Written in Time (64 page)

David stopped the car in the middle of the stagecoach road. “Okay! Fine! Hurl, then get your ass back here, Private. Corporal!”
 

“Yes, sir!”
 

David glanced at the man who’d occupied the Suburban’s front bucket passenger seat. “Get everybody to do what they’ve gotta do. I don’t want anybody asking to go potty until we’re there. We’re in a kind of a really big hurry. Right?”
 

“Yes, sir!”
 

David took the key out of the Suburban’s ignition and climbed out. The Northwest quadrant of the inverted bowl of sky was darkening more rapidly than David Naile had ever seen storm clouds change daylight into twilight. “We’re in for a good storm, Corporal.”
 

“That’s a fact, sir. A real gully washer, I bet, Mr. Naile.”
 

David Naile glanced at his pocket watch. If his parents and the raiding party made it through safely, they’d be back.
 

If was a very uncomfortable word.
 

Clarence had been waiting just outside the doorway as the time-transfer capsule opened. After helping get Ellen inside the control shed where there was a couch on which she could rest, Clarence had immediately volunteered that the guys from 1996 who’d traveled to 1900 had come out of the time capsule shooting. Three of the men, including the apparent leader—Jack pegged him as Lester Matthews and said so—had gotten away in a Hummer, rolling cross-country almost as if the rocky terrain had been a paved road.
 

Two other men, who’d tried getting into the tank—an old Soviet T-62, as Clarence recounted it—died in the attempt. There were three more men in the party. After a short, furious gun battle, the enemy personnel were overwhelmed and killed. By this time, Jack had no interest in knowing more than that.
 

“The T-62 was kind of an evolutionary blind alley for what was then the Soviet Union. Rate of fire and fire control were inferior to NATO stuff. It went out of production. Heck, the World War II T-34 was a better tank in a lot of ways.”
 

Jack looked at Clarence, knowing that his expression must have been something between blank and nonplussed. “How’d you get to know so much on tanks?”
 

“I had to learn a lot of things in the military, and that’s all I can say about it. If I told you more, Uncle Jack, I’d have to kill ya.”
 

Jack felt himself smile. “Yeah,” he told Clarence. “Since you know so much, you think you and one of Lieutenant Easley’s men could drive the thing and work the weapons system?”
 

It was Clarence’s turn to smile. “I’d sure like to try.”
 

“Just be careful—we don’t have a wrecker that can put a new track on for you.”
 

Lieutenant Easley said, “You say this isn’t even a very good tank, Mr. Jones?”
 

“That’s right, Lieutenant. Not very good at all.”
 

“Yet I’d wager it would be essentially impervious to damage from almost anything we could field against it. Correct, sir?”
 

“Yes, Lieutenant, but not quite. Knock out a tread and the tank’s pretty much useless, except as a firing platform—an artillery piece.”
 

“Maybe with this tank, despite its limitations, we’ll have a chance against some of their weaponry, even against a plane if it’s on the ground or just taking off. If we can find them.” Jack turned his attention to his nephew. “Okay, whatchya got, Clarence? Can we do any sophisticated recon or not?”
 

“They had weather balloons which I can get airborne and mount with a video camera that can send back a live feed until it’s out of range. I can’t control direction, but I’ve got three of the cameras that can be rigged up and a portable receiver can go into one of the trucks. It’s the best I can do with what we’ve got. We’ll be short on drivers, only the three of us, if Ellen’s okay to do it, and I’m going to be riding that tank, if I can figure it out. We get enough altitude and we might be able to spot a dust plume or maybe even a vehicle.”
 

“Try it,” Jack told him.
 

Despite her wound, Ellen would be able to drive one of the Suburbans, enabling the transport of more men with full equipment.
 

The Suburbans were even air-conditioned, but the weather at the time-transfer base obviated its necessity. Cool breezes blew down from the higher mountains and would hopefully persist, at least a short way into the desert, where the air-conditioning would prove to be a blessing.
 

Clarence’s handling of the Soviet tank seemed to be at least acceptable. But the important thing was for Clarence to be able to get the tank to a position where it could fire on the enemy ordnance. Its use in any other tank-related role beyond that of an artillery platform was unlikely.
 

As Jack walked the compound for the last time, he stopped to inspect dynamite charges—as if he knew anything about explosives besides a reading knowledge. A glance at his leather-cased Rolex confirmed that a little over an hour had passed since their return to 1900, time aplenty for Alan in 1996 to destroy his end of Lakewood’s time-transfer base. In another five minutes or so, fuses would be set at this end of the time-transfer base, and all structures, including the time-transfer capsule itself, would be destroyed.
 

Activity was everywhere, Easley shouting orders to non-coms, non-coms shouting orders to their subordinates.
 

Weapons were loaded, spare magazines as well, green GI ammo boxes packed tightly in the Suburbans. The supply of shells for the tank’s 115mm gun was more than adequate. The odd ordnance items had been gathered up as well: one U.S. issue LAW Rocket, three claymore mines (how much “lovelier” the coming World War I’s blood-soaked trench warfare might be with those) and a crate of Beretta 92F pistols, M-9s with U.S. service markings, likely stolen off a loading dock somewhere during Operation Desert Storm.
 

All the gasoline that could be safely carried was loaded into GI surplus-style jerricans, these packed into single axle cage trailers that would be pulled by the Suburban Ellen would drive and the one Jack would operate. Additional diesel fuel for the Soviet tank was secured as well.
 

The rest of the gasoline and diesel, along with the modest supply of aviation-grade fuel for the VSTOL fighter planes, was artfully arranged in the compound so that when the dynamite charges started their work, the fuel would ignite. It was important to obliterate as much of the time-transfer base as possible until Roosevelt could make arrangements for troops to be brought in and properly finish the job.
 

Jack clambered up onto the bed of one of the pickups and called out, “Okay, everybody listen up! Time’s flying; we’re not. Let’s get everybody loaded in the vehicles, and those left behind get to your horses and take the extra horses with you. Remember, the three men Lieutenant Easley picked for the telegraphy unit—you’ll be the only means by which we can communicate the location of the enemy firepower demonstration once we’ve discovered it. Hence, you’ll be the only way the rest of the troops can be brought in.” The number of surplus weapons in 9mm, including those brought back from 1996 after seizing control of Lakewood’s base there, was substantial. Unfortunately, there were only nineteen M-16 rifles and five thousand rounds of 5.56mm ammunition—not enough for a war, but enough for one big battle, hopefully all that would be needed.
 

“Anybody have any questions? Now’s the time,” Jack advised the assembled men of the Seventh.
 

No questions were raised.
 

Jack nodded. He called to the demolitions unit, “Let’s start those charges five minutes from NOW! Everybody get moving!” Jack jumped from the back of the truck and started toward the Suburbans. He spotted Clarence climbing aboard the Soviet tank and they gave each other a wave. Clarence’s electronic stuff was safely packed.
 

Ellen was shepherding her troopers into a metallic green Suburban. “You sure you’re up for this, kid?” Jack asked her. Her wound had not been deep at all, but getting shot was serious business, if only because of the body’s reaction to trauma.
 

“I’m fine. You just be careful, Jack.”
 

Jack angled toward her, curled his arm around her waist and planted a kiss on her mouth. “Now, remember. Try and sound like Ward Bond when I shout to see if we’re ready.”
 

“I know,” Ellen said smiling, “I call out, ‘I was born ready.’ But let’s skip the part where the Apaches chase us, okay?”
 

“I’ll think about it.” Jack kissed his wife again and started toward the black Suburban, its passengers, Lieutenant Easley among them, already in place. Jack handed his M-16 off to Lieutenant Easley and stood in the Suburban’s doorway. He glanced at Clarence, visible in the tank’s open hatch, then at Ellen. “Ready?”
 

Ellen merely called back, “Yes, we are, Jack,” and gave him a wickedly pretty smile.
 

Ellen had ruined the whole Ward Bond thing, of course. Jack mentally shrugged, shouted, “Okay, okay. We’re outa here!” And Jack waved his arm in the general direction of what passed for a road, dropped down behind the wheel and turned the key.
 

The engine roared loudly—it was a 454 and sounded like it might have had a bad fan clutch. Jack thought he heard one of the men of the Seventh start saying a prayer before the sound of the motor drowned it out. Jack said a quick one himself.
 

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
 

Alan’s first cellular phone call was to his wife. No one answered at their house, so he tried the estate in central Wisconsin after leaving a neutral sounding message on the answering machine. His wife answered the telephone on the third ring and cried the moment that she heard his voice. Promising that he was all right and that he would call back very shortly, he asked a few questions, ascertaining that he still had control of his own company and that his parents were also okay. His mother was actually at the estate, his father down in Chicago.
 

Alan learned that his father had literally taken himself out of retirement and was personally overseeing Horizon Enterprises’ day-to-day affairs and Horizon’s efforts with law enforcement and a corps of detectives to locate Horizon’s missing CEO or his body. Almost oddly, Alan thought, although Lakewood Industries and Kaminsky in particular topped everyone’s suspect list, it had occurred to no one that he’d been kidnapped to another time. Alan didn’t mention it.
 

Instead, Alan told his wife to lock the doors and take the kids and his mother “downstairs,” the best euphemism he could think of for the war/storm shelter built by his grandfather below the house in Wisconsin. Alan and his wife both loved gangster movies, so he added, “I want you guys goin’ to the mattresses, see,” and he got a little chuckle out of her.
 

Killing the connection, he called his father’s cellular number, a number only family members had. “Dad?”
 

“Alan! My God, son, where have you—”
 

“No time to explain. I’m alive and I’m fine, but we’ve got work to do to help Jack and Ellen—they’re still you know where, of course, but they were here with me for a little bit. Tell you when I see you, Dad. Keep my private land line clear. As soon as I find a pay phone, I’ll call in. Have a scrambler on it, huh?” And Alan hung up.
 

Instead of a roadside pay phone—harder and harder to find in the era of wireless everything—Alan rented a motel room with a dead man’s credit card. The black nylon gear bag that he carried held no socks and underwear, but instead an MP-5 submachine gun, two 228 9mm pistols and plenty of loaded magazines for both the H-K and the SIGs.
 

The motel was a modest affair that probably got along based on location. It was the middle of Nevada and looked, Alan thought, more like the middle of nowhere. A remote location indeed, it was a popular one. Nevada 375 was commonly known as the Extraterrestrial Highway because it was the road to Groom Lake, the infamous Area 51.
 

However intriguing Area 51 might or might not be, it currently held no interest for Alan. Highway 375 also led to the far western edge of Red Raven Ranch, and this was extremely interesting because Red Raven Ranch was the location of the second and smaller Lakewood Industries time-travel base. That information was uncovered in the aftermath of the attack on Lakewood’s primary time base in 1996, but only after Jack and Ellen had returned to 1900. By the time Alan had picked up on Red Raven Ranch as the site, Alan had already trashed the controls for the transfer device beyond repair and had no means by which to alert Jack and Ellen.
 

The base at Red Raven Ranch had to be destroyed, wiped off the face of the Earth in both times, before Kaminsky and her thugs—if Jack and Ellen were successful—could use it to escape the year 1900. If his many-times-removed grandparents were not successful, the only remaining working time-transfer base’s destruction would trap the Lakewood Industries personnel in 1900, ninety-six years out of reach of resupply.
 

There was a bank of pay phones in the motel lobby. If he’d been spotted by some Lakewood Industries confederate, or even in the case of ordinary nosiness, the telephone in his room would be far too easy to listen in on. Alan began to dial his private number in Chicago. Unlike the room phones, the pay phones would not go through a switchboard at the motel. With a scrambler on the Chicago end of the line, chances were excellent that the conversation about to take place would be secret.
 

His father answered the telephone midway through the first ring.
 

“Alan?”
 

“Yeah, it’s me, Dad.”
 

“Where the hell have you been, son?”