Gateway Through Time

by David Kernot

  “What is it?”

  “Ancient technology. Weapons that we can’t understand from other ancient cultures.”

  “What are these Old Ones?”

  “I can’t explain it. Think of your worst childhood monster and then multiply it by one hundred. This stuff is hard to fathom. Anyway, when we reached the cache you identified from your clever analysis of the cluster of Gorgon’s Stare ISR feeds, we interrupted an extraction team. Sadly, half of them had recovered the objects.”

  “What objects?”

  “A hand weapon. Something cylindrical with depressions for a six-fingered person to hold.”

  “Six?” Emerson frowned. Hardly believable.

  “And uranium. Left over from when the soviets were here. We’re worried it will become a dirty bomb somewhere in the region. That’s bad enough. They’ve headed out through the border into Iran. We have a Canadian Colonel. Stone, he’s an archeologist and IRIDIUM briefed. You’ll meet him at some point. He’s heading out to see what he can find. We don’t know why, but there are more of these ancient objects appearing. Why now? We can’t be sure. Stone says it’s the beginning of the end of the world. You can’t argue with a US General now, but he’s barking mad. You’ll meet him too and you can tell him what I just said.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s IRIDIUM, at least what I’m allowed to say here. You have the basics. Hopefully, you learn nothing more.”

  “Why’s that, sir?”

  “Well, it means that you won’t finish soon, have time to head home and marry that girl of yours.”

  Emerson scoffed. “Ha! But what?”

  “These Old Ones have an army of followers. I’m not sure if I told you the best or the worst of it, but we have reassigned you to US General Cobb’s team. They have arranged for you to be on a flight to London.”

  Emerson frowned. “London?”

  “Yes, apparently, there’s an IED course running at the UK’s MOD in London. I have slotted you to attend. You’ll learn more there, but your contact is a British man. He goes by the name Peter Philby. He’ll contact you during the course, and you are to follow his commands. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir. When?”

  “A day or so. It depends on when they can get a flight. Why? A problem?”

  “Just that I’ve got a game with the Canadian Forces out on the boardwalk. Ice hockey, desert style. I’ve been practicing for months to get on the team and play a match.”

  Stewie laughed. “Good for you,” he said and held out his hand. “I don’t think it will be possible. But superb work, Emerson. I think you’ll go far.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The man smiled. “Where else can you stand close to the Gorgon’s Stare and be so safe?”

  Emerson glanced across the runway as another Reaper launched off to conduct a mission somewhere across the vast expanse of Afghanistan. He nodded. “Thanks for the near beer and stogie.”

  “Any time. Just don’t hurry back.”

  ◆◆◆

  Chapter III

  Downtown, Ottawa, Canada.

  Colonel Andrew Stone woke in the middle of the night to the staccato of automatic gunfire. He sensed a woman in trouble, and her anguish touched him in a way he had never experienced. She was downstairs, in the basement, and she needed his help. He sat up in his bed, and a bomb exploded. Instinctively, he covered his head with his arms and ducked. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead, and he reminded himself it was only a memory, and that he was back and safe in Ottawa. The war was somewhere else.

  He squeezed his hands into balls. It was getting worse. Before too much longer he would have to tell someone that he suspected Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. PTSD meant he'd lose his job. He'd get branded crazy. Then where would it get him? He'd be out on the street without his military pension.

  He swallowed hard. It was better if he dealt with his demons on his own terms. As a soldier, he understood the Iraqi desert memories would never let go, and dreams of blood-splattered knights in armour fighting a giant tentacle monster were only strange nightmares. But the woman in them, troubled and beautiful, touched him in a way that she seemed more real than anyone he had ever met.

  Andrew clambered from his bed. He smelled blood. It covered his arms and dripped on the floor. The sounds of a battle echoed around him and he hurried to the stairs and descended into the basement. It was all an illusion. He knew that, but it felt too compelling to ignore.

  The images gathered substance. It seemed as if he somehow shifted. He couldn't explain it, but it left him giddy and disorientated. It was as if he merged with someone else's body, as if he had become one man from the images that had been haunting his dreams for days now.

  In the basement, knights appeared and surrounded him. They jostled him protectively. The image of a mist-covered field swam into view, and he could feel the cool wetness of it on his face. He smelled sweat-covered men and horses. The sounds of men yelling, and of metal hitting metal grated at his senses. None of it was real, he reminded himself, but as much as he understood that, it didn't change that it felt real.

  Andrew trembled and gave in to the strange sensations. He stepped forward and danced the elaborate yet familiar steps of a Master Swordsman. The sword in his hand slashed left and right. Magic flowed from its hilt. It coursed over his hands, up along his exhausted arms.

  Around him, the sound of his knights fighting on the battlefield intensified. His sword clashed with an opponent's, and the sword pulsed, as if it were alive, with a heartbeat of its own.

  The sword moved under its own volition. It parried, twisted and turned, and caught the flesh of his opponent. It bit deep, unbidden, and unforgiving. Blood sprayed across his face and marred his vision.

  Andrew caught his breath and wiped his eyes clear. He questioned how the sword could have life. He sensed the woman. She touched his mind with a softness he couldn't explain, sweet and sensual, and he struggled to put a name to her familiar presence. It almost seemed as if she was the sword itself.

  The sword twisted, and his opponent fell. Another man cried out and stepped forward. But moments later the sword severed the man's neck, and he too joined the dead.

  Silence settled across the battlefield, and Andrew's heart raced so fast he thought it might burst. He pulled the blood-covered sword free.

  Weary knights he knew by name faced him and cheered.

  He studied the bloodied throng of men: knights with jubilant expressions, thrilled by a win for Christendom, for the crusades. Their enemy stood there too, defiant, their loyalty for their dead leader obvious in their defeat.

  Andrew shook his head, troubled by the ferocity and the realism of the violent dream. Knights in armour, swordplay, this concerned him the most. He understood the symbolism of it, though. In that very region of the ancient crusades, he had served in the military. He'd seen men with their eyes filled with that same bloodlust only weeks before. They were a different enemy and wore civilian clothes. They brandished Rocket-Propelled Grenades and rifles, not swords. He fought a different war, one against Improvised Explosive Devices placed along roadsides.

  RPGs, rifles, and IEDs were the new foil, but it was the same fight hundreds of years later than the knight's battle.

  A knight stepped forward, his polished armour dulled by fresh blood, and a sensation like electricity ran up Andrew's arm. He twisted in discomfort. The woman's presence settled within him again and soothed him.

  It's Lancelot, she said.

  The knight Lancelot lifted his visor and smiled.

  Caught in the bizarre PTSD-initiated vision, Andrew recognized the knight as his closest friend. He struggled to make sense of it, to discover what the symbolism meant.

  Lancelot raised his fist on high for all to see. "God save Arthur Pendragon. King and Protector of the Britons."

  A single cheer echoed from the men, and then they yelled, "God save Arthur!"

  Andrew grinned at the men, and he raised his sword hi
gh. "May Excalibur never fail you!"

  The men cheered.

  Andrew blinked as the battlefield images faded.

  Stay with me! said the woman, her voice so clear and somehow familiar. It touched him like a beautiful caress and made him shiver in delight.

  An image of the Tor at Glastonbury swam into focus, a giant stone he remembered from his youth. It faded, and that odd sense of everything shifting again left him giddy. Everything spun, and his chest tightened. He squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten. When he reopened them, he recognized the mosaic rug at the far end of the basement. Relief flooded through him, and the tightness in his chest faded. He was in Canada, not in an ancient Mesopotamia of hundreds of years ago, and not in Iraq any more.

  My Lord, Arthur, please return home to my side!

  He shuddered from concern. Or was it delight? He almost wanted to have PTSD. The woman's thoughts, her presence, resonated within him. They struck at a chord within him so deep they tugged at his heart and filled him with a promise of love. It took his breath away.

  He savoured the sensations of her until they faded, until a mental image of the Tor of Glastonbury remained. What did she mean, return home? How could she know he had been born there? Whatever it was, it filled him with a need to be there, to find her.

  He shook his head. It was crazy. He was crazy. What had really happened? He stared up through the basement window where outside, beyond the snow flurries, a single street lamp failed to lighten a black Ontarian night.

  The basement light snapped on. Footsteps echoed down the stairs.

  "Andrew, what in God's name are you doing?"

  Andrew smiled, embarrassed over waking his hostess in her home. Melissa was military like her husband, Rick, and neither of them deserved to awake at this time of the night.

  She tightened her dressing gown, and her eyes widened. "Why are you holding a mop? You look ridiculous."

  Andrew grinned at the mop in his hand and hid his surprise. "Would you believe it was King Arthur's sword, Excalibur?" He stared at her dour expression and regretted his reply.

  "Do you know what the time is?"

  He shrugged and leaned the mop against the wall. "Late?"

  "It's almost two." She glanced around the room. "What was all the noise?"

  "Noise?" That surprised him.

  "I heard men's voices, shouting. It woke me."

  He frowned. "Voices? You couldn't have…" He scratched his head. "Is Rick awake? I think I need to talk to him."

  "It is two am. He's sleeping."

  "Then wake him."

  Melissa stepped forward, hands on her hips. "He's tired from working long hours all weekend."

  Andrew nodded, and envy caught in his throat. He wished he had someone so protective as she was of her husband. "Major…" Andrew swallowed and quietly regretted his tone. He took a breath and dropped the military references. Habits died hard. "Melissa, I understand, but wake him now, please."

  "Colonel," she raised her hands in the air. "This is my house! You might outrank us, but don't forget you are a guest here. You shouldn't be here at all, and we're putting our necks on the line for you, so unless you want to return to your small apartment block…" Melissa tilted her head, "… or… see if she'll take you back?"

  Andrew's throat tightened. He closed his eyes and blocked the memories of his ex-wife Shelly and her new man living in his home. Mel was right; his small apartment downtown was far too close to the Canadian Forces National Defence Headquarters and didn't offer him the social opportunities staying here did.

  He opened his eyes and smiled an apology. "Mel, you're right. I'm sorry. I appreciate everything you've done." He took a lengthy breath and exhaled. "But could you wake him, please? It's important."

  Melissa studied him for a moment. He hoped she could sense his urgency.

  "Very well. Make some herbal tea, and you can tell us what's so important."

  She turned to climb the stairs, and he grabbed the sleeve of her dressing gown.

  "Sorry. You can't hear this."

  She frowned. "Official secrets? Here?"

  "In a manner of speaking." He nodded, aware there was only so much he could say. He'd stood in a battlefield holding King Arthur's sword. He'd sensed a woman he thought he should know. She was in some trouble. He'd have to give a less than detailed account, otherwise Rick would think him crazy. Still, he couldn't help thinking there was some truth in the weird dreams, something that tied in with his research. Perhaps he'd brushed against something in Iraq? Either way, Rick could read the more critical information Andrew was about to discuss at work.

  "I promise I won't keep him long," he said.

  ◆◆◆

  Andrew sat and placed Rick's herbal tea on the living room table. Rick clambered down the stairs.

  "What is it, sir?" Rick yawned and covered his mouth.

  Andrew half smiled. "Sorry to wake you, but I'm leaving for England."

  "When?" Rick yawned again.

  "Today."

  "Wow. That's sudden. Anything to do with your basement visits?"

  Andrew's eyes widened. "Visits?"

  "Last night and tonight… you don't remember?"

  Andrew shook his head.

  "You said a woman's name, over and over."

  "What did I call her?"

  "Giselle."

  "Not Shelly?"

  "No." Rick's smile was almost apologetic.

  "What's happening to me?"

  "Battle fatigue?"

  Andrew stretched. "Could be PTSD. Perhaps I'm pining for England."

  "England? Why not fly down to Cuba and catch some sun?"

  "Sun!" Andrew snorted. "Seen enough to last a lifetime. No, I'm going home to Glastonbury."

  "Glastonbury? But you're Canadian from Halifax."

  Andrew shook his head. "I moved from Glastonbury to Canada and settled in Halifax on my tenth birthday." Andrew stared into the corner of the room. "Something about my dream… about Glastonbury."

  "Seriously?"

  He faced Rick. "I need you to take over while I'm gone."

  "Me?"

  Andrew noticed the surprise on Rick's face. "You're senior enough, you'll be fine."

  "Well… sure. You can explain everything tomorrow."

  "I can't. I'm leaving within the hour. There are always extra flights this time of the year, so all going well, I'll be at Heathrow by twelve-hundred UTC. The term Universal Time Central annoyed Andrew, he preferred Greenwich Mean Time, or GMT, but he had to get with the times, so to speak." He grinned. "I'll email my supervisor, but they won't miss me, I'm Intelligence Corps, we're always sneaking off somewhere."

  Rick raised his hands in surprise. "You're the boss. Tell me what I need to know."

  "Well… that's why I sent Mel away." He paused. He had little choice but to inform Rick of the basics of the American National Security Agency's most guarded secrets. "There's something I need you to do, and it's not part of NDHQ work. It's classified Top Secret. Codeword IRIDIUM, obviously I can't tell you everything here, but I'll give you the unclassified gist of it."

  Rick cleared his throat. "Sir, I have received none of the classified IRIDIUM security information."

  "I know. Only a handful outside the NSA have. I'll list you when I return."

  Rick nodded.

  Andrew explained what he could, the way his masters had described it to him. "Codeword IRIDIUM is a cover for Einsteinium. You know anything about that?"

  Rick shrugged and leaned in. "Something to do with Einstein?"

  Andrew nodded. "What if I told you the actual reason for the invasion of Iraq had nothing to do with oil, or Kuwait, but had everything to do with Einsteinium?"

  "Sure."

  "It's about the Einsteinium discovered during Operation Ivy, the detonation of the first hydrogen bomb in the Pacific in nineteen fifty-two. It's a by-product from a powerful nuclear explosion and has a distinct isotropic signature. The ES two-fifty-two version they found in Japan had a
half-life of about twenty days."

  Rick leaned forward and nodded. "Mel's grandfather was stationed at Korea back then."

  "What if I told you, weapons inspectors monitoring Iraq's nuclear facilities, found minute traces of Einsteinium near the Syrian border, near the ancient Holy Land of the crusades? Imagine an area the size of a football field scattered with traces of Einsteinium. It's nowhere near test sites or nuclear reactors. The strange thing is it has a different isotropic signature. It isn't ES two-fifty-two, like a normal atomic blast, but ES two-sixty-three, which has a half-life of ten thousand years. Imagine the size and power of a blast required to create that."

  Andrew took a deep breath and tried not to get excited over what he was about to say. "Rick, they haven't produced the isotope ES two-sixty-three yet, but it's here!"

  "A nuclear underground test site?"

  Andrew shook his head. "Special Forces found no trace. Did you know in Damascus, ancient artefacts collected over a hundred years before the first hydrogen bomb exploded, had contained traces of this element? Yes, impossible! And yet less than three weeks ago, they uncovered another site, this time at Glastonbury. It's littered with it."

  "Go on," said Rick.

  "What do you know about the myth of King Arthur?"

  Rick shrugged. "Arthur married Genevieve and she had a thing for one knight. King Arthur had a fancy sword, Excalibur or something."

  Andrew nodded. The next part would be hard and he did not understand how he might convince Rick that the myth was real, it wasn't legend and that Arthur existed. He knew that nobody would believe anything he would say. "You know King Arthur went to the Holy Land looking for the Grail? To fight for Christendom?"

  "Sure."

  "We found references in ancient Arabian manuscripts, to an object of great power. They talked about a far traveller called The Spear of the Lake, and how he found a device in the Holy Land that was loosely translated as Stasis Cube. He handed it to Arturius, one of Arthur's knights. I still find it hard to believe—"