its size, there was nothing to distinguish the building from
the others on the base; any antennas had been hidden, possibly under the roof
cover.
No alarms had sounded; amazingly, Baranoff
seemed unable to even conceive of the possibility that someone might have found
him. Simon remembered something that
Tom had once said: genius is sometimes characterized by tunnel vision. The ability to focus on an idea or an
objective so perfectly implies blindness to anything that is not part of the
goal.
So, having disguised the location of his base
by igniting his rocket boosters hundreds of kilometers away, Baranoff thought
he had eliminated any chance of detection.
The hell of it was, he would have been right if not for one old Swedish
engineer crazy enough to go hiking above the Arctic Circle with winter a couple
of months away. A quick examination of
the first door they found detected no signs of alarm system wiring, and
Stephanie's hand-held electromagnetic field scanner detected no radio-frequency
activity that would be present for a wireless system. Simon used a police-type lock gun to open the heavy deadbolt lock
while Tom stood by with a high-powered taser in case there was a guard waiting
inside.
Holding his breath, Simon turned the doorknob
and pulled. The door swung open
smoothly, releasing a wave of warm air heavily scented with the odors of
cabbage and onions and beets.
Tom leaned in and snapped his body back out
again without attracting gunfire or triggering any alarm system they had
missed. He spread his hands in a small
shrug, indicating that he thought the way was clear.
Simon and Stephanie drew their own tasers and
the trio entered the building, pulling the door closed behind them.
"Which way?"
Stephanie activated her E-M field scanner
again, using her thumb to adjust the instrument to detect the specific patterns
that would indicate computer activity.
After a moment, she pointed to one side. "Lots of traffic, but computer traces are stronger that way."
The first person they encountered was a
technician of some sort, based on his clothing and lack of weapons. He was still fumbling for the wireless panic
button on his wrist when Tom's taser sent him into a convulsing heap on the
floor.
"Let's hope he's not expected somewhere in
the next few minutes," Simon said.
"Tom, if you'll do the honors?"
Tom picked the man up in a fireman's carry and
took him back around the corner to the dark corridor near the door. He returned a minute or so later, stuffing a
bundle of plastic restraints back into his pocket with his right hand and
holding something else in his left.
"Hog-tied and gagged. I
took this off him, just in case he figured out a way to trigger it with his
nose or something."
Stephanie frowned at the plastic bracelet in
Tom's hand. "Let me see
that."
Tom shrugged and handed it over.
"Shit.
When you took it off him, you broke a connection here, in the
band." She aimed the E-M scanner
at the bracelet and was rewarded with a flashing red light, indicating a strong
signal.
"It's transmitting something, but I can't
tell if it's an alarm signal, or if the damn thing always broadcasts a
carrier."
Tom grimaced.
"Should have thought of that.
Damn it, it makes sense that they'd use something like those
tamper-proof house-arrest ankle-bracelets."
"We'd better move fast."
The guard came out of nowhere, a big man, quiet
and very fast. He brought a black baton
down across Tom's shoulder with enough force to drop the psychologist to his
knees, drew it back for a second blow, then gasped in sudden agony as Simon
trapped his arm and twisted the baton from his hand. Stephanie stepped in and delivered a crushing elbow strike to the
solar plexus, then kicked the man in the temple as he doubled over.
"Tom, are you all right?"
"Ow.
Hell, no. That hurt like a son
of a bitch."
"Anything broken?"
Tom worked his shoulder back and forth, then
shook his head. "I think the parka
absorbed some of the force. I'm gonna
be sore for a while."
"If it makes you feel any better, I'm
pretty sure Simon dislocated his elbow."
"Simon Litchfield, the orthopedic surgeon's
friend. Just like Angola."
Simon froze.
"Angola? What about
Angola?"
Tom grinned.
"Your friend Alexei was telling tales on the trip here. Seems you've done a lot of unlicensed
chiropractic work in your time..."
"Bloody hell. I can tell you stories about Alexei that make me look like a
saint, and that would get him sent to a gulag if his superiors found
out." Simon bent to the
unconscious guard, wrenched his arm down so he could apply plastic restraints
to his wrists, slapped restraints on his ankles as well, then used a third set
to link the first two together. As a
finishing touch, he stuffed a plastic ball into the man's mouth. The heat and moisture caused the specially
treated ball to expand slightly, making it almost impossible to remove.
Stephanie removed her gloves and held one hand
under the man's nose. "Good thing
he doesn't have a head cold. Also good
that I didn't break his nose."
"Let's move on," Simon said. "With luck, most of the remaining staff
will be in the control room where we can deal with them all at the same
time."
The trio walked on in the direction Stephanie
indicated, now alert for the sudden appearance of more guards.
"If they have guns, they can deal with us,"
Tom said.
"I'm guessing you were not a member of the
Glee Club in high school," Stephanie said.
"Of course not. That was my Goth period."
Simon shook his head. "I wasn't aware that Goth culture and bodybuilding were
compatible."
"I didn't have this body back then,"
Tom said. "And trust me when I say
that I had no tan whatsoever."
"Guys, I think this is it," Stephanie
said. "Computer-type E-M is off
the scale, plus a lot of traffic on satellite uplink frequencies."
"Party favors at the ready, then,"
Simon said. "Flashbangs and gas
grenades, on my mark."
Stephanie holstered her E-M scanner and palmed
a pair of ping-pong-ball-sized spheres from a pouch on her belt. Tom and Simon also grabbed compact grenades
from their own belt pouches, while all three held onto their tasers in the
opposite hand.
"One ... two ... three!"
Simon kicked in the door, managing to ignore
the flaring pain in his knee, and threw his grenades. Tom and Stephanie hurled their grenades after Simon's, each
aiming for a different part of the room.
There were three blinding flashes of light,
three stunning blasts of sound, and then billowing clouds of green gas flooded
the room. After about thirty seconds of
silence, Simon threw in a handful of smaller pellets, each of which exploded
into clouds of yellow smoke.
Where the green and yellow gases mixed, they
both faded to white. Within minutes, no
colored gas remained, and the remaining white smoke had risen to hug the
ceiling of the room.
"According to Mr. Squibb, the gas has been
neutralized and it's safe for us to enter."
"If we pass out, I'm going to sue."
Stephanie rolled her eyes. "I'm beginning to see what that CIA
goon was complaining about. I'm going
in. I'd appreciate it if you two could
take time out from your improv routine and cover me."
Somewhat chastened, Tom and Simon followed
Stephanie into the room. She made a
quick survey of the consoles and chose one with a full keyboard and display.
"We're in luck -- this bozo didn't have
time to log out before the gas got him."
She pushed the unconscious man out of his chair and took his place.
"Uh oh.
I guess we should have expected this."
"Expected what?"
"It's all in Russian, of course. I can handle it -- from the syntax, it's a
Russian knock-off of a Unix version about 10 years out of date. But it's going to take a few extra minutes
to set up a work-around."
"Proceed, my dear. Tom and I will man the ramparts and try to
hold off any attempts to retake our captured fortress."
Stephanie sighed. "Whatever turns your crank, Simon. Just buy me some time."
Tom found a sheet-metal storage cabinet and
opened the door. Finding nothing useful
inside, he braced himself and pulled, tearing the door from its hinges.
"Very impressive, Tom. Also very loud. If there's anybody left conscious around here, they'll be coming
to investigate."
Tom grinned. "There is a method to my
madness. Watch and learn." He carried the cabinet door to the door
Simon had kicked in, and wedged one end into the gap between the door and its
threshold.
"That'll slow down anyone who tries to get
in. When we're ready to leave, I can
yank it out."
"If you say so. If I were the psychologist here, I would say that you were
overcompensating for being taken by surprise by that guard."
"Angola.
Angola, Brazzaville, Cairo."
"For an intelligence operative, Alexei has
a remarkably big mouth."
While her companions continued their verbal
spitball fight, Stephanie had connected her handheld computer to the keyboard
and monitor connectors at the workstation she had commandeered. She then connected a fold-out keyboard to
her handheld computer, providing her with an English-language input and display
for the Russian system. Fortunately,
the Russian vocabulary in the Unix variant was quite limited and the few words
not in her computer's lexicon were ones she could puzzle out from the context.
As she had expected, the whole system was
organized as nested pull-down menus, an interface design abandoned years ago in
the West as too unwieldy for really complex systems. What the menu system did do for her was to make it possible to
trace her way down the menu tree without having to understand the system as a
whole.
"Got it," she announced. "I have a menu labeled 'sputnik', and
an option that transliterates as 'komanda na samopodriv' -- I think..."
"Presumably, that's 'command for'
something," Simon said. "The
question is, is it 'self-destruct' or 'attack'?"
Stephanie's fingers rippled across her fold-out
keyboard, scrolling up and down the list of 'sputnik' options. "It's the only one that has any kind of
security lockout on it," she said.
"All the others in this menu give you a window to input parameters
of some kind when you select them. This
one brings up a big red 'password required' message."
"A password? Lovely. Any chance we can
wake up the fellow you tossed out of that chair?"
Stephanie prodded the technician with her
toe. When that brought no response, she
kicked the man in the shin, and then very gently in the groin. Simon and Tom both winced, but the
technician didn't move.
"For future reference, next time, we
should carry an antidote for that gas," Stephanie said.
"Time is running out, Stephanie. Do you think you can hack the password in
time?"
Stephanie bit her lower lip, drummed her
fingers on the desk, then said, "Yeah -- I'll have to splice some code
from an old password-generator with the Russian translation modules in my
computer, start the sucker up, and hope we get lucky."
Without further prodding, she set to work.
"Did you understand that last
bit?" Simon asked.
"Not really," Tom said. "But I'm just the beast of burden and
general-purpose goon on this trip."
"If your pack was heavier than mine, it
was only because you insisted on bringing those leaden granola things
along."
The sound of gunfire almost made Stephanie fall
out of her chair. "Guys, I need a
few more minutes. The password program
is running, but there's no telling how much longer it might take."
Tom looked at Simon. "Was that outside the building or in?"
Simon shook his head. "Outside, I think, from the echoes. But it's moving this way."
"Apparently, the boys got tired of waiting
for us to signal them to start the diversion.
That, or they got careless, and somebody spotted them."
Simon raised his hand for quiet, and closed his
eyes. "You're right -- I hear
AK-74 and MP-5 fire, so at the very least, the locals are fighting our CIA
friends. Of course, if Alexei and Pavel
are using the same weapons as Baranoff's men, I could be wrong."
Something heavy crashed against the door, and
only Tom's improvised doorstop prevented it from bursting open. Simon and Tom fell back, both preparing more
flashbang grenades and bringing their tasers to bear on the doorway.
"Stephanie, this would be an excellent time for your program to find
the password --"
A deafening explosion blew the door off its
hinges and filled the room with acrid smoke.
Stunned, Tom and Simon stumbled back, throwing their own flashbangs in
the direction of the door to buy time to recover. The small stun bombs detonated like a string of firecrackers,
most of their effect smothered by the choking clouds of smoke from the larger
explosion. Still, the first man through
the door cursed and fell back as his legs were scorched by a flashbang that
went off practically under his feet.
Stephanie, further from the blast and partially
shielded by another control console, slid out of her chair and took cover,
fumbling through her pockets for her own weapons. Baranoff's men were not firing blindly into the room, presumably
under orders to minimize the damage to the equipment if not out of
consideration for their fallen compatriots, and that meant that the Nightwatch
party still had some chance of survival.
But could they stay alive without taking lives themselves?
Tom made out the silhouette of a man, oddly
misshapen due to either a gas mask or an infra-red vision rig. Still half-prone on the floor, he triggered
his taser and scored a hit, reducing the odds against them and buying a few
more seconds of life.
"The MP-5 fire is getting closer,"
Simon shouted. With his ears ringing
from the first explosion, he could barely hear his own voice, and wasn't sure
if Tom or Stephanie were in any better shape.
He was only able to identify the American submachine guns' fire by the
rhythm of the faint tapping that penetrated the bales of cotton that seemed to
be stuffed into his ears.
Shouting was a tactical mistake, Simon
realized, pinpointing his location in spite of the blinding smoke. He threw himself to one side barely in time,
taking a minor wound to the arm instead of a fatal volley to the chest. Then he fired his own taser at the shape
that plunged toward him through the smoke, only to have the convulsing mass of
another oversized guard fall on him.
Years of martial arts training and practice were of no use against
simple inertia. An elbow glanced off
the side of his head and he fell back, barely conscious.
Tom saw Simon go down under the dead weight of
a taser-stunned guard, and knew that he was out of the fight. There was no time to swap cartridges to
reload his taser gun, and the grenades were worse than useless at close
range. That meant he had to do things
the old-fashioned way...
As another pair of guards skittered through the
doorway, guns raised, Tom scrambled into a football player's crouch and immediately
launched himself toward them. His
massive shoulders were still level with the guards' hips when he slammed into
them, knocking them back and off their feet.
With a competitive wrestler's quickness, he clambered forward and drove
his elbow into one man's jaw, then pivoted and struck the second man in the
throat with his forearm.
He didn't see the boot that caught him in the
side of the neck. A weaker man might
have died from that blow; as it was, the shock penetrated the thick muscles and
jolted him into unconsciousness.
"Surrender now, or your friends die!"
Stephanie's eyes filled with tears. Some of the tears were just a reaction to
the stinging effect of the smoke. Some
of them weren't. That any lives should be lost due to her
actions horrified her. The possibility
that Tom and Simon might die felt like a black hole in the center of her
chest, devouring her from the inside out.
But thousands of lives were at stake if
Baranoff was not stopped here and now.
There was still a chance to accomplish the mission, if her password
program finished its work before Baranoff's men ran out of patience.
Stephanie stood slowly, her hands raised over
her head.
"A woman?
The Americans sent a woman to ruin my work!"
Yuri Baranoff stood in the doorway with a single
guard at his side. Each man held a
handgun of some sort. Baranoff's was
aimed at Stephanie, while the guard had his pistol aimed at Tom's head.
Stephanie glanced at her computer display. The password program had succeeded. The 'password required' message had been
replaced by a simple prompt to 'Proceed: Y/N', with the 'Y' option
highlighted. All she had to do was hit
the Enter key, and Baranoff's satellites would be transformed from terror
weapons into space junk.
All she had to do was hit the Enter key, and
she, Tom, and Simon would all die.
Faintly, she could still hear the gunfire that
Simon had identified as American MP-5 submachine guns. At least one of the CIA agents was still
fighting. Could he reach them before
the pre-programmed satellites began their lethal work?
"Step away from the console. I will not allow you to destroy my work
again."
Stall,
Stephanie, stall.
"I don't know what you're talking
about."
Baranoff sneered. "When the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics collapsed, I
was only months away from initiating a program that would have ensured our
supremacy in space. We could have been
on Mars by now. We could have a real
space station, instead of that pitiful collection of cast-off parts that barely
functions from day to day. The
pressures of money, the temptations of capitalism, ended all that."
"The money from this scheme will allow you
to start that program again. Is that
the idea?"
Baranoff cackled, sending spittle flying across
the room. "The money means
nothing. Whether the ransom is paid or
not, my satellites will strike a blow against the capitalist world, including
the corrupt regime that has ruled Mother Russia for the last twenty
years."
"A mad Russian rocket scientist. Is that two clichés or three?"
Baranoff's face contorted with rage and his gun
hand swiveled toward Simon. Stephanie
pivoted on one foot and poked the Enter key on her keyboard with one finger,
then spun back into position.
A recorded voice began counting down, "Tri, dva,
odin..."
Baranoff screamed. "It is not time for the satellites to fire. What is this countdown?"
"That would be your satellites
self-destructing," Simon said, still pinned under the unconscious guard.
"Kill them! Kill them all!"
Stephanie drew her taser gun from under the
desk and fired, catching the guard in the chest. His hand convulsed and his gun discharged, but the shot went
wild, lodging in the ceiling.
Baranoff snarled and fired three shots toward
Simon, then brought the gun around toward Stephanie. She threw herself to one side, but knew that it was no use as
Baranoff's gun fired three more shots in rapid succession.
She was surprised to find herself still alive
and uninjured, aside from bruises and what felt like a cracked rib from landing
hard on the concrete slab floor.
Somehow, Baranoff had missed.
"You okay back there, Ms. Keel?"
Agent Whatever stooped and pulled a large matte black throwing knife from the
lifeless body of Yuri Baranoff. He
wiped the blade carefully on a clean section of Baranoff's jacket, then
returned it to a sheath on his belt.
Stephanie climbed slowly to her feet, her whole
body aching. The pain inside was worse
than any bodily complaints -- she thought that she had saved Tom by taking out
the guard who had been poised to kill him, but Baranoff had fired three shots
at Simon, with Simon pinned down and unable to dodge.
"Agent, if you don't mind, could you
please remove this great brute so I can stand?"
Stephanie shrieked. "Simon! You're
alive!"
Simon groaned as Agent Whatever lifted the
guard enough to free him. Stephanie
felt relief washing away some of her pain as she saw the bullet wounds in the
guard's chest. Simon was relatively
uninjured.
"As you can see, my dear, the guard was
kind enough to act as a human shield.
Baranoff was so enraged by your destruction of his toys that his
marksmanship was affected, and fortunately, the guard was a robust specimen --
none of the shots that struck him emerged to strike me."
"And Tom -- how are you, Tom?"
Stephanie turned to find Tom climbing to his
feet, clutching the side of his neck and wincing.
"I never thought I'd be asking this in
this frozen-over hell, but could somebody find me an ice pack? My neck is killing me."
"We all made it, then," Stephanie
said. But she saw anger in Agent
Whatever's eyes, and she knew that not everyone had been so lucky.
"Agent Brian Thiessen is dead,"
Whatever said. "So is that Russian
guy -- Pavel, not your General Yakonov.
Not your fault -- a couple of supply trucks came in, and they spotted us
before we spotted them. Same damn noise
cancellation gimmick as the BTR-95X's -- never heard a thing until the lead
started to fly. Yakonov managed to call
in the third APC in time to save our butts -- well, some of our butts. We were damn near out of ammunition by the
time they arrived."
Stephanie sighed, feeling tears rising
again. "I'm sorry. Maybe if I'd been faster, we could have
gotten away without any casualties."
Simon took her face between his hands and
looked into her eyes. "You saved
Tom by taking down the guard standing over him. You saved me by
stalling Baranoff until I was conscious enough to squirm a bit further under my
involuntary human shield. And you saved
bloody thousands of lives by
destroying Baranoff's satellites. I
will not hear you blaming yourself for any lives lost today. I
was in charge -- I should have
planned better. The blood is on my hands, and I don't like it -- but I'm
more used to it than you will ever be."
"Things are very quiet here," Alexei
Yakonov said. "Did I miss whole
party? In that case, I think I will
call for taxis to take us all home."
####
"Are you still having nightmares?"
Once again, Tom and Stephanie were comfortably
ensconced in Tom's office, with brandied coffees and a plate of granola bars
that Tom was eating with no help from Stephanie. She had tasted one once and had no desire to taste another.
"Sometimes," Stephanie admitted. "They're not as vivid as they were,
thank God. I can usually go back to
sleep after a while, so even when I do have them, I don't end up completely
exhausted anymore."
"Time heals all wounds, or wounds all
heels, or something like that," Tom said.
"I think maybe the things Simon said back in Finland may actually
have made an impression. You stuck by
the promise you made to yourself. You
never tried to kill anyone, and tried to discourage anyone else from killing on
your behalf, which, under the circumstances, was the best you could do."
"People still died, on both sides."
"We all chose to be there, you, Simon, me,
Alexei, Pavel, even the CIA agents, knowing that we could lose our lives. Even Baranoff and his guards were there by
their choice, as warped as their judgment must have been. You were, and are, only responsible for your actions. You lost control once, with Celinde, but now you've proven that
you can control your fear and anger under extreme circumstances. I'm proud of you, Stephanie, and so is
Simon, and you should be too."
"Speaking of Simon, did you make notes
about those stories Alexei told us? I'd
hate to get the details wrong when I'm trying to bug him."
"It's all up here," Tom said, tapping
the side of his head.
"I'd be happier if it was on disk. People keep trying to knock your 'up here'
over there."
"Okay, fine, I'll write it up and give you
a copy. In the meantime, you know what
to say to get Simon going."
"Angola."
"That's the ticket. I find it works best when he has a drink in
his hand."
"For a doctor, you're a cruel, cruel
man."
"Why thank you. Now, let's talk about the shortcomings of CIA agents and a
certain annoying Nightwatch official whose initials are I.C...."
Part One
Dr. Simon Litchfield, Ph.D Civil
Engineering, stood on the shore of the old Chesapeake and Ohio Canal, watching
as the brown waters sloshed against the remains of an old wooden lock. Though
it was early February, an increasingly common spurt of warmer air had moved
through the Washington, D.C./Georgetown area, and the weather was
turbulent--thundershowers, heavy downpours, steady and occasionally fierce
winds. Litchfield, one hand grasping a safety railing and the other
clutching an umbrella that was doing it's best to haul him into air, was
alone. Those who weren't at work were simply staying put where they were.
For Simon, however, there was no
staying put. In fact, he had a strong desire to leave the city, but at
the moment that wasn't an option. Not wanting to remain in his office at
the Nightwatch Institute for Strategic and Economic Studies, he'd taken his new
Saturn VUE to the canal.
This, Simon thought as he watched the roiling waters, is
what an engineer should be worrying about. As always, he marveled at
the canal, at the work that had gone into creating something that to the
layperson would seem incredibly mundane. Taming a river, any river, and
harnessing it was anything but mundane. However, as he thought of the
massive amounts of earth that had to be moved, of the retaining walls that had
to be constructed to bear both structural loads and the power of water, he
found those thoughts being crowded out by more pressing matters. He had
other things to think about, frightful things. There was too much at play
in the world and elsewhere, and there were too many decisions to be made, about
things both close to home and far away. One, in particular, loomed the
largest—or at least the largest now—and Simon didn't like what he saw.
"Sword of Damocles," he
said as thunder rolled over the canal. "Damn Sword of
Damocles!" When the cold air hits tonight, he thought,
there'll be thundersnow for sure. The rain, moving into one of its
temporary spells of simple drizzle, afforded Dr. Litchfield the chance to fold
up his umbrella, and as he walked towards a cluster of red-brick and wooden
buildings, he converted the umbrella into a makeshift walking stick.
There was someone he wanted to see, and he hadn't much time.
****
The Cannon Moon Cafe sat on a
corner of a quaint area near the Chesapeake & Ohio Canal. While
certainly not large by any stretch, the restaurant nestled behind the
brown-brick and oak walls could handle virtually any reasonably sized crowd,
and reservations were rarely required in order to be seated. Simon
approached, opening his black umbrella emblazoned with Nightwatch's logo to
deflect the rain which started falling torrentially again. He approached
the wooden door and grabbed one of the brass handles, but the door wouldn't
budge. Sighing, he felt in his pocket and pulled out a
key-ring. Carefully, he picked through each one, laughing quietly as he
pulled up an old-fashioned looking gold key. "Found you," he
said as he headed for a side entrance.
Reaching the door, he inserted the
key and turned it, jiggling it several times to keep the balky tumblers
moving. Finally, he heard the click as the lock released, and he let
himself in. The inside of the cafe was dim, and Simon waited for his eyes
to adjust to the off-hours lighting. During the lunch and supper hours,
the place was a vibrant mix of yellow-white light, clinking dinnerware, and a
heady aroma of steaks, vegetables, and, especially, lobster bisque, the Cannon
Moon's specialty.
Now, however, the restaurant was
quiet save for the occasional sounds coming from the kitchen or the rustling of
waitstaff preparing silverware and yellow-cloth napkins for the dinner
rush. As Simon's eyes adjusted, he looked to see if the cafe's piano was
still in place. Every time Gillian Eckleberry, the head-chef and
proprietress of the Cannon Moon, received the tuning bill for the
Making his way passed the tables,
Simon sat down on the black piano stool and lifted the lid, revealing the
exquisite black and white keys. Then, he took off his khaki hat and placed
it on the top of the instrument. Quickly, he massaged his fingers, which
were aching terribly in the stormy weather, and then he fanned out his hands
over the keys. The opening notes of Mary Catherine Stockdale's
"Catch and Release" wafted softly into the still air. As played
by Simon, the song was thin, missing some significant parts, but serviceable,
and his well-scarred hands moved with some grace on the keyboard.
Simon cringed as he momentarily
produced a sour note, but as he corrected himself, he heard the opening of a
door behind him and to his right. Smiling, he slid over to his left and
began playing more of the song's bass notes. A few seconds later, a
figure (who from the periphery appeared like a white angel) sat down next to
him and began playing the treble notes. Simon looked to his right and
smiled at Gillian, who returned the smile before focusing on the piano.
From the corner of his eyes, Simon noticed Gillian's hands, hands that, like
their owner, showed the beauty and grace only time and experience could
produce.
The two of them came to a very
tricky part, a section of the song requiring them to reach over each others'
hands to hit the proper notes, and while a flat harmonic rose up in the
background, it was quickly drowned out by the notes the two of them managed to
sound correctly. From the shadows, various waitstaff gathered to watch
the players. Those who had worked there the longest simply shook their
heads and smiled before returning to their tasks, but the younger ones stayed
and watched with equal parts amusement and bemusement.
"What the hell fun is
that?" one said with disdain, and Simon couldn't help but chuckle.
"I heard better playing down at Ringer's the other day, and that was
2AM!"
"Son," an older waiter
said, "you're just not old enough to understand. Make sure you get
those napkins fluted. Make...aw, damn, Billy! That's not
fluted. That's poofy! Here, let me show you...."
The song played to its
conclusion--"Catch and Release" running just over three minutes--but
the final notes lingered, and Simon's and Gillian's fingers remained resting on
the keys. Finally, as the remaining tones faded, Simon took his foot off
of the sustaining pedal. Then, he turned and placed a hand on her
shoulder.
"Last time I was in," he
said, "we didn't have a chance to talk. If you're not
busy..." Gillian smiled and then finally laughed out loud, her
blue-gray eyes widening.
"Not really," she said,
"just the dinner rush to get ready for, a couple of pots of bisque
simmering away." Simon smiled and nodded as he stood up, looking at
her as he did. Gillian, as always, was thin but not skinny, her frame
never seeming to carry either too much or too little weight any time he'd seen
her, something he'd always meant to ask her about but never had. (While
Simon made a point of staying in shape, his irregular hours and ever shifting
locales caused his weight to fluctuate, and lately it had been fluctuating
higher more often than lower.)
And, as always, the air around her
danced with a most intoxicating perfume. Mixed in nearly equal measures
were the aromas of the kitchen, steaks and chops, basil and olive oil, lobster
bisque. But, what really set Simon's senses on end were the hints of rose,
musk, and jasmine, the ever present remnants of the Norel she would have put on
before coming in that morning.
But, what always drew him to her,
even on the days when he didn't want to burden her with yet more complaints
about Callow or about some bureaucrat in
"In another life," he
said, "you must have been a comedian." He paused for effect
before smiling, "or a psychiatrist! Oh well, I figured as
much," he said as he stood and grabbed his hat. "I was down by
the canal and thought I'd take the chance, but I really didn't expect..."
"The canal?" Gillian
asked as she too stood. She ran her hand over her gray-brown hair and let
her long fingers fall to the pony tail. "That's never a good
sign."
"This time's no
exception," Simon added. "Difficult days ahead. Difficult decisions yet to make. Really tough
adjustments to be made...stop me when I've played the sympathy card enough to
warrant a drink." Gillian was laughing even before he finished the
thought, and she grabbed him by the arm.
"Come on," she said,
"I can't just send you out like a lost, wet puppy. The least I can
do is see if there's anything to tempt you in the wine cellar!"
"That," he said with a
satisfied sigh, "would do the job nicely." Gillian walked over
and pushed open the oak and brass door to the bar, hitting the light switch on
the way in.
"Let's see," she spoke
as Simon took a seat on one of the black-leather covered barstools. As
she walked behind the polished oak counter, a pile of cocktail napkins fell to
the floor. "I'll have to pick that up before Jiggy gets back."
"Jiggy? What kind of
name is that?" asked Simon.
"'Gettin' Jiggy wid
it,'" Gillian replied as she looked under the counter. "Some
line from an old song. He said it went over pretty well with, uh, with 'de
chicks' before he decided to cross over to this side of the tracks. Ah
hah!" Simon heard the sound of a bottle being pulled from the
holding rack below. "Before he came here, he worked in the seediest
little dive you've ever seen, out by the docks in Baltimore."
"Where in
"That's right," she
said, placing two wine glasses on the bar. "You once haunted that
quaint little burgh, didn't you?"
"Lived there for awhile as a
child," Simon spoke as Gillian poured two glasses from a scarlet-glass
bottle. "Went to Johns Hopkins for my undergrad work. I just
might have gone to that seedy little dive in my younger days." Simon
grinned.
"Oh, I bet you did,"
Gillian spoke with a knowing voice. "Try this," she said as she
grabbed her glass. "Picked it up from
Simon drank, and then he swirled
the wine around in the glass, increasing the reactions that would help it age
into its full potential. "
"Hinnant Farms," she
said. "I don't believe it'll ever have the prestige, but I really
like some of their basic blends." She drank again. "I'll
admit it. Some of the wines my sommelier brings in are for the price
alone. I've got customers who won't respect anything below eight dollars
a glass."
"It's good," Simon
said. "Fruity but not overly sweet. Hint of banana, almost. Good
tannin content." Simon finished the glass. "Heaven knows
there are expensive wines I truly love, but I'll never turn my nose up at
something like this. Besides, it's not like this was a glass of Boone's
Farm." Gillian laughed and finished her glass.
"As if I'd waste any of my
slim profit margin on that," she laughed, and then she finished the
rest of her drink. "So," she said after pouring a second glass
for each of them, "are you going to tell me why you're down here, on the
crummiest day I've seen in a long time mind you, standing by that
canal?" Simon smiled and took a full sip from the glass.
"Gillian," he said, and
he locked his eyes onto hers, "I've never wanted so badly to tell someone
something in my life, to really make someone understand what I'm going through,
what I'm feeling." Simon slowly reached down and touched his chest.
"But," she said as she
looked at him with sympathetic eyes.
"But," Simon continued,
"I can't. As bloody usual, I can't. I just...I just
can't." Gillian leaned down onto the counter, placing the glass to
her left and clasping her hands, letting her long fingers interlace.
"So it is work,"
she said. "Don't you ever wish you were building a shopping mall
like any sensible civil engineer would be? At least someone like Callow would
be in some glass corporate office instead of hovering around you all the
time!" She smiled widely, and Simon couldn't help but follow.
She lifted her hand as if to reach for him, but a sous-chef entered and called
for her attention. "Wait here," Gillian said to Simon,
"I'll be right back."
Simon sat and stared into his
wine, and as he did, images of the rushing water of the C&O Canal entered
into his mind. Quickly, these were replaced by other images, other words,
other thoughts that he wished he could simply forget...
****
The day before, after coming in
from field work, and before being able to return a .44 Magnum Melvin Squibb had
given to him as protection from a nasty group of rebels, Simon's vid-phone had
relayed a text message at 5:30PM, just as he was about to leave for an evening
at the Cannon Moon. After cursing his luck, he grabbed his hat and coat
and headed for the library, the public lair of Ian Callow, a man who on the
surface seemed relatively unimportant but who, in fact, controlled much more
than most ever knew. As Litchfield entered the little-used popular culture
section, he found Callow sitting at his usual table. Unusually, the
representative of Nightwatch's Lower Echelon had nothing with him--no laptop,
no strange yet sophisticated equipment, no packets of microdots. Instead,
Callow sat there with a smile on his face, a look that filled Simon with a mix
of dread and disgust. He hated it when Callow knew something Simon
didn't, something that occurred with alarming frequency.
"Simon," Callow said,
"you're punctual as usual. DON'T sit down," he said as he pulled
the chair Simon had grabbed back under the table.
Simon tsked tsked tsked Callow.
"Well," he said, "that wasn't very polite."
"We aren't staying
here," Callow said as he stood up and straightened his gray coat and
tie. "There's something I want to show you. Something,"
he paused as his smile widened, "something I just know you're going to
love. If you'll follow me." Callow headed into the stacks, and
Litchfield followed and then made sure to pace himself so that he walked
exactly beside the Lower Echelon functionary.
"So, Ian,"
Litchfield said, and, as usual, using his first name severely annoyed Callow,
"just where are you taking me? That little science project down in
the sewers finally starting to bear fruit?" Callow shook his head,
his slightly graying hair glinting in the light of the library.
"Nothing so crude,"
Callow half spoke, half hissed. "And you berate my sense of
humor? Besides you're closer than you think to the truth."
"If you weren't so
smug," Simon spoke as he tried to ignore the implication in what Callow
had said, "your lack of human warmth wouldn't be an issue. Might even make you an excellent agent for
the IRS." Callow smiled a cheerless smile as he stopped and began
fishing in his pocket.
"It never ceases to amaze,
Simon, you know," he pulled out a small, copper-colored keychain,
"the things we've accomplished, the good we've done, and yet you show such
an astonishing lack of appreciation." Simon watched as Callow
inserted the key into the binding of a book on one of the shelves, a book that
appeared to be a copy of Herman Melville's Clarel.
"Callow," Simon spoke
with a mixture of amusement and confusion, "I believe the expression is
'turn the page.'" Callow, looking directly at Simon's face,
grinned widely, a grin that seemed to tell the engineer I know something you
don't. Callow then withdrew the key and pulled on the binding of the
book, which opened to reveal a series of buttons. Quickly, he tapped a
complicated sequence, so quickly in fact that despite his best efforts to keep
up, Simon wasn't entirely sure that, if the occasion warranted, he could repeat
the code. Then, just after Callow replaced the binding, that section of
shelving withdrew into the wall.
"You really do enjoy cloak
and dagger, don't you," Simon muttered as he followed Callow into the
chamber beyond. As Callow pushed the shelving unit back into place, he
turned to look at Litchfield.
"No more than you do,
doctor," he said as the locking mechanism clicked. "Not one
single atom more than you do, and," he smiled, "you know
it." Simon stared at Callow, something gnawing deep inside
him. A quick succession of memories flashed through the engineer's
head: a set of knives imbedding themselves in the ground around him, a
guard just barely eluded, a lock being thrown open surreptitiously by an
electronic device. "Admit it. The guns, the madmen, technology
run amok, a new identity every week. You live for this."
Callow put the keys back into his pocket. "You live for
this."
"So," Simon said after a
long, heavy pause, "where the hell are we?" Simon looked around
the chamber, a small room with unpainted walls and a small yellow light
dangling from the ceiling. Callow reached up and released a catch.
This, in turn, allowed a steel door to drop in front of the bookshelf exit.
"Did you know," Callow
said, "that the Nightwatch Institute has a fallout shelter?"
Simon nodded.
"Sure," he said,
"everyone does. They converted it into C Building's cafeteria.
I think they even used some of the old rations for the entrees."
Callow reached up and tugged on the light, and, suddenly, the room began to
descend. Simon watched as the metal door disappeared and as rough,
concrete walls passed by.
"Some of us wanted another
one," Callow said proudly over the hum of an electric motor.
"Some of us had the power to budget for, what was it, ah yes, worldwide
fleet renewal, and then build," the elevator stopped at another metal
door, "a new facility without anyone noticing." Simon was
barely able to contain his disgust at Callow's pompousness, but as Callow
lifted the door, the engineer was able to speak.
"Impressive," he said
mockingly, "your own private doomsday cellar." Callow cocked
his head and smiled.
"Doomsday cellar," he said,
allowing the words to roll gracefully off of his tongue, "I like the sound
of that. Very good, Dr. Litchfield!"
"Are you going to get to the
point some time?" Simon asked. "Don’t you have better things to
do? Aren't you still trying to find someone,
anyone, who can sell us JP-88 for Nightbird 5?" Callow just smiled and
walked into the next room, and it was at that moment that Simon saw something,
something he'd had a feeling he'd meet again.
Simon grabbed at the door frame,
his knuckles turning white. "Well, I can't say I didn't expect to
see it again." Before him, surrounded by an array of flat, shining
panels, and sitting on what appeared to be a rotating pedestal, was something
that had come to be known as "the egg." The object, which was
substantial enough to require a large crate when transported, was discovered
buried in the dirt in Afghanistan. It then perplexed the best minds on
the planet with the apparently indestructible nature of its milky-white
shell. Finally, Simon had made the most significant discovery, that the
object actually affected time if it was properly "stimulated."
Representatives of Russia, China, and the United States had then taken the egg
and dumped it into Mount Erebus in Antarctica so that no one would have possession
of it.
Except Simon knew the truth, that
Nightwatch, or at least Callow's part of Nightwatch, had managed to switch the
real egg for a fake. Ever since that discovery, the thought of the egg
had rested uneasily in the back of his mind, like an old nightmare.
"Well, well, well,"
Simon spoke as he tried to put on a brave face, "just what have you been
doing down here?"
"You mean, what have we been
doing," Callow corrected as he looked with awe upon the egg. It was
then that Simon noticed another person in the room, a man facing a bank of
computers and various instrumentation monitors, some of which beeped
rhythmically as if they had jumped straight from a 1950s B-movie.
"And who is this?" Simon
said as he tried to ignore the egg and machinery surrounding it, machinery that
appeared to have been purposely built around it. The man flicked a few
toggle switches, which caused a wave pattern to appear on one of the monitors,
and then he turned to face Dr. Litchfield. He was a relatively small man,
about 5"9' and seemingly weighing less than 200 pounds. His
red-brown hair, which he appeared to have wet down and then lifted with his
fingers, rested in uneven spikes on the top of his head. Gold-rimmed
glasses, which covered dark chestnut eyes, rested securely on the bridge of his
slightly hooked nose. The man's smallish mouth curled into a tight smile
as he extended his hand towards Simon.
"Dr. Lyman Eckert," the
man said in an even, clear, almost melodic voice. "At your service,
Dr. Litchfield, unless you attended Yale, of course." Eckert shook
Simon's hand with such vigor that his blue lab coat started to flutter.
"No self-respecting Harvard and MIT grad would ever shake the hand of a
Yaley." Simon smiled despite himself, particularly when he realized
that Eckert's hair had been colored, and that the doctor had apparently had
Botox injections, the skin of his face being unusually tight and wrinkle free.
"Eckert," Simon
repeated. "Why does that name sound..."
"Dr. Eckert," Callow
interrupted after the closing the metal door, "is the scientist in charge
of this little project." Simon struggled to keep a smile on his
face, and as he made a show of looking around at the equipment, he tried to
think of everything, anything other than the likely purpose of what was
happening in the basement of the library. "We were very lucky to
have secured his services."
"We?" Litchfield
asked. "And just who might we be?" Litchfield
caught site of large door on the other side of the room, and he immediately wondered
where it led to.
"Aren't you the least bit
curious what we are working on down here?" Dr. Eckert asked, his face
clearly displaying a look of disappointment even without the presence of lines.
"I imagine,” Callow said as
he carefully watched Simon’s face, “that he is uniquely interested in denying
the reality of what we've accomplished." Litchfield, after carefully
examining the nearest panel, which looked almost like a photoelectric solar
cell, nodded and then firmly grabbed the edge of it. For a moment he
hesitated before fury welled up suddenly, like a pressure cooker improperly
opened. With terrific violence, he ripped the panel off of its hinges, in
the process feeling the heavy metal object--the gun--still in his coat pocket.
"You just couldn't leave well
enough alone, could you?" Simon said, quietly but menacingly. Callow
walked in a semi-circle, his movements measured like that of a cat on a
hunt. "It wasn't enough to steal the egg, even after we promised the
world that we'd do the exact opposite." He grabbed a second
panel, looking at it so intensely that someone just entering the room would
have assumed he was admiring the craftsmanship.
"Would you mind," Eckert
said as he inched closer to the machine, "not doing that again? Those
connections are difficult to align correctly"
"Oh really?" Simon said
just before ripping it off. "I'm terribly sorry about that.
God knows I wouldn't want to cause any inconvenience." Dr. Eckert
shrugged his shoulders.
"Difficult," he
continued, "though not impossible. And I did order many
spares."
"Simon," Callow chimed
with a voice that almost seemed to
possess genuine pity, "are you planning to rip the device apart bit by
bit?"
Simon smiled again, and Eckert
looked unnerved even as he started for a storage cabinet. "Oh, let's
call a spade a spade, shall we? I mean, we're all adults
here." Simon looked around, and finding a glass-covered instrument
cover nearby, he turned and smashed it with his elbow. "In true
understated fashion, you're calling this a device. Surely we can
spare the actual words." He kicked at some wires on the floor,
successfully pulling two of them from their connections. "You...gentlemen,"
he said through clinched teeth, "have built a time machine!"
"Truthfully speaking,"
Callow said, "whoever created the egg built the machine. Dr. Eckert
has simply crafted the method of harnessing it for productive purposes."
"We aren't ready for
this!" Simon said in a measured but none-the-less angry tone of voice, and
he started walking, slowly, towards Callow. "Not now, and I don't
know if we ever will be. A time machine?" He laughed lightly
at the idiocy of what was around him. "It's obscene! What
right do we have to do anything with the past? With the future?
What right does Nightwatch have to possess something like this?
Especially when we’re dealing with that thing out—"
“Ixnay, ixnay!” Callow muttered
quickly. “Our friend Dr. Eckert isn’t briefed on that particular
subject.” Simon calmed down long enough to nod knowingly before he began
scanning for other machinery to break apart. "In any case,” Callow
said calmly as he straightened his tie, “I didn't think you'd understand.
At least not right away. But, once we've gotten some practice, I think
you'll see the real value of the device, the real good we can do."
"There's that we
again," Litchfield growled. "Just exactly how many people know
about this?"
"Directly? Including
yourself," Callow said, "five. Dr, Eckert, myself, plus two
technicians. I think they've gone home." Simon nodded.
"But you and Eckert are the
brains behind the operation," Simon muttered. The weight of the gun
in his pocket seemed to double, and a thought, terrible and desperate, began to
take root. Simon shook his head to clear the thought out, but it wouldn’t
leave, not completely. Simon, slowly and calmly, walked towards
Callow. Callow, in turn, backed up against the cinderblock wall.
Callow smiled, though the corners
were turned down slightly, as he stared into Simon’s eyes. "Simon,"
he spoke softly after a long pause, "you aren't that
cold-blooded." Litchfield jumped slightly. He wondered just
how obvious his thoughts at that moment must have been.
"Whatever I may be thinking,”
Simon spoke with eerie calmness, “whatever I might do in any situation, it
would never be in cold blood. This is cold logic. This is
marble-smooth pragmatism." Simon cocked his head towards the time
machine. "Have you considered the harm that thing could do?
You and the good Dr. Eckert may just be the next Robert
Oppenheimer’s. Have you considered
that?" Simon looked hard into Callow's eyes. "You of all
people should know that Nightwatch does everything, everything, in its
power to stop those who threaten lives, who threaten the good of the world as a
whole." Callow nodded and seemingly truly understood Simon's logic.
Eckert opened the cabinet and
calmly if quickly took out two new panels for the machine, all the while
casting sideways glances at Dr. Litchfield.
"Well, Simon," Callow
said as Simon turned and faced the machine, "I guess you'll do what you'll
have to do.” Simon, while he was turned away from Callow, quietly reached
into his pocket and released the safety on the gun. “I wouldn't have
brought you here if you were any different. I would, however," he
said as he reached into his coat, "like you to make a fully informed
choice." Simon, hearing the sound of paper, looked back at Callow as
he slowly slid out a white envelope, and Simon had a sinking feeling that he
knew what Callow was going to say.
"Go on," Simon said,
moving slowly towards the envelope Callow was now holding in his fingertips
"Well," Callow continued
after a brief cough, "just so you know the facts, if I give the word, or should
anything out of the ordinary occur, I've left instructions for copies of this
document to be sent to the Attorney General, to the Secretary of State, and to
the heads of the FBI and CIA." Callow grinned. "They
would, I think, be very interested to know about some of your, um,
extracurricular activities." Simon nodded. "And, before
you go seeking out Ms. Keel's help, understand that these documents will be
delivered in analog form, if you follow me."
"What if I told you that
sacrificing my life and career was a price I was willing to pay to get rid of
this thing you’ve built?"
"I'd say that was a very
noble gesture on your part," Callow said as Eckert started attaching the
first replacement panel to the array. "However, if you'd like to
take a look at this," he said as he slowly handed the envelope to Simon,
"you'll find reference to Ms. Keel as well. You wouldn't want her to
spend decades of her life in prison would you? And what about Mr.
Weldon? That practice of his seems to be..."
"Enough," Simon spoke as
he nearly crumpled the envelope. Callow
brushed a speck of dust from his gray jacket.
"And think about this,"
Callow said with increased seriousness. "If you go down, you'll take
Nightwatch with you. I don't even want to imagine what would be left by
the time all of the investigations and the dust had settled." Simon
looked coldly at Callow, and then he opened the envelope and pulled out the
sheath of papers it contained. A cursory examination was all it took, all
that was required to see that Callow hadn't been bluffing about the contents of
this document, that more things than Simon ever cared to remember were
there in sterile 12 point Arial.
The most damning items concerned Simon, of course, but Stephanie was nearly as damned as well. At the very least, her indictment would cause a rash of scandals in the government, particularly in areas that were responsible for guaranteeing national cyber security. Because he was an accessory to many of the items mentioned, Tom was liable as well to spend a good portion of the rest of his life in a Federal penitentiary.
A fist balled itself in the pit of Simon's stomach. Already tired from his excursions into the field, his day had steadily gotten worse. Everyone, today, seemed to be getting the better of him, and Litchfield wasn't one to simply accept that fact with anything other than disgust. Briefly, he wondered if Callow really would go through with it, if he really would allow Nightwatch to be sacrificed just so he could punish Simon. The reality, he knew, was that Callow would.
Litchfield placed the contents
back into the envelope. He placed into
one of his coat pockets and then rubbed his wrists and his fingers, trying to
ease the discomfort of his arthritis. "What do you want me to
do?" he asked with as much confidence as he could muster in the face of
everything that had happened.
"We've discovered many, many
things," Eckert suddenly spoke as he finished securing the connections on
the new panel, "many wonderful, many amazing things since the device
became operational." Again, Simon cringed inside. Just call
a spade a spade, he thought angrily. "First, we've discovered
some key restrictions. For now, we can send nothing at all into the
future. We don't know the reason, but the collectors simply won't process
the egg's outputs in that manner. Second, experimental data have shown
that we cannot go back farther than, say, 1900. Again, the outputs beyond
that are too unpredictable."
"Lucky 19th century,"
Simon spoke cheerlessly. His fingers, thanks to the chill of the
basement, were now hurting him terribly.
"Third," Eckert
continued, "the range of the machine is limited. In fact, we can
only read and reach the Washington, DC metro area. However, it is the
last thing we've found that is of greatest interest, and it is this that has
caused us to bring you in."
"Do you have any ibuprofen
down here?" Simon asked as he touched his temples. What he really
wanted was a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label, but he'd never admit that.
"When we first began
operating the machine," Eckert continued, "I noticed something odd in
the data." Eckert walked over to a monitor, flicking it on and then
inserting a disk into a nearby CD-Rom drive. "They were indicating
something extremely anomalous. At first, I had to assume the machine
wasn't functioning optimally. When I eliminated that as a possibility..."
An animated bar graph of data
points appeared on the monitor, and Callow walked over, pointing at two of the
bars.
"These," Callow continued,
"are, for lack of a better term, oscillations, and over the last hundred
years, over the absolute range of this machine, they have appeared at very
specific points in U.S. and world history."
"Here," Eckert added,
"is the Bonus Army's march on Washington. And here is the depth of
the Great Depression."
"This shows the period just
before
"And the point is?" Simon
asked impatiently.
"The point," Eckert
said, a slight trace of a New England accent coloring his voice, "is that
every one of these oscillations can be tied directly to a period of tremendous
uncertainly in the Washington metro area--the Kennedy assassination, for
instance--almost as if the sheer number of possible outcomes literally cast
ripples into the ocean of time." Eckert paused and smiled as if he'd
been very pleased with his metaphor. "The greatest wave amplitudes,
as you might imagine, occur during World War II and the Cuban missile
crisis."
"All of the sources can be
identified," Callow said.
"All," Eckert continued,
"but one." Simon looked at the two of them, a wry if somewhat
bitter smile crossing his face, and he began shaking his head.
"No," Simon said
firmly. "The answer is a definite no. There is no way I'm
trusting you to fling me back in time. Outside of my principles, do
either of you actually know what the egg is made of?"
"That," Callow added,
"is still a matter of conjecture. It is, however, under study.
Some very fine minds are analyzing the data even as we speak." Simon
shook his head.
"Well," he said
dramatically, "you at least know how the egg manipulates time,
then. You've identified its...oh, what the hell...its temporal
properties?"
"Truthfully," Eckert
said cheerfully, "we haven't a clue! Much of that will have to wait
until the composition of the outer shell has been identified. However, we
can say with certainty that whatever may be driving it, the outputs can be
controlled through the device."
"The time machine!"
Simon screamed, and then he shook his hands and head as if trying to restore
his composure. "You can't expect me to seriously consider doing
this! You want me to trust my life to a damn enigma?"
"Simon," Callow said in
his most serious tone of voice, "this is important, and this is serious.
Despite your views and misgivings, this machine..." He stopped and
looked at the egg and then at the surrounding equipment. "This
wonder, this marvel, brings with it the responsibility, the power to do real
good. Something is going on in the winter of late 1939, something
with the potential to undo everything we know to be reality. And that
something is growing in intensity." He looked Simon squarely in the
eye. "We must find out what that is, and, if necessary, we
must stop it. That is what I am asking you to do."
"The first recorded
oscillations," Eckert added in an equally serious tone, "were
comparatively minor. Puzzling, but minor. But we've checked many
times, Dr. Litchfield, many times. The oscillations are getting
worse. Something is changing in that time, something potentially
dangerous, something that, if it continues to grow, could cascade into the
total unraveling of everything we know to be history."
"Hyperbole?" Simon asked
as he stared into an empty point in space.
"He knew how you'd
react," Eckert said, pointing at Callow. "How long do you think
we've been at work down here, Dr. Litchfield? How many times have I
pleaded for someone, you for instance, to be assigned to check this out, to see
with his own eyes what is happening?" Eckert absently picked up a
pen and twirled it rapidly in his hands. "Today, he came to
get you. Is that hyperbole?"
Simon, unblinking, scanned the
room, staring alternately at Callow, then Eckert (where did he know that
name from), and then the machine. He removed his hat and ran his fingers
through his thick, white hair. Then, slowly, he put the hat back on and
scratched the silver stubble on his chin.
"And if I still say no?"
he asked, though his tone was really that of a man knowing that answer in
advance.
Callow nodded, his face seeming to
acknowledge that Simon was only doing what he had to do. "You
know about the letter. You know about the consequences."
Simon shook his head and uttered a
curse beneath his breath. "I need a little time to
think." Callow looked towards Eckert, who nodded in assent.
"Two days," Callow said
as he walked over and released the catch on the door, opening the way to the
elevator. Simon walked into the lift and turned around, in the process
noting a set of double doors on the other side of the room. "When
you get to the top, lift the door. That will release the lock."
"Thanks for the tip,"
Litchfield said flatly.
"Oh," Callow added, "don't bother trying to sneak back in here later. I'm turning off the lift just as soon as you reach the top." Simon reached up for the door. "Simon," Callow called.
"Yes, Ian," Simon spoke, trying to hide notes of dejection in his
voice.
"For what it's worth," he said, "what you were thinking of
doing--and I know what you were thinking, there are times I can read you
like an old, familiar book, my friend--what you were thinking of doing was very
noble in its own, misguided way." Callow looked down and allowed a
smile to cross his face. "You never would have gone through with it,
though. It's not your nature."
Simon grinned. "Maybe," he said, "but ask yourself this
question." Simon quickly reached into his coat and pulled out the
Magnum, unlocked the safety, and fired several shots into the bank of machinery
opposite the elevator. During the
gunfire, Callow and Eckert had dived for cover.
Very casually, Simon reset the safety and put the gun away. He started
pulling down the door. "Was it six shots, my friend, or was it only
five?" The door slammed shut.
****
"I couldn't tell,"
Gillian said suddenly, breaking Simon's reverie, "if you were deep in
thought or just really enjoying that wine." She smiled, and
Simon blinked, hard.
"How long have you been
standing there?"
"About thirty seconds,"
she said and then playfully ruffled his hair. She cocked her head towards
the kitchen. "Jack says the lobsters are, how did he put it, 'tre pathetique'
or something like that." She smiled and looked down at her
fingers. "He's young." She reached forward and proudly
cracked her knuckles. "He's never seen what a true wizard can do
with 'em, I guess."
Simon smiled back and put his hat
on. "I'll take that as a polite 'get thee lost, errant!'"
"Sorry," she said,
"one of these days I'll find someone who can make the bisque
properly." She tapped the counter and then started for the
kitchen. "Today, obviously, ain't the day."
Simon started for the side
entrance after watching Gillian disappear behind the kitchen door.
Shaking his head, he reentered the dining area, stopped long enough to bow
towards an extremely confused Billy the waiter, and then departed quickly
through the side door.
Outside, the rain poured down, but
mixed in here and there were snowflakes, and as he walked back to his car,
umbrella against the wind, they began outnumbering the raindrops. A
crackle of lightning surged overhead.
She's been here for years, Simon thought. What is it? Ten, fifteen?
He turned into the parking lot, looking through the flying flecks of water and
snow. She still can't find anyone who can make the bisque as good as
she can. He stopped and sighed, shook his head, and moved forward
again. That's me too, isn't it. Try as I might, try as
Callow might, in the end I am the only one at Nightwatch who can make
the damn bisque. In Gillian's case, her efforts meant the dinner
crowd would not go hungry. In Simon's case, it meant lives would not end
unnecessarily and that chances for better futures would be guaranteed.
Never success, he could never guarantee success, but sometimes the chance was
all anyone needed. Ah hell, he thought as he pulled the keys from
his pocket and opened his car door.
Simon jumped into the Saturn,
shook out the umbrella, and closed the door. The die was cast; the choice
had been made for him, and only anger and pride had allowed him to hold out as
long as he had. "Damn you," Simon whispered under his
breath. His satellite radio immediately picked up strains of an old song.
"How fucking
appropriate," he thought as the Talking Heads’ “Once In A Lifetime” played
on the station. Thinking on the offer from Callow and Eckert that he knew
he couldn’t refuse, he laughed grimly and then said, “Damn Sword of Damocles.”
****
"The trick with time
travel," Dr. Eckert said as he double-checked the fitting on Simon's new
suit and cloak, "is finding things which match the period. While it
is highly unlikely that someone would test the fibers of your," he made
quotation marks in the air with his fingers, "futuristic garments,
we can't take that chance."
"They're comfortable
enough," Simon said without much enthusiasm. The outfit, while
similar in many ways to his normal attire, was somewhat heavier and also
somewhat more formal. The cloak itself was made of heavy wool and was a
brown-checked color. Simon, feeling like the main attraction in a freak
show, placed his new tan (or at least somewhat darker than khaki) hat on his
head. In the background, two technicians finished attaching wires to
something that looked uncomfortably like an electric chair.
"And then," Eckert
continued, "we have these. This fine, period appropriate wallet
filled with $200 in period appropriate currency and period appropriate
identification. Small leather pouch with period appropriate
currency." Simon blinked, smiled, then looked down at the floor.
"All borrowed from one of the
period appropriate exhibits in storage at the Smithsonian," Callow
murmured.
"You didn't have a premade
rulebook for this sort of thing," Simon spoke with some degree of disgust,
"so you rented Somewhere in Time, didn't you." Simon
visualized the document Callow had in his possession. It was the only
thing that kept him from running away for his life. Eckert walked over
and conferred with Callow, who, to Simon, looked positively giddy, something
that was disturbing both for its unusual presence in Callow and in the
strangely demonic creases that appeared at the corners of his eyes.
Simon closed his eyes and tried to meditate as best as he could. Within
the last year, Simon had seen three time machines, and two of them had produced
nothing but sorrow for the lives they touched. And now, albeit unwillingly,
he was getting ready to see if the third time was, indeed, a most unlucky
charm.
"I know this is going to seem
a laughable question, to you two anyway," Litchfield said, "but, how
are you going to bring me back, find me in the past for that matter?"
Eckert and Callow looked over at him.
"You're marked, Dr.
Litchfield," Callow stated, and he walked over to look closely into
Simon's face. "You don't, strictly speaking, belong anywhere but
now."
"You will appear very clearly
on the next temporal scan, I can assure you," Eckert continued.
"When you are ready to return, we'll be able to home in on you with very
little difficulty."
"According to you
anyway," Simon spoke blackly. "You're not going to sit in that
chair, over there. In a similar vein, just how am I supposed to tell you
I'm ready to come back?" Eckert walked over to a table and
picked up a copy of the Washington Post.
"Place an ad in here,"
Eckert said. "We'll see it and initiate retrieval procedures
immediately. I can't guarantee you'll come back immediately, but
certainly within a few hours..." Litchfield held up his hands.
"This is getting more surreal
by the second," Simon hissed. "First, Somewhere in Time.
And now, Time Cop!"
Eckert shrugged his head
apologetically. "My specialty is the mechanics of time, Dr.
Litchfield. As for the actual procedures involved in time travel, there
is precious little out there upon which to draw!" Callow walked
between them.
"Time is literally wasting,
gentlemen," he said as he turned to Eckert. "Didn't you tell me
this morning's scan showed more instability?" Eckert nodded and
smiled his creaseless smile.
"Are we ready?" he asked
one of the technicians. The man raised his thumbs.
"Good! Dr. Litchfield, if you'll follow me." Simon, his
expression sinking into one of general disgust, reluctantly followed Eckert to
the chair. Sitting on the aluminum seat, Simon placed his hands on the
points indicated by the technicians. He sat perfectly still as a large,
fishbowl-like object was placed around his head.
“And just how many volts will you
be sending through me?” Simon asked when he finally couldn’t stand the tension
any longer. Eckert looked at him quizzically before breaking out into a
hearty laugh.
“No, no, no, you misunderstand,
doctor,” Eckert laughed as he adjusted a few knobs on a wall panel.
“Truthfully, the chair has nothing to do with time travel. I’m just
gathering some physiological data. No, you could be hanging from a
chandelier for all that the machine would care!” Simon shrugged. “All right,” Eckert continued, “let’s get
started, shall we. Places, everyone.” The technicians moved to
different monitors and reduced the lighting over their areas. Callow, who
was watching with great interest, moved to the main station and stood behind
Eckert. “Directional focusing. Main bus alpha. Main bus
beta. Signal integrity booster, on. Phased pulse integrity booster,
on…” Callow held up a copy of the checklist and followed as Eckert
whispered to himself.
“What should I expect?” Simon
asked after a long pause during which the room was quiet save for a vaguely
disturbing humming noise. Various lights on the array around the egg lit
up in unison, and the egg began spinning on its pedestal.
“…collector interception
signal…good. Time setting…positive signal! Subject
acquisition…” Eckert continued.
“I said,” Simon muttered in an
irritated tone, “what should I expect?” Eckert still didn’t look up from his
check list and from the panel he was standing in front of.
“Subject acquisition…subject
acquisition… Positive signal, Callow. Positive signal!”
Eckert looked towards Simon as the egg began spinning so quickly that its shape
was no longer defined to the naked eye. The humming noise grew
louder. “I’m sorry, Dr. Litchfield. What are you talking about?”
“What the hell should I expect,”
Simon yelled, “when I start to travel! It’s a reasonable question!
What did your previous subjects experience?”
Eckert looked at Callow and then
at Litchfield. Shrugging his shoulders, he looked down and flipped a
toggle switch. “I really can’t answer your query,” Eckert said.
“You’re the first!”
Simon’s eyes compressed to slits,
and he prepared to spring out of the seat. “Oh, like hell…”
****
“…I am!” Simon shrieked as he
stood up. As he did so, however, he was overcome by a terrible sense of
vertigo, and he fell down hard, vomiting into the snow and just barely avoiding
soiling his new clothes with it. The dizziness was the worst he’d ever
experienced, worse than the time he’d picked up an ear infection while working
deep underground. The snow, which was already clinging to his hands and
clothes, couldn’t be said to be helping matters. Turning over onto his
back, Simon tried to focus on the sill of one of the buildings surrounding the
alley, using it as a sort of artificial horizon. He concentrated
carefully and tried to will the nausea and dizziness into abating.
“Snow?” he said as an invisible
hand began braking the spinning world. “Alley?” The spinning motion
reduced even more. When he was certain that there would be no more
vomiting, he sat up, his breath condensing into white puffs of vapor. Well,
he thought, at least it’s done. At least I’m there. Or was
he? It occurred to him that the contraption might have hurled him
spatially, but there was no guarantee of his having actually traveled in
time. The first thing he’d need to do would be to look for a newspaper.
The second thing, providing he
felt up to it, would be to find something to eat.
Simon sat, cross legged, and tried
to gauge whether or not he could stand. He looked forward and saw the end
of the alley, saw a horse and buggy as it scooted by. Finally trusting
that his legs wouldn’t give out, he stood, dusted off the snow, and smoothed
out the wrinkles in his clothes. As he started to leave, however, he
heard something in the alley behind him, and he turned to see what it
was. The alley behind came to a T-intersection. Moving towards it,
Simon listened over the crunch of fallen snow, trying to figure out what he was
hearing.
It didn’t take long to recognize
the sound of someone having the breath beaten out of him. Simon crouched
low as he continued moving forward and tried to muffle as best he could the
sound of his feet.
Simon stopped and listened.
“…thought you could <umph> cheat Whitey out of <umph> his
dough. Let me tell ya, in another <umph> couple of minutes, you
ain’t gonna cheat nobody again <umph>.”
Some sort of deal gone wrong, Litchfield thought, and he started to leave. This
isn’t my affair.
“Buddy…listen <umph>,”
another more distressed voice said. “Please…please stop...
<umph>…I’m not kidding, I’m not doing <umph> so well.”
Another man started to laugh.
“That’s kinda the point, don’t you
think Eddie?” the other man said. “Go on, Mitch. Keep at him till
you get tired, then finish with the knife.” Simon stopped, closed his
eyes, took in a deep breath, and turned back towards the sounds. As he
turned his head around the corner, Litchfield saw exactly what he’d expected to
see given the fragments of conversation he was hearing. A man in his
mid-thirties was slumped against a pile of empty brown and beige crates, his
Irish cap hanging from a shard of wood. His gray pea coat was stained
with drops of blood, which was dripping down from his nose and mouth. The
white collar of his shirt was stained as well.
Standing in front of him were two
men. One leaned against the brick of one wall, his gray business suit
crumpled and wrinkling from the way he pressed himself against the
building. A gray fedora was pushed forward on his head and nearly covered
his eyes.
Another, larger brute stood in
front of the bleeding man. The goon (Simon couldn’t think of a more
appropriate appellation) had obviously taken off his coat and rolled up sleeves
before commencing work on his victim. As Simon watched, the goon
delivered another hammering punch.
Simon tensed up and then relaxed,
loosening muscles that really weren’t in the mood for what he was about to
do. The stomach he’d have to deal with later.
"Excuse me -- Mitch, was
it? I think Eddie, there, has had enough."
The goon straightened, glanced
over at his fedora-wearing companion.
"Better mind your own
business, Pops," the man in the gray suit said. "Turn around
and walk away, unless you want some of what Mitch is sellin'."
Litchfield shook his head.
"I'm afraid I can't do that," he said. "Especially not if
you insist on judging me by my age."
"Ignore him, Mitch. I
can handle this old fruit myself."
"'Kay, Buddy. I'll just
keep talkin' with Eddie, here," the goon said, his oversized fist
pistoning into Eddie's ribs.
Buddy strutted toward Simon, hands
in his pockets. "Sure you don't want to change your mind,
Pops?"
Simon unfastened his cloak and let
the heavy woolen garment slide off his shoulders and onto the wet, filthy
pavement. Callow could bloody well pay to have the thing cleaned before
it went back to the museum or wherever he'd 'borrowed' it from -- assuming, of
course, that Eckert's machine really could retrieve him.
Buddy stopped within arm's length
of the man he insisted on calling 'Pops', looking him up and down with
undisguised contempt.
"I'll say this for you,
Pops. You look like you're in okay shape for a geezer," Buddy
said. "I'm giving you one more chance to keep it that way."
Simon shook his head again.
"I am giving you -- and
your large friend -- one more chance to walk away."
Buddy sneered. "I
warned ya --"
Buddy grabbed the lapel of Simon's
coat in his left hand and drew back his right fist.
Simon's right hand snapped out in
an atemi strike to Buddy's face -- little more than an open-handed slap, but it
startled the man and left him vulnerable to Simon's next move. Trapping
Buddy's left hand, Simon twisted it back on itself, putting painful pressure on
the wrist and elbow. Buddy yelped in surprise as Simon pivoted, pulling
Buddy off his feet and hurling him against the wall.
"Shit! You're gonna pay
for that one, you old bastard!"
Buddy peeled himself off the wall
and leaped headfirst at Simon. Simon sidestepped, caught Buddy's arm, and
again pivoted in place, this time redirecting the momentum so that Buddy's face
slammed into the pavement. Buddy grunted, then went limp.
"Not the cleanest technique,
but I think sensei would be satisfied with the result," Simon said.
"What did you do to
Buddy?"
Simon looked up in time to see
Mitch's scarred boulder of a fist rocketing toward his face. He managed
to twist enough to turn a knockout punch into a graze, but even so, the impact
threw him off balance and he fell to one knee, the metallic taste of blood
making his already-abused stomach churn. The cold and damp of the
pavement wasn't doing his arthritis any good, either, but he had much more
urgent problems.
Mitch followed up by trying to
land a solid kick to Simon's ribs, but Litchfield deflected the blow with a
sweeping motion of one arm and drove one knuckle into Mitch's ankle joint.
Mitch howled and pulled back,
favoring his injured ankle, giving Simon time to regain his feet and his
composure.
Mitch shook himself and worked his
shoulders and arms. He glared at Litchfield, obviously offended by
Simon's use of trickery and 'dirty fighting' -- which, by 1939 standards,
classical aikido certainly was.
Simon could see now that the big
man wasn't just a mountain of muscle and bone -- he was both faster and more
skillful than he looked. Still, Simon had seen the aikido o-sensei handle
a drunken sumo five times his size, in spite of the much larger man's
surprising speed and agility, and he was eighty-three years old at the time.
This time, Mitch attacked like a
boxer, with flurries of punches that Simon deflected with high and middle
blocks while circling the big man. Mitch was confused and frustrated by
Simon's defenses, and it made him careless, swinging harder and wider.
Finally, Simon saw an
opening. He slipped another open-handed atemi strike between Mitch's
raised fists, followed with a snap kick to the big man's knee, then executed a
jiu jitsu throw that had been prohibited in competition because of its
potential to do permanent damage. Stepping in so that his right leg was
behind Mitch's, he tugged at the back of Mitch's shirt with one hand, driving
the other hard against Mitch's upper chest.
Mitch's legs flew out from under
him, and his upper body pivoted on the fulcrum of Simon's hip, then fell at
bone-crunching speed to the pavement. Amazingly, the big man did not lose
consciousness, although the look on his face suggested that he wished he had.
Simon finished the job with a
shuto strike to the temple, leaving the goon snoring like a buzzsaw.
"I see adenoid surgery in
your future, Mitch," Simon said, shaking his head. He looked over
toward Buddy's crumpled and still-unconscious form. "Plastic surgery
for you -- damn, do they have plastic surgery yet?" Simon walked
over to the bleeding, beaten, and dumbfounded man sitting crumpled on the
ground. “Come on, Eddie,” Litchfield said as he helped the man out of the
alleyway. “Let’s find some place a little safer, shall we.
“Geez Louise, oldtimer,” the man
sputtered as more blood dribbled out, “where’d you learn to fight like
that?” Simon cringed and fought the urge to drop the man in the snow then
and there.
“I’m not old,” Simon hissed, “and
I learned it far away from here.”
They hobbled along the snow-covered street, the two of them ducking into doorways to avoid more than cursory glances from pedestrians. Finally, after moving roughly three blocks, they slid into another alley. Simon propped Eddie against the wall and then scouted out the area. Satisfied that there were alternate escape routes should any more of Eddie's friends arrive, Litchfield returned to tend to his patient.
"You have a name?" Simon asked while looking into Eddie's eyes to see if the pupils were dilated.
"E-E-Eddie," the man stammered. "Eddie Winter." Eddie reached up
slowly to touch the left side of his jaw.
"You think it's broken?" Eddie asked. "I don't
think I could handle getting my jaw wired shut." Simon shook his head as
he scooped up some snow and moved it to the center of a handkerchief.
"Oh, you're hurt all
right," Simon said as he placed the snow against the bleeding gash on the
side of Eddie's face. Eddie winced and let out a yelp of pain.
"I don't think anything's broken. You'd better get to a doctor,
though." Eddie nodded as he let himself slide to the ground.
"You from around here?"
Eddie asked as he took over handkerchief duty from Simon. Litchfield
laughed, shook his head, and then sat down on a small wooden crate marked
'Cleaned Canned Peaches Packed In Syrup.'
"Uh, no," Litchfield
finally said. "I'm not from here. I'm
from...uh...Baltimore."
"Baltimore!" Eddie said
excitedly. "I know a fella up there! Real good egg.
Gives good credit too." Simon smiled. "What you down here
for anyway?"
"I'm applying to work with
the PWA," Litchfield said quickly. "This fellow in
"Naw," Eddie said as he
waved his right hand. "Naw, this ain't his style. These are
Whitey Rueger's boys." Simon arched his left eyebrow.
"So," he sighed,
"you've got more than one bookie."
"Sure," Eddie said,
wincing as he removed the now bloody handkerchief. He felt with his hand,
found that the bleeding had indeed stopped, and gave a nod of
satisfaction. "Got about six or seven I work with each
week." Simon laughed.
"Wouldn't you say that's a
bit excessive? One, I'd think, would generally suffice." Eddie
laughed but then started to shiver. Simon took off his cloak and layered
it over the injured man.
"Thanks, buddy," Eddie
finally said after calming the shaking. "Nah...nah...see. It's
all part of my system."
"What is?"
"All the bookies," Eddie
said. "They're all part of my system. See," he said as he
held up his right hand, "you place your bets with one man, and all your
bets lose, you're out a bundle. What I do, see, is spread the bets
around." He spread the fingers on his hand. "Let's say I
placed bets with Rueger, Penn Wittington in Baltimore, Richie Green, Bixby's
House, and the Ballroom Boys. If Old Lady Luck is with me that day, then
I can clear a big bundle. I mean a BIG bundle. See what I'm
getting at?"
"I see what you're
about," Simon continued. "You're about to get yourself killed
because you're addicted to gambling." Eddie shook his head and
chuckled.
"You don't gamble, do
ya," Eddie stated. "No cards, no dice, no nothing, I
bet." Simon smiled and tried not to burst into laughter.
"Well," Simon spoke,
"I wouldn't put it that way. To be honest, I gamble all the
time," he smiled wickedly, "one way or another." Eddie
eyed him quizzically.
"Well, okay then," Eddie
said, "but you don't know nothing about it. You place all your bets
with one guy, see, and you're out everything, maybe more than everything if you
lose bad enough." Eddie tapped the side of his head and
smiled. "My way, now, my way is better! I place a bet here, I
place a bet there. Even if I strike out with four, the fifth one's gonna
come in big, big enough to cover everyone else, see? Even on a bad week I
break even. Then, you dump the fire and start again. It's fool
proof!" Simon grinned, shook his head, took the handkerchief from
Eddie's left hand and put more snow it. Then, he applied it to another
cut that had started bleeding on Eddie's neck.
"Sounds good," Simon
muttered, "but it didn't work out this time, did it?" The smile
on Eddie's face slowly collapsed.
"Um," Eddie grunted as
he cleared his throat, "well, it was just one of those fluke things, you
know? Ain't nothing I coulda done about it." Simon stared at
him with a look of pity. "Look, I caught a bad break on Golden Hands
Lucas, all right. He was a shoo in, a shoo in! No way Bricks
McGhee was gonna win that fight."
"Uh-huh," Simon said
doubtfully.
"Look, chum," Eddie said
with a degree of irritation, "it just wasn't my fault! How was I
supposed to know he'd hire a lousy cut man for his corner? Lucas shoulda
known better. Same guy shitted up the Wilson fight last year!"
"Ah, I see," Simon
intoned as he removed the handkerchief and examined the cut. It, too, had
stopped bleeding. "And what about the others then, the ones that
Golden Hands Lucas' cut man wasn't involved in?"
Eddie stared into Simon's
eyes. "Fuck," he said quietly. "Nothing I coulda
done about it. Just a damn fluke." Eddie's face brightened
up. "Next week, though, next week I got some hot tips cooking
up!"
"Next week?" Simon said
incredulously. "Two men just tried to kill you! You know that,
don't you? They weren't," Simon laughed, "they weren't coming
to ask you to dance!"
"But I got a system,"
Eddie said enthusiastically. "What were the odds? No chance
all of 'em are gonna blow back on me this time! I can pull in a full car
load, pay off Rueger, and have a stake left for the week after."
Simon sighed.
"Eddie," he said, "you
need to get to a doctor, now." Eddie shook his head.
"No sawbones for me," he
said as he started to stand, using the wall for support until he was back on
his feet. A little wobbly but still upright, he handed back the
cloak. "Couple of BC Powders, and I'll be good as new."
"You're crazy," Simon
spoke, a wry smile on his face, "you know that don't you."
Eddie touched the side of his
nose, cringed as this caused him pain, and then smiled again. "Like
a fox," he grinned. He reached out to shake Simon's hand.
"Lemme tell you. I ain't never seen someone fight like that, and I
really appreciate what you done. You need help with anything, anything,
just ask around for Eddie Winter. I'll be there." Almost
despite himself, Simon grabbed Eddie's hand and smiled.
"Okay," he said.
"Don't be surprised if I take you up on the offer. By the way, do
you know of a good place to eat around here?" Eddie nodded.
"Sure thing," he
said. "Up the street," he said pointing with his thumb,
"turn left, walk a block. Philby's Drug. It's got one of them
grinding bowl things on the sign."
"Okay Eddie," Simon
spoke. As Eddie turned to leave, he pulled out a pocket watch and checked
the time as Simon called out. "Hey," he said, "take care
of yourself, okay, and take my advice. Lay off the gambling for
awhile." Eddie just smiled and shook his head, and then he limped up
the street, placed the watch back into his pocket, and disappeared around a
corner.
****
Simon sat at the counter of
Philby's Drug, slowly eating his cheeseburger and thinking about his
circumstances. As he'd walked the streets of Washington, he'd realized
very quickly that he had, indeed, traveled to the past, and the realization
that Eckert's machine worked had been extremely unsettling. While he'd
never admit as much to Callow, the fact that the machine had worked
frightened him. The only thing that frightened him more was the fear
that, having been sent back, Eckert and Callow wouldn't be able to return him
to the present. Quantum Leap, he thought. Oh well, at
least Beckett seemed to have sex quite a bit.
"I still don't know when I
am," he said to himself just as a waitress in a white cloth hat and
blue-checked serving outfit refilled his cup of coffee. "37 and
McGregor," she said cheerfully, and then she walked off to attend to other
customers. Simon watched the appealing way her healthy rear-end swayed as
she moved to the opposite end of the counter. He arched his eyebrows
before shaking his head. "Can't think about that now, Simon,"
he whispered. Smiling, he said, "Maybe later. Maybe
later." This is a damn good burger, he thought as he took
another bite. Something, somewhere in his mind began griping about the
lower health standards of the day, but he quickly decided to adopt a don't ask,
don't tell policy concerning anything pleasant that he ate. Besides, the
coffee tasted real, which was better than he could say about the instant
junk he had to make do with most of the time.
"Can I get you anything else,
shug?" the redheaded waitress asked as she put Simon's ticket on the
counter. Simon smiled and again had to remind himself that now was not a
good time to think about that.
"You can, actually," he
said charmingly. "My mind's drawing a blank all of a sudden. Can
you tell me what the date is?"
"December 11," she
replied.
"1938, right?" Simon
spoke as if he was being playful and joking.
"Stop that," the
waitress said with a giggle as she lightly slapped his hand. "1939,
and you know it! Hey Jim, we got ourselves a joker, here!"
"Everyone's a joker,"
the fry-cook said cheerlessly as he flipped several hamburger patties.
The waitress shook her head.
"Depression's letting up,
Joe," she said sarcastically, "you could try cracking a smile once in
a while." End of fall '39, Simon thought as he winked at the
waitress. Was it supposed to be this early? I thought Eckert
said winter.
"Don't get fresh with me,
mister," the waitress said, and though she was laughing, Simon could tell
from the slight edge in her voice that she was probably a force to be reckoned
with if she was crossed. She left to fill up another customer's cup, and
as she did Simon picked up his ticket and pulled out his wallet. He idly
dropped two dollars on the counter and then headed for the cash register.
The register was large, brown, metallic, and generally clunky compared to
anything Simon had seen in recent years though he had seen this kind before
during his childhood. The waitress walked up and pushed down on the metal
keys as numbers on metal strips popped up in a display window. "42
cents," she said. Simon, momentarily shaken by the realization that
years of inflation had melted away, suddenly couldn't figure out what to give
her. Finally, he reached into his pocket and pulled out two
quarters. She pushed another button and the cash drawer popped out,
accompanied by a loud bell sound. She handed 8 cents back. Simon
tipped his hat, smiled, and then headed for the exit. As he passed the
shelves of phosphates, potions, and the ever popular Castor Oil, he remembered
the two dollar tip he'd absently left.
"Well," he said as he
laughed, "I hope she's happy with a 300% tip!" As he opened the
door to the cold street, a loud bell clanged above him.
****
A doorway opened into a dark space,
throwing illumination from a paper-shaded light in the hallway onto the
dark-stained pinewood floors. A portly woman in her early to mid-fifties
entered, her blue dress with a white flower pattern on it swaying around her
frame. As the floorboards creaked, Simon followed behind her. The
woman stopped by a small end-table and turned on a yellow lamp.
"Bathroom's down the hall to
your left," she said. "Mister Griffith and myself just ask that
you limit the time you spend in there, as a courtesy to others. You can
change your own bed linens," she continued. "A fresh set will
be dropped off at your door every mornin'. Warm-bed heater's in the
corner, and you'll get a new bucket of coal every mornin'. If you need more,
don't hesitate to ask, but Mister Griffith and myself will charge extra for the
service."
"Don't worry madam,"
Simon spoke, "I can conserve heat with the best of them." Mrs.
Griffith, while still smiling, cast a reproachful look upon Litchfield.
"Young man," she
said--she called every man other than her husband 'young man' as far as Simon
could tell--"please call me Mrs. Griffith. I do not work in
the tenderloin district."
Simon bowed respectfully.
"Mea culpa," he said, and Mrs. Griffith smiled, revealing three missing
teeth on her lower jaw.
"Ahhh, Latin," she said
wistfully. "The younger generation is sadly lackin' in the classics,
don't you agree, Dr. Litchfield." Simon turned on his most charming
smile.
"I do indeed, Mrs.
Griffith! I do indeed!"
Mrs. Griffith laughed an airy
laugh and then resumed her tour of the room. Once she had finished, she
started for the door. "Remember, Dr. Litchfield, that Mister
Griffith and I expect prompt payment every Monday. Three dollars and twenty-five
cents."
"Would you like for me to pay
now?" Simon asked as he reached for his wallet, but Mrs. Griffith shook
her head and jutted her lower lip. Then, she started to close the door
with her left hand.
"No need," she
said. "You look like an honest man." The door clicked
shut. "I serve dinner, promptly, at 6PM," she said
through the closed door. Simon took off his cloak and let it fall onto
the plain beige covers of the single bed. As he looked around, he took
note of his Spartan surroundings, particularly the lack of any pictures on the
wall. To Mrs. Griffith's credit, however, the room was impeccable, and
Mr. Griffith apparently saw to it that all the cracks in the plaster were
filled in and that the off-white paint was kept in good shape. Simon touched
the wall and then quickly pulled his hand back.
"Probably lead paint,"
he said to himself. You have to eat it for it to hurt, he thought but no need to take chances. "Probably lead pipes,
too." He made a mental note to not drink the water until he absolutely
had to do so. Walking over to the closet, he pulled open the door and
found a man's pullover night shirt. Good, he thought, this'll
tide me over until I can buy a few things tomorrow. Walking over to
the warm-bed heater, he opened the grating, found some matches, and prepared to
start a fire. Might as well go to bed, he thought. Long
day ahead. Lord knows where it'll take me.
****
The sun shone brightly in the cold
morning air as Simon sat upon a bench reading the Washington Post.
There was, of course, international news, particularly reports from Warsaw
concerning the fate of the Poles under NAZI rule and reports from Helsinki
about the Red Army's march on Finland. There were others as well,
including an ominous warning on the editorial page that it would be impossible
for the US to stay out of Europe's war forever. While Simon was
fascinated by the history unfolding before him, he quickly started digging for
local news. After all, Callow's pet project couldn't see beyond a certain
area, and Europe was definitely out of the picture. He looked for
anything unusual, anything that screamed this is important, this is vital,
and he found nothing. Not even in the police blotters. Forlornly,
he folded up the paper and tossed it into a garbage can.
"I didn't suppose it would be
that easy," he said under his breath. "Would have been nice,
though." As he walked along the streets, saw the hats and clothes
and fashions of "yesteryear," the open-bed trucks with parcels tied
down carefully onto their flat beds, the horses and buggies still quite common
on the streets, another layer of denial stripped away from him, and as it did,
the enormity of what was being asked of him sank in further. As he looked
around, he realized that he had the same task as someone looking for a
proverbial needle in a haystack. Even in 1939, the DC metro area was
relatively large; with so many centers of power and so many people, whatever
was occurring could be happening to anyone, anywhere. What he needed was
a plan of attack.
"Okay," he said to
himself, "check the other newspapers, as many of them as you can get your
hands on. Then, the areas of transportation--train stations, airport, bus
terminals. Then, the major monuments. The seats of power."
This could take forever, he thought as he reentered Philby's Drug.
He wondered, if he didn't find what was going on, if Callow and Eckert would
even bring him back to the present.
"Washington Times,"
the clerk said as he rang it up on the register, "Alexandria Gazette Packet,
Arlington... You've got five papers here, Mister."
"Six," Simon spoke,
"I've already looked over the Post." The clerk finished
and Simon paid his money. As he was heading for the door, however, he
suddenly felt a hand pulling on his arm. He turned and came face to face
with the redheaded waitress. "Hello again, my dear!" he said
cheerfully. While the waitress was smiling, however, it was also clear
that she was holding back tears.
"I just wanted you to
know," she said quietly, "that that was the sweetest thing anyone's
ever done for me. That tip was....was..."
"Well-deserved," Simon
added. Simon shook her hand, let his fingers linger on hers for a few
seconds, smiled, and then headed into the cold air. Walking quickly towards
one of the busier streets, he flagged down a yellow Mayflower cab and got
in. "Farthest away train station in town you can think of,"
Simon spoke. Might as well start from the outside and spiral back
inwards. As the cab pulled away, he was already busy scanning the
front page of the Times.
****
As the cab left in a swirl of
noxious emissions, Simon stood before a large granite and marble edifice, its
large federal style windows gleaming in the sunlight. Men, women, and
families scurried in and out of the building, either on their way to a train or
coming in from a trip.
In truth, Simon was a bit confused
by what he'd found. The cabby had dropped him off at a place called
American Gateway Station, which was serviced exclusively by the Union & Indianapolis
Railroad. However, Simon had never heard of either. Many railways
had come and gone over the years; Simon knew this better than most,
particularly since he had been a fan of railroading for many years, but this
line had apparently disappeared totally, its rails either pulled up or merged
into others like BNSF, CSX, Norfolk Southern, and Kansas City Southern.
After dropping three of his now read papers into a garbage can, he climbed the
four marble steps to the brass main doors. A station official,
resplendent in blue uniform, shining gold buttons, and white cotton gloves,
held open the door as Litchfield entered.
Once inside, the station opened up
a bit, and as the people dispersed, the crowded feeling of the steps quickly
subsided. The station's visible structure appeared to be dominated by
brass fixtures, highly polished white granite and pink marble walls and floors,
and brown-stained furniture. On the floor in the center of a main
rotunda, a circular U&I logo carved out of black and white granite rested.
Litchfield moved forward and
entered an expansive waiting area. In the center of the room were several
rows of pew-like seating, and nearly half of those available seats were
taken. On the right side of the room, several plush leather chairs were
occupied by women dressed primly in dark gray outfits topped off with tasteful
fur stoles and gray hats with small flowers spread around the brims. On
the left was a long wooden counter, and behind it sat ticket takers and other
agents of the railway. Forward, beyond large glass partitions, were the
actual platforms and railroad tracks. Looking above one of the doors to
the platform, Simon saw a sign indicating that the next train was due to depart
in forty minutes, the number 10 Ohio Express, followed by the arrival of the
number 20 Appalachian Mountaineer thirty minutes later. He continued on,
mentally recording the lay of the land—an empty alcove, restrooms, closets,
stairs to an upper area (and a note saying ‘Railroad Employees Only’), a door
to a small dining area and soda fountain
Simon backtracked and walked over
to the nearest empty leather chair, sat down, and unfolded the Alexandria
Gazette Packet. As he scanned over the pages, he periodically looked
up, trying to find anything that seemed strange, unusual, or otherwise out of
the ordinary. When he reached the social registry—“Mr. Glenn Towell &
Family, Arlington, Announce Engagement of Louella Gwendolyn Towell to
Washington Birch Klapsaddle, Hampton Roads”—he felt one of the veins on his
neck start to throb. Great threat to time or no great threat to time,
this was extremely boring work. And he had no plans, none at all, to show
up at the Towell/Klapsaddle nuptials on March 30th.
It was then that Simon felt
something strange. It was a feeling that he couldn't easily define.
It was almost as if he was simultaneously experiencing deja vu, vertigo, and
paranoia. His senses immediately driven into fight or flight mode, he
looked around rapidly for whatever it was, whatever he'd sensed, that had
triggered the feeling. At that moment, he wouldn't have been surprised to
see a deranged ax-murderer, a lost demon, or even a pulsating mystery egg
standing menacingly before him, but, instead, he was greeted by the sight of an
eighty-year-old woman trying her best to adjust a stocking without drawing
attention to herself.
Sinking back into the chair, Simon
noticed the rapidness of his heartbeat; the deep, shallow breaths he was
taking; the sweat forming on his palms. He blinked, hard, rubbed his
hands over his eyes, and then looked once more. It must be a side
effect of that damn machine again, he thought with a great degree of
disgust. Laying his papers down on an adjacent seat, he stood up and
walked towards where he expected the restrooms to be located and found them
with little difficulty. Still, even as he walked, Simon couldn't get over
the feeling that something in the station was different, that there was
something he should be seeing and wasn't. He looked around again, saw the
ticket counter, saw the exits to the rail platforms, saw a black grandfather
clock in the alcove, saw a policeman on his beat as he walked by. Shaking
his head, Simon forced himself to move on.
Pushing open the black door of the
men's restroom, he headed straight for the sink. Cold water poured from a
heavily curved, art deco style faucet and fell into a stainless steel
basin. He cupped his hands under the liquid and then splashed water onto
his face and forehead several times in quick succession. Finally, he
turned off the tap and lifted his head, droplets of water falling from the brim
of his hat. As he ran his right thumb and index finger over his nose,
Simon looked into the mirror. "Pull it together," he said reproachfully
to his reflection. "It's still Washington, no matter where you
are."
"I told my regional
supervisor something like that," a deep, raspy voice said from
behind. Simon spun around, his chest
heaving. This odd level of anxiety was rapidly getting old, and Simon
made a mental note to skip Mrs. Griffith's coffee when he had his next meal at
her boarding house.
"Told him something like
what?" Simon asked as he looked at the person who had spoken. He was
a short, chubby man, probably in his mid to late 40s, and he was sitting on one
of the marble benches lining the sides of the bathroom. His white shirt,
which was partially hidden beneath a black, unbuttoned vest, appeared stained
with sweat, and beads of perspiration were rolling from the top of his balding
head and down over his full, pasty cheeks. He blinked his green eyes as
he stared, not at Simon, but at a spot on the otherwise white walls. His
right hand sat on his chest, and his left hand rested under a black overcoat.
"Told him," the man
said, "that no matter where he sent me, it'd be home to me." He
raised his right hand and then let it fall at his side. "I said,
'Mr. Washburn, just send me anywhere. Any old place. Send me to
"Um, are you all
right?" Simon asked as he started to walked towards him.
"Because you look a little like someone's who's having a heart
attack." The man shook his head weakly.
"Broken heart, maybe,"
he said, but he waved Simon off when he started to move closer.
"Hell... I'm sorry, do you mind if I swear?" Simon shook
his head and crouched on his knees so that he was at eye level with the man.
"Hell, I told Mr. Washburn, 'just send me any old damn place, I don't
care.' I said it exactly like that." He turned his head and
looked vacantly at Simon. "You know, I started with them in
'28. Wore a
"Oh yeah," Simon said
quickly, "several times. It's not my favorite place.
Listen," he spoke as he moved closer to the man he assumed to be Charlie
Cooper. "Listen, Mr. Cooper, I think there's something wrong.
I think you might be very sick, so I'm going to find someone..." At
that moment, however, the grandfather clock began chiming. Simon looked up and
wondered why the sound was so loud in the bathroom. Then, however, he
remembered that its alcove would abut with the restroom's outer wall. He
looked back at Charlie Cooper and was about to speak when he realized that the
fellow had a look of sheer terror on his face. "Charlie, are
you..."
"I've got to go,"
Charlie said as he stood up. His legs seemed about to give way, but
finally he steadied. Looking down in his right hand, he noticed a train
ticket, and the look of horror gave way to one of dazed recognition.
"I've got to go," he repeated, and he held up the overcoat, slid his
arms into the sleeves, and headed for the bathroom's exit. Simon watched
as he left and then shook his head in wonder. In his travels, Simon had
seen things so wondrous strange that it was a wonder he could sleep--and sleep
well, at that. But something about this man, this Charlie Cooper, at that
moment seemed to trump them all. Shaking his head and laughing lightly at
the silliness of it the feeling, he stood and turned back towards the
sinks. His hands were still dripping, and he needed a hand towel.
As he started drying his hands, however, he noticed something sitting on one of
the adjacent sinks.
It was an old style pill
bottle. Well, just a pill bottle, Simon thought, correcting
himself. He reached for it, found that it was empty, and held it
up. While the drug's name was unfamiliar, the typewritten instructions
were clear enough: "Take One Pill In Evening As Needed For
Sleep. Do Not Take More Than One Pill During Twenty-Four Hour
Period." Lowering the bottle, Simon placed it into his coat pocket
and headed for the door.
Simon burst into the lobby and
looked around for Charlie Cooper. The level of activity had increased
considerably, and passengers scurried about, looking for some indication of
where they should go. Simon twirled in place, scanning the crowd for
Cooper’s head. Just as he was about to notify someone at the ticket
counter, Simon felt a tapping on his shoulder.
Spinning around, Simon found
himself looking at a middle-aged man. He wore a gray, pinstriped suit and
looked like any normal businessman of the day would, but there was something in
his eyes that set him off from everyone else Litchfield had seen so far in the
station. The man’s brown eyes radiated kindness, but at the same time,
they were piercing as well, and at that moment Simon could feel himself being
mentally taken apart and put back together again.
Finally, the man spoke in a pleasant,
even tone. “You don’t belong here,” he said matter-of-factly, but as he
looked over Simon, an extremely inquisitive look took root. “You’re not
from here.” Simon looked, shook his head to clear it, and then nodded.
“No, I’m not,” he said quickly.
“I’m from Baltimore, and, actually, I have something I really need to
take care of, so if you’ll…” The man looked over his shoulder.
“If you’re talking about Mr.
Cooper,” he said reassuringly, “there’s nothing to worry about. I’ve
directed him where he needs to go. Don’t worry. It’s all taken care
of now.”
“You’ve gotten him to a doctor,
then,” Simon spoke as he took out the bottle. “He’s very sick. I
very much suspect he’s trying to commit suicide.” The man smiled and
blinked.
“He succeeded,” he said plainly,
“before you ever went into the men’s toilet. He simply hadn’t finished
making the transition yet. But, he knows now, and he is, sir, on his
way.” Simon stared at the man, an uncomprehending look in the his eyes. However, Litchfield’s expression quickly
changed, and he walked rapidly back to the bathroom. Pushing open the
doorway, he burst in and looked at the bench.
Charlie Cooper sat against the wall, his skin ashen, his
body completely still. Simon moved quickly and
left the lavatory, pushing past the man who was insisting that Litchfield
“didn’t belong,” and headed for the ticket counter. The
“Pardon me,” Simon spoke,
“there’s a sick man in the bathroom. I
think he’s dying, might already be dead, and someone needs to get him to a
doc...” Simon stopped when he noticed
the telegraph operator walk over to take down a message that was being
transmitted. “Hey!” Simon yelled. “I’m serious!
He's dying!” The telegrapher
began scribbling on a note pad as the telegraph clicked away. With a dismissive waive of his hand, Simon
moved over to a now free ticket agent, but he did no better at getting his
attention, and he was about to try one of the porters when he felt a tug at his
sleeve.
“Can you tell me where’m I
supposed to go?” a very small and very frightened little girl asked. Her brown eyes stared hopefully at him even
as she shivered in her blue checked dress--whether from cold or fright, he couldn’t
tell.
“I’m sorry, honey,” he said as
he kneeled down. “I don’t know. But,” he pointed at one of the porters, “if
you show him your ticket, I’m sure he’ll be able to help. In fact, I’m going over there now…”
“Let me see your ticket,” Simon’s
mystery man said kindly. He held out his
hand. The little girl did nothing at
first, but then she felt in her dress pocket and pulled out a ticket, one that
Simon noticed was identical to the ticket Charlie Cooper had been
carrying. “Sussanah Pauline,” he said,
“my name is Karl, Karl Emit, and I’m here to help you.” He reached down and picked up the girl, who
immediately hugged him tightly around his neck.
“Mr. Emit,” she said quietly,
“where’m I goin’?” Karl smiled and
pointed towards a line of people heading out onto one of the platforms. His gold cufflinks glistened in a stray ray
of sunlight.
“You see those good people over
there?” Emit asked, smiling. "Yes,
those right there. That's the line for
your train. Just go right on over there,
and one of the nice porters will help you to your coach." Sussanah pulled back from Emit and looked
into his eyes.
"Where's Mommie and
Daddie?" she asked, tears starting to well up. Karl hugged her again.
"Now, Sussanah, don't you
worry. Don't you worry at
all!" He lowered her to the floor
and gently took her hand as he led her towards the line. "They'll be here soon. They'll be on the very next train. I promise you. You just had to leave a little sooner,
remember?" Sussanah nodded.
"Yeah," she said
weakly. "Where'm I
goin'?" Karl smiled, but there was
a flicker of sadness in it.
"Honey," he said
pleasantly, "that's a surprise.
That's a surprise." They
reached the end of the line. Simon,
who'd been following, listening, noticed that Charlie Cooper was just walking
out onto the platform. Running forward
quickly (and noticing that people were moving around him even if they didn't
seem to actually see him), he made it to one of the glass
partitions. The passengers walking onto
the platform were walking towards a train.
The coaches looked normal, and there was a steam engine at the head, but
the more Simon looked at it, the less it looked like a real steam engine. There was smoke coming out of the chimney,
but it looked almost artificial. Simon
scanned his memory, and he realized that the engine matched nothing he'd ever
seen.
And there were the rails the
train rested on. There appeared to be an
extra track, one that seemed to run into the distance in a direction that
didn't seem logical at all. In fact,
Simon suspected that if he had looked earlier, before his meeting with Charlie
Cooper, he wouldn't have seen the track, only the stone and grass of
right-of-way. Karl Emit stepped up next
to him and watched the passengers boarding the train.
"How do you know I don't
belong here?" Simon asked quietly.
"When the...regular...passengers
arrive," Karl said, "they don't look real to me. They almost..." Karl paused, and Simon turned to look at him,
catching that wistful sad expression in mid-transit across Emit's face. "They almost shine with
life. I've heard people here say that
they have a fire burning inside of them.
They don't understand how true that is." Simon nodded.
"Mr. Emit," he started
to ask.
"Karl, please. Karl."
"Karl," Simon asked,
"what's going on here?" Karl
laughed lightly.
“Some years ago,” Emit said,
“right about there,” he pointed to the leather seats, “I saw a woman. She was reading a book, or perhaps
cross-stitching. I’m not really sure,
tell the truth. You see, Mr…Mr…”
“Simon,” he said. “Dr. Simon Litchfield.”
“Dr. Litchfield,” Karl
continued, “I really didn’t have a frame of reference yet, for it was the first
thing I’d ever seen.” Simon nodded.
“You were blind before that?” he
asked. Karl continued looking out at the
“train.”
“It was,” he said quietly, “my
first conscious thought. Prior to that
moment, I don’t believe I was…was real…in any true sense of the world. Maybe I had been here for awhile. Maybe I was a little like I’ve heard children
described. Perhaps any experiences
before that point simply went unrecorded.
Have a pleasant trip, Sussanah!” Karl spoke, his eyes and face sparkling
warmly as she passed by in line. “And
don’t worry, my dear, they will be on the next train.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Emit,” Sussanah
said, uncertainly but with more calmness in her voice than she’d had before.
“I’m not following," Simon
said. "What do you mean your first
conscious experience was over there in the chair?”
“Precisely that,” Karl
stated. “There is no deception here, Dr.
Litchfield," he said earnestly.
"No attempts at skullduggery.
I looked around me and tried to take in where I was, who I was, what I
was. I didn’t have a body yet. That came some time later. It was as if I was a mind, free to roam where
it would, except I couldn’t leave the confines of this railway station. Any time I drifted too far away, I felt as if
I were being drained, literally drained, of whatever vital energies I
possessed.” He waved as the last person
in line, a confused looking baker, passed through the door onto the
platform. Karl then waved at the
conductor, a kindly looking old man in a white and gold conductor’s
uniform. The man followed the passengers
in line.
“Wait a minute,” Simon spoke as
he pointed at the conductor, “everyone else here is wearing blue and gold. Who’s he?”
“He,” Karl said, “is the
conductor for this train. It is called
the number 10 Twilight Special, or the number 20, or 30, whichever is scheduled
for that day.” Karl looked at Simon. “Even if I could leave here, and I’ve no
doubt that I can’t, I don’t think I’d want to.”
Simon placed his hands together, his forefingers coming together in a
steeple, and he raised them to his lips.
"For whatever others may think of this place, it is my
bower, my home."
“What did you notice after you
‘came to,’ in that seat?” Simon asked, a
thoughtful expression taking over for the confused one he’d had before.
“I think you may finally be
understanding,” Karl said as he looked into Litchfield’s eyes. “It’s okay, doctor. It took me awhile to understand as well. I’m still not sure I really do, not
fully at least.” Karl crossed his
arms. “That the woman I saw wished that
her children would write more often,” Karl said, “and she wished, in her darkest
moments at least, that her husband would just not come home one day. Not that he would die, exactly. Not that he would be injured. Only that he would simply disappear and never
return.”
“And you could pick up what
other people were feeling as well, couldn’t you,” Simon spoke. Karl nodded.
“There was a man,” Karl added,
“grieving for President McKinley, in despair because he thought the new
president would replace him with someone else.”
Karl looked down. “I didn’t even
know who President McKinley was, but at that moment, I grieved for him as
well.” Simon nodded and stared out onto
the rails. The train was moving now,
only Simon noticed that the coupling rods on the engine’s wheels didn’t seem to
be in synch with the train’s actual speed.
“Somehow,” he said, “the
emotions of the people passing through this train station…collected… here. Lingered.”
He looked at Karl. “Somehow, out
of all that…”
“Came me,” Karl finished. “That has always been, at least, my
understanding of the situation. Some
time later, maybe a few years, I noticed that I had a body, and that certain
people in the station could see me.
Only…”
“Only,” Simon continued, “they
weren’t alive, were they. They were
dead.” Walking forward, he sat down on
one of the pew-like seats, and Karl followed.
Simon took off his hat and slowly fanned air towards his face with it.
“At first,” he said, “I didn’t
know what I could do for them. I didn’t
really understand what alive meant, much less to no longer be
alive. It was only later that I saw that
some shown with an inner light, and some looked like a light extinguished. I was, however, quite relieved when I was
given this job.”
“What is all of this?”
Simon asked, pointing out at the now vacant extra track. “I have a disturbing feeling that I know what
your answer is going to be.” Karl sat
down next to Simon.
“I don’t know, truly, what I
am,” Karl said with some degree of sadness.
“I don’t know if I had some intended purpose, some part in some larger
plan. In any case, either by design or
out of pity, someone gave me something to do with myself” Karl scratched his chin. “One morning, I saw a man, the conductor you
just saw, actually, beckoning to me. He
told me what my role was to be.” Karl
paused as a newlywed couple walked by.
“My job, my purpose, Dr. Litchfield, is to show the newly dead where
they should go.”
“The Twilight Specials,” Simon
said quietly, and Karl nodded.
“Many of them are frightfully
confused,” Karl continued. “Many of
these individuals don’t even understand what is happening, what has
happened. Perhaps, because it was by his
own hand, Mr. Cooper understood almost as soon as he saw me.” Karl sniffed and lifted up his head. “Poor Sussanah, though. She doesn’t know. Someone must have pulled out her parents in
time to resuscitate them, but it is only temporary. They will be here soon
enough. Sussanah never made it out of the
“Instead of Charon collecting
pennies,” Litchfield said, “it’s Karl Emit collecting tickets.”
“Pardon me?” Karl said
quizzically.
“Mythology,” Simon spoke. There was a long, awkward silence. “So,” Simon finally asked, “do you know where
they're going? Do you know the answer to
the great question?” Karl shook his head
ruefully.
“I only know that I help ease
their transition to the next world,” he said quietly. “I know nothing of what that next world
is. Perhaps I’m not meant to. Perhaps, I’m simply an accident of nature…a
nobody in the scheme of existence.” Karl sighed. Simon moved uncomfortably in his seat, and he
took off his hat.
“Um, Karl,” he said, just before
breathing in sharply. “I have something
to…” He stopped, seemed to fish for the
right words. “If I look in my coat
pocket,” he said, “am I going to find a train ticket with my name on it?” Karl looked over and didn’t seem to
understand at first. Finally, his face
bloomed with a wide smile, and he started laughing heartily.
“No, no, no,” Karl said
reassuringly, “nothing of the kind! How
can I say this?” Karl scratched his
leg. “You’re an oddity, something I’ve
never seen before. You don’t belong
here. That man over there,” he said
pointing to the
“What about me?” Litchfield
asked.
“You’re different,” Karl
spoke. "You have light, but it
flickers, fades in and out. You
are..." Karl stopped as he tried to
think of the right words. Finally, he
shrugged and resorted to what he'd been using all along. "You are out of place. You don't belong here. Truthfully, you don't belong here
either." Simon looked around at the
passengers and workers milling around in the room.
"Here meaning," Simon
paused, almost not wanting to continue.
"Meaning with the dead. How
did you do that?"
"Pardon the morbid nature
of what I'm about to say," Karl stated, "but you're close enough to
dead to fall under my jurisdiction. In
all honesty, Dr. Litchfield, I was overwhelmed by curiosity. Wonderful feeling, curiosity! And I'm glad that I did. It is rare for me to have meaningful
conversation."
"But, uh," Simon
murmured as he sat forward in his seat, "well, not to put too fine a point
on it..." Karl smiled.
"Don't worry," he said
reassuringly, "I can send you back. Whenever you're ready. But, if you don't mind indulging me a few
moments longer. I've told you who I
am. Now, I want to know who you
are."
"Do you want the long
answer or the simplified version?"
"Simplified will
suffice," Karl said. Simon nodded
and put his hat back on.
"Okay," Simon
said. "To put it succinctly, I'm
from the future. Thanks to a pompous ass
and a mad scientist, I've been sent back to 1939 to investigate...something That's my great mystery. They have no idea what I’m supposed to be
investigating, only that the future is at stake." Simon thought back on what Callow and Eckert
told him just before he left for the past.
That they'd be able to see him on their temporal scans because Simon
didn't, strictly speaking, belong anywhere other than the present. "I'm guessing I don't look right to you
because in 1939 I haven't been born yet."
"Possible," Emit
replied. "I wouldn't have the
answer to that one, having never met a time traveler before." He looked genuinely thrilled to have even
said the words. "This is
fascinating, you know! Just like one of
Mr. Wells' creations!"
"You know about H. G.
Wells?" Simon asked.
"One of the porters, many,
many years ago," Karl replied, smiling brightly, "liked to read
during his breaks. Most of what he
brought was light fare, Detective Comics and such. But once, once he brought a book The Time Machine. He left it here on several occasions, and
after hours I was able to read it."
"You could turn the
pages?" Simon asked, surprised.
"You have form in my world?"
"Limited," Karl spoke,
"very limited. But, some things,
like the pages of a book, I can handle if I'm given sufficient time to
concentrate." A train whistle blew
as a steam locomotive pulled into the station, and many of the people in the
waiting area began gathering their things and heading for the platform. "Ah, the
"Karl," Litchfield
said in a somewhat higher-pitched voice than usual, "you said that you needed
to talk with that man. Would you mind if
I..." He pointed to the
platform. Karl nodded.
"Be my guest," he said
warmly. "In fact, I'll join you in
a moment." Simon wasted no time in
going through the door, passed porters and conductors who never suspected he
was there, and out into the cold air.
He stood on the platform and
marveled at the locomotive, his eyes wide, his hand clutching the lapel over
his heart. Pullman porters ran in a
carefully orchestrated ballet, helping passengers onto the westbound passenger
train.
"The westbound Ohio
Express," Emit said a few moments later, using a voice that was a mixture
of the blasé and the amused. "The
eastbound came in earlier this morning.
There's a roundhouse about two miles down. The morning locomotive is there being readied
for tomorrow's run." Simon heard
himself laughing.
"Karl," he said,
"it's real! The one this
morning didn't trigger these feelings I’m having now. This is a...a real, honest-to-god,
steam engine. A working steam
engine!" Karl looked at Simon in wonder.
"Have you never seen one
before?" he said, a touch of alarm in his voice. Simon nodded while never taking his eyes from
the locomotive, which was hissing like a cornered animal. The station master carried a note suspended
in a net-like device and held it towards the engine cab.
"Well, I've seen a few,
but," Simon smiled, "never like this.
They only pull tourist trains, meaningless excursions over a few
miles. There just aren't many left that
work." The brakeman reached out of
the window and grabbed the paper, which was fluttering in the breeze.
"They've gotten rid of
trains by your time?" Karl questioned, and his tone indicated a sense of
impending panic.
"No, we have trains. Just not these types." Simon walked towards the engine, getting
close enough to feel the steam coming from the pressure valve. He was thankful that whatever 'dimension' he
was occupying, physical sensations were still possible. "Steam was outmoded a long time
ago. They use diesel engines now...then."
"I've heard of them,"
Karl said. "Someone from the
U&I central office came through talking of a demonstration he'd seen. I'd simply assumed they were discussing some
kind of new steam locomotive."
"Look at it!" Simon
exclaimed. "I had a few layouts
when I was living in...in
"Layouts?" Karl asked
quizzically.
"Model railroads. I'm a hobbyist, a rail fan. More when I was younger of course, but...
Karl," he said, looking at the strange man, "it's a Mikado isn't it." Litchfield looked at the wheels. "No wait...four wheels, six wheels, two
wheels...
"It is a Pacific,"
Karl said. "4-6-2 Pacific," he
said like a child reciting multiplication tables by rote memory. "That I know. I'm afraid that I have no idea who built
it. I hear so many things; it's hard to
tell what's truly of importance. I heard
someone talking about American Locomotive Company the other day, but that could
have just been idle conversation."
He stood before the engine, suddenly looking upon it with a sense of
wonder and admiration. "I've seen
so many, Dr. Litchfield, that I've never really taken the time to look at
them." He scratched his head and
then straightened one of his sleeves.
"Can you tell me what this means?
The U&I man who was here the other day, the one who mentioned
diesels, said they wouldn't need the Mallet up in
"It means," Simon
said, "that these Pacifics need help getting through the mountains. They can't do the job on their own. I'm not sure what a Mallet is. They might have meant articulated...two sets
of drivers."
"All aboard!" the
conductor called, and the porters jumped onto the train, grabbing stepping
stools from the platform and loading them onto the train. The conductor was the last to board. A second later, the engineer gave two blasts
of the steam whistle, and then, bell clanging, the Ohio Express began moving,
slowly at first but quickly gathering speed.
Smoke and steam billowed into the cold morning air.
Simon sighed, his own steam
quickly evaporating. "That almost
makes this whole thing worth it. Almost.
All right...enough of the sight seeing."
Simon turned and extended his hand to Karl. “You said you could send me back when I was
ready?” Karl smiled widely and shook
Simon’s hand.
“Indeed,” he said. “Dr. Litchfield, it has truly been a
pleasure. I regret any confusion I may
have caused, for I assure that I meant no harm.”
“I know,” Simon nodded. “You’ve answered some questions for me, and
raised a ton more. But, I’ve got to
figure out what’s going on over there.”
“Time,” Karl sighed. “I don’t envy you your task. In many ways, trying to alter what is done is
the hardest thing in the world.”
“I don’t envy me either,” Simon
laughed.
“I understand,” Karl said. “Goodbye, doctor, and good luck.” Simon just had time to wave before Karl
disappeared.
“I’m sorry, sir,” a stunned
looking porter said. “I didn’t see you
on the platform. You weren’t waiting for
the Ohio Express I hope.”
“No sir,” Simon said, and he
turned for the door. “I was just getting
a bit of fresh air.” Simon wandered in
and stood watch for an hour longer.
Outside of his excursion to the other side of the mirror, nothing of
note happened at all, and he stepped out to the curb and hailed a cab, heading
on to the next train station the driver could think of.
****
Two days later, Simon sat in his room at
Snowflakes tapped against the windowpane, and Simon stood up to watch the snow as it danced under the weak white street light. The scene was peaceful, serene. Bucolic, Simon thought. How perfectly bucolic! Truthfully, he'd hated that word for as long as he could remember, but somehow it seemed an appropriate one for a winter's scene circa 1939.
I'll have to get a job soon, he thought. Whenever anyone had asked him about his
reason for being in the
While finding a job wouldn't necessarily be a problem, his Ph.D would, however, probably have to be left off his application. No way to verify the academic credentials of someone who hasn't been born yet, he thought wistfully.
Simon sat down again on the bed and resumed his scanning of the Post, all the while thinking of the day's tour of the Mall, of the pristine view of the Washington Monument from the Lincoln Memorial, a view still unobscured by the well-intentioned but poorly placed World War II memorial. How many, he wondered, how many of the young men I've seen are going to sacrifice everything in a few years?
"Local Attorney Indicted for Abuse of Public Trust," Simon spoke quietly. He scanned the article but, as expected, found nothing. "FDR Mulls Run for Third Term."
One of the younger residents of the boarding house was a
player for the Washington Senators, a man currently spending his offseason trying to earn enough money to make it to spring
training. Cecil Travis, Simon
thought as he read another headline, 'Restriction Sought for Use of Carriages
on
The future, Simon chided. Clearing his mind, he put his full attention back on the paper.
"'Vice-President in Good Condition After
Accident,'" Simon muttered.
"Well, good for you.
'Bituminous Coal Worries for
"What is it? What is it?" he asked out loud as he looked over the previous pages. As he mentally ticked off the headlines, he suddenly stopped on "Vice-President in Good Condition After Accident."
"That's not, that's not right," Simon
spoke. "'John Nance Garner,
Vice-President of the
"That's not what happened," Simon muttered, and
his mind drifted over his high school and college history courses. It was a tragic if ultimately minor event, a
simple illustration of the sometimes extreme anxieties brought about by some of
the more radical of President Roosevelt's New Deal policies. In this case, a minister from
At the Democratic Convention of 1940, Roosevelt had paid
tribute to his slain vice-president but promised that the tragedy would deter
neither him nor his new running mate, Henry Wallace, from working to keep
Then time moved on, and the tragedy became a footnote.
Only, the tragedy hadn't happened. "It's starting," Simon whispered. Whatever the original source of the disturbance was, the changes had begun. As far as Litchfield could remember, Garner had never contributed much, and the feeling during FDR's second term was that he would replace Garner in a third Roosevelt Administration. The overall effect of Garner's surviving would probably be minor, but it was still very different from what history had originally recorded.
Simon walked to the window and placed his hands on its frigid surface. Outside, the storm had worsened, and the snow was falling in near white-out conditions. First, he thought, it would be small things like an obscure vice-president getting to live. The divergence would still be close to the original stream. But then, what would be next? What would be the first major event to change completely? Which important person would live or die in defiance of everything that should have happened, of everything that Simon knew should be happening?
In the hall, a cuckoo clock began chirping insistently, counting down each hour in a melancholy song.
"It's begun," he said solemnly and with a hint of desperation, "and I have no idea how I'm going to stop it."
To Be Continued…
**********************************