Written in Time (66 page)

“Let’s get down there,” Alan ordered, letting out a long breath that was almost a sigh.
 

The dry lake bed below them was an enormous valley, what had once been its shoreline—David had no idea how long ago, but the time would be best reckoned by a geologist—forming the rugged higher ground wherein they had concealed themselves. Through the predawn hours they’d waited. Beyond, to the east, the sun relentlessly climbed. It would be hot this day.
 

“The bad guys are over there,” David said, addressing the nine troopers with him. He had driven the Suburban through the night on the calculated guess that this was Kaminsky’s probable destination. The guess was correct. “Very bad guys,” he reiterated, jerking his thumb toward the center of the lake bed, where there was pitched an enormous tent. Sand-colored and large enough to shelter a small circus, the tent had been erected with additional canopies adjoined to it. Maybe folding chairs hadn’t yet been invented, or maybe a more elegant look was sought, but elaborate-seeming wooden dining-room-style chairs with cushioned seats and raised arm-rests were ranked under the canopies. Overstuffed chairs with exposed wooden trim and love-seat-sized sofas of the same construction formed a semicircle of grand proportions beneath the tent itself. At what was the exact center between the two main verticals around which the tent roof was erected were buffet tables. Several portable generators were providing power for electric chandeliers and a bank of bar-sized refrigerators and at least two refrigerated serving tables.
 

It was a credit to Anglo-American cooperation— strained occasionally during these times, David knew— that there seemed to be no representation for Great Britain. There was, of course, none for the United States. The French, the Germans, the Russians—they were the expected bidders and they were present. David could tell from the uniforms of the military personnel, his knowledge based on old movies his father had pretty much coerced him and his sister into watching. The Germans had the most businesslike and military-looking uniforms, and these were field gray. The French uniforms were certainly the most stylish and their headgear was the flat-topped, almost ball-cap-looking thing called a kepi. The Russians had extremely elaborate helmets, apparently not trusting to ordinary hats of any kind.
 

Many of the civilians—the diplomats—wore swallow-tailed coats and striped pants and tall, narrow-brimmed, shiny black silk hats. The other men—there was not a single woman visible—were evidently assistants, male secretaries and the like, attired in uncomfortable-looking suits and less formal hats, derby-or Homburg-style. Ranked socially lower still were coach drivers and footmen, exiled to nether regions beneath more spartan canopies and near where the luxurious carriages and less prestigious buckboards were parked.
 

“Missah Naile, suh? What’s them li’l blue houses out yonder?”
 

David glanced over at Corporal Gossman, the ranking soldier, and smiled. “What do you suppose they are for, Corporal?”
 

“Well, suh, sho’ look like the’ oughta be a qua’ter moon cut in them doors, if’n y’all takes mah drift.”
 

“I take your drift, Corporal.” David nodded. “Only these are portable. When they’re no longer needed somewhere, they’re carted off.”
 

“What’s they do with the, the—”
 

“The shit? It’s usually sucked up with a hose after chemicals have liquefied—” David stopped, his attention focusing solely on the motor home parked some distance back from the tent. A solitary woman exited it. As she turned her face toward the east, David could see her clearly through his binoculars. It was Bethany Kaminsky. Alan’s powers of elucidation proved quite remarkable; she was as promised, even down to exuding an amazing and unmistakable deadliness.
 

Kaminsky’s blond hair, done in ringlets, was piled at the crown of her head. Her eyes—in this, Alan’s descriptive abilities failed utterly—were blue, yes, but such ineloquence could best be compared to labeling the world’s most exquisite diamond as a “pretty rock.” Blue, to be sure, but so much more than that. Even through the lenses of mere binoculars, the color was at once obvious and magnificent.
 

Women’s fashions of the day were designed to accentuate a slender waist, of course, and Kaminsky’s figure showed the classic and perfect hourglass. David smiled at himself as he realized that he was wondering what Kaminsky— evil bitch that she was, assuredly—looked like without all those pounds of clothes. “Oh, well,” he muttered under his breath. Her coachwork looked great—what he could see of it. Her motor probably ran a little hot and fast, he guessed; but, with an experienced man controlling the throttle . . . But, lamentably, there’d be no chance for a test drive.
 

“Pick four men you can trust to stay here with you and not spook if they see the aircraft or any of the weapons in use before we get back. We’re going to use that telegraphy kit; make sure we’ve got plenty of water.” His father thought that he never listened. He listened—sometimes. Jack related seeing one of his half-hour western A-list boyhood action heroes, Jock Mahoney, use canteen water and a piece of wire to short out and link up with a telegraph line. David found himself actually remembering hearing the story before when his father had recently suggested using the same technique. And his dad was actually rather impressed. “Pick your men, Corporal. I’m moving out in under two minutes.” But he’d be damned if he let anyone use the barrel of a six gun to tap out a message in Morse.
 

David started toward the Suburban. He had topped off its tank just before parking it for the night, lest a sudden quick getaway be required.
 

Looking at the situation from a strictly business perspective, David could see why Lakewood Industries would not achieve quite the future prominence of Horizon Enterprises. Lakewood was making a mistake, its sales technique clearly faulty. Each of the three potential buyers for future technology would know what all the others knew. Greed manifested in the desire to up the ante to the highest possible level the first time out was sheer stupidity in the current context. Germany, according to both his father and Mr. Roosevelt, would almost certainly be the end-result purchaser. So why let the French and the Russians have intimate knowledge of what Germany would possess? Drive up the price at the expense of future sales? Madness. And what if Kaminsky set up dummy front companies, so that, after selling to the Germans, the dummy companies could sell to anyone and everyone else? More money and power, but what if these technologically naive military powers destroyed the whole world eventually, and Kaminsky and Lakewood Industries somehow wound up being obliterated along with all the rest of the future?
 

David didn’t understand time-travel theory, so maybe what he posited could never happen. But theory was one thing, reality another.
 

Kaminsky was, in effect, a suicidal viper, a dangerous, deadly, egotistical asshole.
 

And her choice of locations proved it. She was probably one of those idiots who believed in little green men and thought that staging a firepower anachronism at this exact spot would be cutesy. David’s telegraph message, which would be relayed to his father, would simply read “Area 51 STOP,” because brevity was, so the expression went, the soul of wit.
 

Their shadows and those of their mounts stretched for yards ahead of them along the sandy stagecoach road over which they traveled, the sun low still and directly behind them. They had risen in darkness, and were mounted and moving before dawn. The stagecoach road had turned due west only a mile or so back.
 

Elizabeth Naile rode at the head of the column, to the immediate left of Major Clark Davis, Army Ordnance. The air was fresh and still cool, no noticeable dust rising yet. There was a slight breeze, and they advanced against it.
 

Elizabeth, despite a rocky sleep in a small tent on a cot pitched on rough ground and no proper bathing facilities, was having the time of her life, an experience unlike any other. She’d convinced Mr. Roosevelt to give orders that she could accompany the forces being sent against Lakewood’s firepower demonstration, promising him she’d stay well to the rear if the unit she’d accompany saw action. Mr. Roosevelt probably hadn’t believed her, but gave the orders anyway. “I have a very pretty daughter named Alice, who has a rather adventurous spirit as well. You remind me of her. Be careful.”
 

In a flat-crowned, wide-brimmed, fudge brown hat with a stampede string snuggled under her chin, white silk blouse with full sleeves, ankle-length brown-suede split skirt and lace-up-the-front brown high-heeled boots, she felt she was dressed for the part of the daring girl on her way to adventure.
 

Lizzie glanced at the major. He was extraordinarily tall in the saddle, so long-legged that his stirrups were adjusted well below those of any of the others of their party. Whereas she would have to take a little hop to get her left foot into her stirrup in order to mount into the saddle, Major Davis stepped onto his mount as effortlessly as an ordinary person might merely ascend a stair tread.
 

And she loved it when, low-whiskey-voiced, he’d order his sergeant to “Mount the men.” If she hadn’t found herself falling in love with Bobby Lorkin, and if Major Davis hadn’t been about the same age as her father, Lizzie could have had a crush.
 

The pace at which the column moved was a rapid canter rather than a gallop, miles more remaining certainly before there would be a chance to rest. The pace was also determined by the rolling stock. There were three field-artillery pieces, each positioned behind a caisson of ammunition. Two men were seated on each of the boxlike affairs, one of the men driving the four-horse team pulling each of the units. There were three wagons, one of these the cook’s wagon, a second wagon that would serve as a field hospital and a third carrying additional supplies and ammunition for the troops.
 

“Ho!” Major Davis raised his right hand and reined back, signaling the column to halt.
 

Lizzie looked up at him as she brought her roan mare alongside. “What is it, Major?”
 

“There, Miss Naile. Just coming over the rise. The telegraphy party is returning.” The major looked over his shoulder and ordered his sergeant, “Tucker, get a report from the man in charge of that detail and on the double.”
 

“Yes, sir!” The sergeant called out, “corporal Redding, on the double!”
 

A moment later, the corporal was riding off at best speed to intercept the telegraphy party, which was still almost a half mile distant.
 

Unbidden, Major Davis volunteered to her, “Lieutenant Matthews and the two scouts should be getting back soon, too. If we bump into these Lakewood people and their ordnance is half as capable as you say, we’d be outgunned at the least. We’re going to need all the tactical advantage we can muster to counteract their firepower.”
 

Corporal Redding’s mount, a cloud of dust around it and behind it, skidded on its haunches and stopped alongside the telegraphy party. There was a moment’s discussion, and Corporal Redding’s horse wheeled under him and raced back toward the column.
 

“Tucker, have the corporal report to me directly. You stay and listen,” Major Davis ordered.
 

“Yes, sir!”
 

As Corporal Redding neared, Lizzie heard Sergeant Tucker bellow, “Report directly to the major, Corporal.”
 

Corporal Redding made no acknowledgment except to wheel his horse a few degrees left and skid to a halt about six feet in front of Major Davis, reining in and saluting in one fluid motion. “Sir!”
 

“Relay your report, Corporal.”
 

“Sir, we are to rendezvous with Miss Naile’s parents and some elements of the Seventh north of a large dry lake bed in the Nellis Range about a hundred or so miles north of a little town called Las Vegas. There’s also been independent confirmation from the other side of the enemy position by Miss Naile’s brother. We are to make the best speed possible, sir.”
 

“Back in the column, Corporal.” Major Davis ordered, already taking a map from a leather case on his saddle. “Miss Naile, we’re here,” he gestured, “and we’ve got to get to here. We’ve got about two hours of hard riding, if you’re up for it.” Major Davis smiled, a nice smile.
 

“I can handle it, Major.”
 

“I never doubted that, ma’am. Good show, Miss Naile!”
 

Standing up in his stirrups, he looked back along the length of his column. “Men, we’ve got a rendezvous with the future of the United States and maybe the world. It’s two hours hard ride from here to aid the Seventh.” And he said to Sergeant Tucker, “Bill, move ‘em out.”
 

“Yes, sir!”
 

Major Davis started his tall black gelding ahead. Lizzie drew back on her mount’s right rein, falling in alongside. There was a brace of Colt Single Action Army revolvers in her saddlebags. Lizzie promised herself that, when the column stopped to rest and water the horses, she’d take them out of those saddlebags, along with the holster rig.
 

Of course, whatever was going to happen in 1900 at what would someday be known as Area 51 had already happened ninety-six years in the past, but Jack and Ellen had only returned to 1900 less than a day ago, and time had seemed to move the same there/then as it did in 1996. Alan felt compelled to think that—however it could be explained or might remain forever inexplicable—the same number of hours had passed for Jack and Ellen as had passed for him.
 

Kaminsky’s firepower demonstration of modern weapons to a small crowd of early 1900s would-be despots should be getting started at almost any time, even though— by one way of thinking—it had already happened.