Gateway Through Time

by David Kernot

  Andrew's finger tightened on the trigger. He stepped closer to the man and pointed the pistol at the man's head. "I've come a long way for this. It wouldn't be wise to press me, not today," he said. "Where is it?"

  The man stared back into Andrew's eyes and gave a slight nod. "I see desperation, infidel. This is your lucky day. I can help you find your nirvana. It's there." The man pointed to a recess near ground level.

  "Not going to stop me?"

  "No," the man said. "Open it and all your wishes and dreams of death will come true." The man opened his arms wide and Andrew noticed he held a switch. In that moment he realized that he stared as close as he ever would be a suicide bomber.

  "May you see all the gods today." The man's hand tightened on the trigger device.

  Andrew did the only thing he could think of. He jumped toward the man to avoid the blast pattern, and he landed near a low wall. He sprawled out as flat as he could, half protected by the wall.

  The blast wave shook him. He felt metal fragments rip at his helmet and embed into his body armour. His ears rang, and it was only then he realized how lucky he'd been in leaving his hearing protection in from the flight. Smoke filled the temple, and his eyes watered. He breathed it in and coughed up blood. He was lucky the shock wave hadn't killed him.

  He stood, dizzy, and examined the suicide bomber's remains with a semi-detached interest. The man's head sat in the middle of a shredded set of arms and legs. The torso was missing, but the man wore a smile in death. No, Andrew corrected. The torso circled the temple, a ring of shrapnel-impregnated blood. He bet the man wouldn't have smiled if he had known his sacrifice was for nothing. Andrew hobbled over to the recess the man had shown and rummaged around in it. He wondered how a suicide bomber could have been waiting for him. He had told nobody except his friend Philby. He felt cold metal, and he retrieved the elongated six-fingered ancient device.

  Philby had been the only one outside of the group that had known he would be here. Everyone else had learned about the details in flight. If Philby had organized a suicide bomber, then they were all in danger. He looked at the device he'd rescued Giselle from two days before, pleased it had ended up here where he suspected it would go based on the symbols on it. He dare operate it here. Not yet. It would be safer down by the plane; where Dingo could monitor things for him. He didn't know what he'd have done without the Australian soldier.

  Andrew pushed open the temple door and stood at the top of the entrance. After the dimly lit temple, the sun's rays hurt his eyes. He put on his ballistic eyewear and blinked away the dust and tears. He hadn't realized how much his chest hurt. His ears throbbed. He wiped the back of his neck, and his hand came away with blood.

  He heard gunfire below him and he pushed aside his injuries. "Dingo, I've got it," he yelled and hurried carefully down the steps on unstable legs. Philby would pay for this, he was certain of it.

  At the end of the stairs, Andrew walked like a drunken soldier to the plane, impervious to the surrounding gunfire.

  "Shit, Colonel," yelled Dingo. "You look a mess. Sit down under cover. We are taking casualties. Mav's gone. Blue's arm is shot up."

  Andrew felt like someone had punched him in the gut. He frowned, unable to believe what he was hearing. Mav was gone? His stomach lurched. Blue injured? This was on him.

  Dingo ducked and returned fire. "Makes little sense, sir. They knew we were coming."

  "Damn it!" He pulled his gun. Philby would pay for his treachery. He fired at a dark-bearded man that appeared from the side of the aircraft. Andrew and watched him fall with detached interest. The smell of cordite and smoke filled his senses, and he sat down in the sand and rubbed the back of his neck. He noticed more bright red blood stain his hand. It was probably why he felt so giddy, but it could wait. There was no way he would give up the device before he got those poor souls out like he'd promised Giselle. He held the device like he had two days before and pressed the buttons. He held his breath.

  Light shimmered around him. Blurred images appeared, and he closed his eyes. He scrambled back, hoping to evade the device's hypnotic pull.

  Men and women materialized from the device.

  Andrew took a breath and looked at the crowd of thirty people that had materialized from the device: ancient Aztecs, Romans, Greeks, and other cultures and people whose costumes he couldn't recognize.

  He heard a guttural cry of the Old Ones, ancient hideous creatures, and stiffened. The throng of people that had materialized from the device scattered and ran screaming.

  The Shoggoth stepped forward. It leaned toward him and one of its tentacled eyes turned into a moist mouth with razor-sharp teeth. It snapped at him. He ducked. "Everyone move." He waved them aside and pulled the Westinghouse Colt 45 from his gun belt. He aimed at the closest mouth and fired. It shattered the creature's mouth, and the Shoggoth stopped, but only for a moment and then continued.

  An Australian machine gun barked on the other side of the plane.

  "More incoming," yelled Dingo.

  Andrew nodded and faced the Shoggoth. It snarled and screamed from a hundred mouths. The pitch was deafening. Andrew crouched and covered his ears from the pain. The Shoggoth stepped closer and Andrew reloaded his weapon. He pointed it at the monster. He prayed that everything would end well.

  "Move away, Sir," said Dingo. He stepped forward and operated the bomb robot controls.

  Andrew watched the robot surge forward through the sand on rubber tracks. It rattled toward the creature while Dingo raised the modified water cannon. "Here we—"

  A shot rang out, and the robot stopped.

  Dingo fell.

  More shots rang out, and Andrew's stomach twisted. He ducked, and his throat tightened. "Dingo… Are you all right?"

  Dingo didn't reply.

  A man appeared from behind the plane. He wasn't one of theirs. Andrew fired and watched him fall. He wanted to check on Dingo, but the Shoggoth's growl, deep and guttural, commanded his attention. He cursed. It stepped on the robot, twisting the arm.

  Andrew emptied his magazine into it, but the creature didn't flinch and continued forward toward him. He pulled the flare gun fitted with the RDX explosives and took aim. He pulled the trigger and the Shoggoth explode into a pulverized mess before him. Burning eyes scattered around him. Mouths snapped open and shut, twisting like a stranded fish out of water.

  He should have felt satisfaction, elated. The people were free of the device, and the Shoggoth no longer threatened anyone. But Dingo lay on the floor nearby, mouth open in mid-word, a bullet hole in his skull. Dead. Gone. Andrew fell to his knees by his friend and screamed with despair. Dingo and Mav were both gone. How many more men had he lost? None of it made any sense.

  A whirling noise pulled Andrew from that black place.

  The device by his feet rose off the ground and spun. Colours erupted from it. It morphed, and for the second time that week, Andrew stared at a mirrored cube floating in the air inches from his face.

  He opened the flare gun and flicked the empty shell from it, slid a new RDX cartridge into the chamber. Someone would pay for this. It had trapped Giselle in it. All the lost people had been held there too. Dingo and Mav had died getting them out.

  He bit down on the inside of his cheek and tasted blood. It felt good. He bit down harder and felt the tingle of pain run across his scalp.

  The desert sand whipped at him and blurred his vision. His trigger finger shook as he blinked away the sand and his vision cleared.

  The mirrored cube flashed as the sun reflected across it, but this time Andrew knew better than to touch the ancient object or to stare at it for too long: it defied logic. He wanted to turn the ancient device into a smouldering wreck. But he couldn't. Instead, he forced himself to let go of his anger and lowered the gun, certain that Philby would pay for everything that happened today.

  He knew a place they could study it. There was a facility deep in the Australian Great Sandy Desert was about as far away and remote fr
om here as you could get. And he had a colleague, a US General Cobb, who was posted there. Perhaps he'd be able to help? But he suspected it was an impossible task. An impossible object.

  It was as if the cube had read his mind: it flashed and vanished. This time he did not understand where it might be. The remaining insurgents fled, and along with the rest of his team, they gathered them up, scared and just as lost. He felt for them. Then he called the NSA and organized care for the strange collection of misplaced people.

  ◆◆◆

  Chapter IX

  Heathrow, London, England

  Sergeant Emerson James Ash stepped outside of the heated airport terminal. He took a deep breath and smiled. His first visit to a proper city for five months. Well, if he didn't count the stopover at the military hospital in Germany to check out his prosthetic arm. He shook his head. The traffic noise was deafening, but welcoming when compared to Camp Holland, the NATO's multinational military base at Tarin Kowt in Afghanistan's central Uruzgan province.

  He strode back inside the terminal and made his way to the Heathrow Express and caught the train to Euston Station. There he stepped outside and hailed a taxicab. A vehicle pulled up, and the driver stepped out. He opened the luggage compartment and stood back. Emerson lifted his military dive bag up one-handed into the trunk, and the man frowned. He starred at Emerson's prosthetic arm and his short military haircut. Emerson grinned. Maybe it was the cargo pants, and the faded tee shirt under his military-purchased drab olive coloured jacket. Either way, it didn't matter. "I'm Australian," he said by explanation.

  "Then welcome to London, mate." The man smiled, and Emerson nodded. He hadn't thought he needed civvie clothes, not fancy ones at least. He never imagined he'd get sent to London after deploying to the Middle East, so he'd have to buy some new clothes. Emerson climbed into the rear and stifled a yawn. "Where to, Governor?" The man's voice was full of cockney inflection, just as Emerson imagined it would be. "The Hilton on Trafalgar Square."

  "Right you are, then." The cabbie took off into the thick London traffic, weaving along streets, diving off on tangents and small laneways. Emerson was sure that the fare would cost him a fortune, but he was too tired to care. He closed his eyes, and he could hear the drone of the military aircraft still humming in the back of his mind, and he could feel the plane under his feet bouncing across the sky.

  Sir, we're here. Hilton on Trafalgar.

  Emerson opened his eyes and looked over at the statues of the rampant lions at the base of Trafalgar's the middle of the busy square. Thank you. He paid the fare, stepped out, and took his bags, and stepped inside the hotel. It was smaller than he'd imagined, but consistent with a city as big and old as London.

  He walked over to the reception counter and smiled. "I have a booking under the name of Emerson Ash."

  "Yes, the MOD has paid for it, sir. Welcome to the Hilton. There is a message from Mr. Philby, from your course, sir, he says that everyone is welcome to catch up downstairs in the bar." She pointed in a direction to the corner of the hotel. "There will be some food available, too," she said.

  "Okay, thank you. What time?"

  "At 7PM, sir."

  He looked at his watch and realised it was still set to Afghanistan. "What time is it?"

  "It's 3PM, sir."

  "Okay, thank you."

  "Your welcome, sir, and if there is anything we can do to make your better, please contact the front desk staff."

  "Thank you. Yes." Emerson set his watch and caught the lift to his floor.

  Inside his modest room, which was enormous compared with anything he had slept inside of in months, he set the alarm for 6AM. He removed his prosthetic arm and took a long shower, ironed his clothes, and clambered into bed.

  Philby and the other course personnel could wait.

  The bed was amazing. And the light streaming in from the open window was bliss after living in a dark and crowded shipping container. Sleep came easily.

  ◆◆◆

  Emerson Ash woke just before the alarm, refreshed, and clambered from the bed. On his return from the bathroom, he stood in front of the window and lowered himself into the Wing Chung kung fu position. Knees bent, elbows tucked in behind him with his right fist upright, keeping his shoulders low. He imagined his left arm was still intact and thrust out his imaginary left hand outward as slow as he could, palm outward until his elbow was straight. He did the same with his right, and twisted his wrist in a circle, brought his hands back to the centre of his body. He continued with his daily exercise, careless of the morning traffic building below him. When he finished, he'd shower, go down and have an omelette and toast, an orange juice and coffee. Then he'd make his way over to the Ministry of Defence building in Whitehall and begin his Countering the Improvised Explosive Device seminar. It would be good to find what other people thought about the current state of the threat.

  ◆◆◆

  Chapter X

  Whitehall, London, England

  "Emerson." A man strode over his hand out. "I'm Peter Philby, Military Intelligence. I was hoping to catch up last night at the Hilton, but I understand, you must have been tired after your flights."

  Emerson shook the man's hand. "Yes, sir. British intelligence. Nice. Can I ask what section?"

  "Section six."

  "Not related then?"

  The man frowned.

  "To the other Philby."

  Peter Philby chuckled. "Oh, heavens, no. That was so long ago that even MI5 have forgotten to remind us."

  "So, are you presenting during the course?"

  "Yes, I have two sessions I will brief on, but that's not why I wanted to speak to you. I have a more sinister motive and wondered if you could meet me this afternoon at three?"

  "During the course?"

  "It's all right, I've cleared it with people here. I want to take you to Henry VIII's Wine Cellar and discuss something."

  "A wine cellar?" Emerson frowned.

  "You don't know about it?"

  Emerson shook his head.

  Philby laughed. "Australian, I get it. It's fine. Once upon a time, this entire area was originally Whitehall Palace. I was talking back in the 16th century, but long story short, enormous fires destroyed a lot of the buildings. King Henry the eighth had a wine cellar that survived. This building is right where it was situated, so they dug it up and lowered it, intact, and it's now in the basement below us."

  Emerson grinned. "There's a palace under this building, intact that you can visit?"

  "Well, yes."

  Emerson laughed. "And here I thought only Australian's were the crazy ones."

  "Oh no, Emerson, your part of a bigger club than you realise. We're all barking mad. Anyway," he held out his hand, and Emerson shook it. "I'll send someone for you."

  ◆◆◆

  A knock on the conference room door made Emerson look away from the shrapnel covered military vehicle after an IED attack. He checked the time, and it was precisely 1500 hours. The tall, slender woman stepped inside. She searched the room, her eyes smile beckoning him over. Emerson quietly stood so as not to interrupt the man giving his talk on how to predict IED choke points and strode out of the room.

  The woman was dressed in pants, black shoes, and a tight jacket. Her cropped black hair was tidy. There was barely any makeup on her, and her skin glowed. She held out her hand with a smile. "Hello, Emerson, I'm Denna. I represent General Cobb. Have you been to the basement before?"

  He cleared his throat. "Today is my first time here."

  "You'll love it. It's very British. The wine cellar is a Tudor brick-vaulted cavern built in 1536." She strode toward the elevators, and he followed.

  Emerson could see a pentagram tattoo on the back of her neck, small and barely visible. He tried to detect an accent, and he couldn't be sure, it was a mix of Australian and something.

  In the elevator, he said, "Do I detect a hint of an Aussie accent?"

  “Well spotted, Emerson. Most wouldn't pick it. Tech
nically, yes, I am. I'm half and half. My mom's from Queensland. Like me, but I lived in Alice Springs for a while before we moved to the States when I was young.

  "Right."

  "What about you, Adelaide must have been nice?"

  "Yes it was," he said, surprised that she knew where he'd spent some of his early childhood.

  He kept quiet and observed. Denna didn't speak again, but there was a smile on her face the entire time that was disarming.

  At the basement level, the doors opened, and he followed her out and through a series of passageways. A rabbit's warren, but then they walked through a set of doors into a cavernous area. Emerson stopped, mouth open, and stared at the massive stone structure. Philby hadn't been joking about the building at all.

  "Come and have a look, and I'll introduce you."

  Introduce him? He'd already met Philby. Who then?

  Two men stood in the center of the room, one was Peter Philby, and the other was a tall solid framed man with a cape with a red and white cross that clasped it together at the neck. The man wore thick black boots with a sheathed silver knife on the side. His thick belt was encrusted in gems and pouches. He looked out of place in the dimly lit area.

  "Sergeant Emerson Ash, meet the Knight Commander."

  Emerson leaned forward and shook the man's hand. "Nice to meet you, sir."

  I am the Knight Commander from the Order of the Knights Templar. It was we who they trusted with guarding the ancient relics against marauders in the Holy Land during the Crusades. Our order has been responsible for safeguarding the Ancient Ones' weapons.

  Emerson frowned. He'd heard of the mythical Knights Templar, an ancient and secret order. "I had thought the order of Knights Templar had died out a century or more ago."

  The man chuckled. "Exactly what you to believe, Emerson, but that is far from the truth. We are still many. Denna has told me that your Intelligence Reports from theatre are first class, that you have a keen eye for detail, and that they are analytical far beyond what we expect."