Written in Time (67 page)

It was going on mid-morning in 1900, almost dawn in 1996.
 

If Kaminsky survived in 1900, she would attempt to escape to 1996. Alan watched carefully as the cement mixers bearing the Horizon Enterprises name and logo turned off the ranch road leading from Nevada 375 and drew up around the small time-transfer capsule.
 

Alan turned his back and walked away. The cement mixers began disgorging their contents into the capsule and would continue to do so until the time-transfer capsule was completely filled. Alan had decided on that as being the most certain way.
 

Initially, the source of the chamber music had fascinated the assembled diplomats and military personnel. Merely a CD player with perfectly placed speakers, it had seemed magical to sophisticated, worldly men of 1900.
 

And Bethany’s assessment of the commercial possibilities for her time-transfer enterprise was suddenly and irrevocably altered. What would the rich and powerful of 1900 pay for the ordinary luxuries of 1996? What would the traffic truly bear? Finding out would be half the fun.
 

It was pleasantly cool and oh so civilized under the tent. Bethany’s champagne glass was barely sipped from, but she placed the tulip-shaped crystal on a passing waiter’s tray, then turned her attention back to the tall, very fit looking man in military uniform, the special emissary of the Kaiser.
 

“Whatever it is that you would wish, Fraulein Kaminsky, Imperial Germany can and will provide. The only marginally worthy opponent the Fatherland might have is Great Britain, and, of course, your United States. Upstart that it is, Fraulein—but, I mean no offense.
 

“No, Fraulein, the French are a deceptive lot. You have a marvelous English word: bluster. The French are masters of this bluster, but not of warfare. As to the Russians, they can afford nothing, comparatively, and their country is beset with the political and social unrest which so often plagues a nation led by the maladroit, the inept.
 

“So, Fraulein, the only meaningful bargain which can be struck here—and we both know that—is between Imperial Germany and your firm. No other arrangement is either possible or practical.
 

“Who else can you sell to? The British? They would never purchase the weaponry because it would not be ‘cricket’ to use it. The Americans? Much the same, I am afraid. Should either of them make an initial purchase, to what end? Great Britain is more or less content with the empire it has and the Americans have never had the stomach for empire. And a one-time sale is almost as bad as no sale at all, Fraulein. Yes? You will wish to continually upgrade the weaponry which you provide for a continually rising price. That price can only be met through conquest—therefore, war. Imperial Germany is the only choice, Fraulein, for Lakewood Industries. It is your only choice, Fraulein.”
 

“You’re so forthright in your thinking and your speech, Baron von Staudenmaier! Are you as forthcoming with funds?”
 

“You are an incredibly lovely woman, Fraulein. That means, of course, that I should doubly distrust you.” His voice was low, musical, flowed like honey.
 

After a moment’s pause, Bethany asked, “And shouldn’t I distrust you, Baron?”
 

“We have a commonality, then, lovely lady. Our relationship is based on mutual distrust.”
 

“Do we have a relationship, Baron?”
 

Von Staudenmaier smiled, the action lighting his face, it seemed, accentuating the aquiline nose and strong jawline. He bowed slightly, the twinkle in his dark eyes ever-so-slightly masked beneath the shadow from the bill of his officer’s cap. “I would hope that we might have a relationship.”
 

“Field gray becomes you, Baron,” Bethany said, glancing at him and then turning her eyes away when she realized that she was being unintentionally coy.
 

“Your gown—maroon, is it not?—is quite fetching, Fraulein, quite fetching indeed, but, somehow I think you would look your very best in flesh tones.” Von Staudenmaier took a step back from her, looked her up and down, then said, “You will have to forgive me, Fraulein, but I was indulging my imagination for a moment. And, indeed, flesh tones—that’s how I would love to see you.”
 

“Perhaps that can be arranged, Baron. Tell me. Are you truly an expert in artillery, or are you a spy?”
 

“I am only expert at certain types of artillery, of the more personal kind,” he responded, smiling again. “I am not a spy, but rather concerned with military intelligence. I have indulged that interest ever since my arrival in America, more than eighteen months ago. And you, Fraulein. Are you someone only interested in vast sums of money, or more in the power that such funds afford?”
 

“Both—of the more personal kind.”
 

Von Staudenmaier laughed softly.
 

Bethany glanced at her anachronistic wristwatch.
 

“I noticed that before. What a fascinating way to carry a watch,” Von Staudenmaier remarked.
 

“We do lots of fascinating things in the future. I could show you some of them if you were truly interested.”
 

He cocked an eyebrow. “You are forward for a woman of culture and position—and, by Heaven, I like that.”
 

“We’re about to begin . . . the demonstration.”
 

“Oh, I see.”
 

In the next instant, a half-dozen men in surplus Soviet battle gear, most with AK-47s in their hands, rose up out of the sand and raced forward. Von Staudenmaier reached for the flap-holstered weapon at his hip, starting to draw a long-barreled, strange-looking automatic pistol from its confines. “That won’t be necessary, Baron; trust me.” She thought that she heard him chuckle softly as she raised her voice so that all around could hear her. “Please! This is just the beginning of the demonstration.”
 

The six armed men, as if they weren’t being watched at all, ran to a cluster of rocks some twenty yards away. As each man settled into position, suppressive fire was begun against orange painted reactive target panels that were popping up at ranges from fifty to one hundred to one hundred fifty yards distant. The leader of the squad of six men spoke into a radio handset, but a microphone amplified his voice, making it easily heard over the gunfire through the same speakers that a moment earlier had carried the strains played by a string quartet.
 

“Fire team Alpha to Command Post, come-in!”
 

The answering voice boomed back. “Sit-rep, Alpha. Over.”
 

“Encountering heavy enemy resistance.” And the “commercial,” as Bethany liked to think of it, began. “Our Lakewood Industries AK-47 fully automatic thirty caliber assault rifles are working just great, but we need more firepower. We’re unlimbering the Squad Automatic Weapon now, Command Post. Over.”
 

Two of the men, one an operator and the other a helper, manned a machine gun. Bethany didn’t know what kind and didn’t care. She pressed the cupped palms of her hands over her ears as her eyes flickered over the crowd of onlookers. One of the uniformed Frenchmen actually drooled; all of the men, regardless of national allegiance, were enraptured—except for Baron von Staudenmaier, who seemed certainly interested, but equally amused. “Good theater!” Von Staudenmaier remarked as their eyes met for an instant.
 

“I thought so when I planned it.”
 

The voice of the fire team leader could be heard again. “Requesting airpower to knock out last of enemy resistance, Command Post. Over.”
 

“Stay on your Lakewood Industries two-way radio battlefield communication system, Alpha, so you can precisely direct the helicopter air strike. Over.”
 

“Affirmative, Command Post. Over.”
 

The only airpower she had left in 1900 rose from beyond the western horizon, streaking across the desert toward them. A few of the male secretaries started to break and run. Several of the onlookers all but collapsed into their chairs. Von Staudenmaier remarked, “Name what you want, Fraulein. I doubt there is enough gold in the Imperial Treasury to satisfy the price, but perhaps a little country of your very own?”
 

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
 

“Deadly so, yes, Fraulein.”
 

The helicopter completed hovering over the six-man fire team and, nosing downward, roared off in the direction of the “enemy” targets, a (hastily) nose-mounted machine gun strafing the enemy position. “Fire Team Alpha to Command Post. Over.”
 

“Reading you loud and clear, Alpha. Over.”
 

“We need armor in here, Command Post. And more troops. How close are the Lakewood Industries heavily armored battle tanks and armored personnel carriers? Over.”
 

While the answer was being announced, Von Staudenmaier leaned down, his lips millimeters from her left ear as he whispered, “Never abandon your present career for that of a playwright, Fraulein. But, on the other hand, good theater does not always have to be ‘good theater,’ does it?”
 

“I like you, Baron.”
 

“Without sounding conceited, I hope, I must confess that most women do. However, I find you equally fascinating. What shall we do about the situation, Fraulein? That is the question of the moment, hmm?”
 

The first two tanks—she had three in 1900—with about a dozen personnel garbed as infantrymen huddled behind them, were moving up. Earlier, Morton Hardesty had suggested, “Don’t you think you should have more guys, to make the firepower demo look more authentic?”
 

“Who do I look like to you?” Bethany had asked rhetorically. “See? Tits, a clit, pretty hair. But you think I look like Cecil B. DeMille?”
 

The APCs—two of them—were immediately behind the tanks. It galled her that her two jump jets had been destroyed, but she’d bring in jump jets for the next round of sales.
 

Bethany glanced at the marvelous-looking man beside her. Germany really did have the inside track on the war materiel and might even position itself for a little something extra.
 

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
 

David swung down out of the saddle, tightly gripping the reins of his stolen mount as his father rode into sight. The noise from the automatic weapons was deafening, and the horses expropriated from the picket line were spooked by the cacophony more than David would have supposed. It was what his father would call “a miracle” that the helicopter—Lakewood’s only surviving airpower— apparently had not spotted the forces of good and truth and justice observing them from opposing sides of the lake bed, let alone stealing the best horses.
 

His father rode a big mare, the animal’s black coat lathered white with sweat.
 

In the second after Jack Naile dismounted and clasped David’s hand in his, the cinch strap was getting opened, the saddle removed. Using the saddle blanket, David’s father began rubbing down his animal. David prepared to do the same. “It’s nearly high noon,” David announced, “and the magnificent several dozen will have a gunfight at the OK Corral and we’ll see who’s still tall in the saddle when it’s time to cross the Red River from Tombstone to Dodge. And I’ve just about used up everything I know about movie westerns, Dad.”
 

“Not bad, son; not bad at all. Just keep reminding yourself that we’re the guys in the white hats.” Jack thumbed his black Stetson up off his forehead. “At least we are figuratively.”
 

“We’re not going to wait, are we, Dad?”
 

“We did it to ourselves, Davey. When we knocked out Lakewood’s fighter planes, we killed part of the program, and we alerted our adversaries to the idea that we could do them serious harm. Your great-grandson Alan in 1996 was going to encase the backup time-transfer capsule in cement. If Kaminsky and her people escape our objective present into the subjective future, they’ll be encased in cement and never leave the capsule. Not a pleasant thought, not a good guy kind of thing to do to someone, even the evil villain. But it’s the only way to make certain that the Kaminsky woman and the Lakewood people never use the capsule—ever. They would suffocate almost instantly—or worse. And all of the Lakewood Industries people in 1996 who know any of the intimate details of time-transfer will be killed one way or another. Good guys in white hats don’t do that; they just shoot the guns out of the bad guys’ hands and get the cretins a fair trial. So, in the final analysis, son, by the time we’re finished with this, all white hats will have to be permanently exchanged for black, mother-of-pearl, ivory and stag pistol grips swapped out for ordinary dark walnut wood, silver-mounted saddles discarded, guitar strings snapped, noble steeds traded in for equally serviceable but unheroic-looking horses. If we had sidekicks, they’d have to be reassigned.”
 

“There’s no other way but murder, is there?”
 

“We’ve avoided it so far, son, more or less, but I don’t think that situation is going to hold. Necessity is our only option, and it’s the mother of invention. But this time it’s just a mother.”
 

“So, what’s the plan?”
 

“Clarence spearheads the thing with his tank, which will draw off the tanks Lakewood still has, and probably the helicopter. If we act while the prospective buyers are still assembled, this Kaminsky woman will try to pass off what’s happening as being part of the equipment demonstration. We’ve got some plastique, and Clarence and Lieutenant Easley are piecing together explosive charges using the plastique and combining it with the 115mm shells from the tank. We should be able to cripple the APCs enough that the few troopers inside will exit the vehicles and our Seventh Cavalry people can pick them off.”