by Bob Mayer
“Why are you here?”
“To make sure all happens that is supposed to happen,” Scout said.
“Can you see the future?” Philip asked.
“I can see what is not to happen,” Scout said.
“Careful words,” Philip said. “You might do well as a politician. Talking without saying anything.” He nodded toward the battlefield. “Whichever side wins today will control the Hegemony. A unified Greece would be a powerful force. They waste most of the their military prowess battling each other. So it does not require the gift of prophecy to say that an empire will come after this battle. Either Thebes or Sparta will lead the way.”
“I am not speaking of an Empire led by either Thebes or Sparta.” Scout knew she was walking a thin line with Rule One but she trusted her instincts. More to the point, she didn’t trust Pandora. Why was Pandora more concerned about making sure Epaminondas died if Philip, who would be father of Alexander in six years, was here? Did Pandora not sense his presence? Had she sensed it and not wanted Scout to know? Was Pandora concocting some elaborate scheme of which Scout was a pawn?
It didn’t matter. Both Epaminondas and Philip II were critical to the timeline. But Epaminondas could be killed later; Philip II couldn’t be ‘un-killed’ if the Legion got to him first.
Scout looked out at the plain. “You know Epaminondas well, don’t you, sir?”
“I know him well enough,” King Philip II replied.
“You’re here to see what the tactics are,” Scout said, giving some edge. “Tell me, great king, what is developing? I do not understand. We can get back to the Oracle’s messages shortly.”
Philip shifted his attention to battle. “Epaminondas defeated the Spartans at Leuctra. A great victory and a surprise to many, but not me. Perhaps he will defeat them again. I wish to see how. I have heard of his tactics at Leuctra, but nothing can substitute for actually witnessing it.” He pointed. “The phalanxes are strong. But they have a flaw.”
“Fear,” Scout said.
Philip was startled at her insight. “Yes. The spear is in the right hand, the shield in the left. This exposes a portion of the right side, which theoretically is covered by the man to the soldier’s right. So men tend to move right, toward that shield. Even the best soldiers do it a little bit. Even the Spartans.”
“Even the Sacred Band,” Scout said.
Philip nodded. “Yes.”
Scout knew from the download he’d been involved with the Sacred Band while being held hostage by Thebes earlier in his life. Indeed, he’d been tutored by Epaminondas. How deep that involvement went, well, it was Greece, and the download confirmed it was an integral part of Greek life, particularly in the military.
Philip regrouped. “Normal military tactics is to put the best troops on the right flank, as they have the strongest discipline and can keep the entire line from drifting to the right too far. What this does, though, is line up each army’s best against the other army’s weakest.”
“But that’s not what Epaminondas did at Leuctra,” Scout said.
“No,” Philip said, “and it’s not what he’s doing here. He surprised the Spartans with his maneuver of marching in and appearing to withhold battle for the day. That gained him an initial advantage, as you can see. But note what is happening now.
“His cavalry is on the flanks. His left wing is where he is with his best troops. His right wing, farthest from us, is giving ground. He is pressing his best against the Spartan best. Not what they are used to. And he has massed his troops four times deeper than the Spartans. See how Epaminondas leads his men, cutting through the Spartan lines leaving his line unbalanced. Dangerous, but risks must sometimes be taken in battle.” Philip’s voice went up as he said the last, leaning forward, silently exhorting his old friend to victory.
Scout was watching the Theban leader and his Sacred Band. They had crushed the front line of Spartans and the red-cloaked phalanxes were collapsing. She saw what was developing and what the result was going to be: “And if the most powerful force gives, then the rest will give.”
“He is too far out in front,” Philip said, more to himself than Scout.
Epaminondas and his blue-cloaked warriors were an island in a sea of red. While his army was pushing the entire right flank of the Spartan alliance back, he’d advanced beyond the rest of his troops.
“Too far,” Philip said. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “Look. The Mantineans are fleeing. Their leader is down. They are done. The victory is—” he stopped as there was a swirl of activity around Epaminondas.
Scout focused not only her eyes on what was happening, but also what she could control of her ‘Sight’. Pandora and Pyrrha were in there, close to Epaminondas.
“He’s been wounded!” Philip said. His anguish indicated he was here about more than just watching tactics. He had a personal stake.
Scout could see several of the Sacred Band carrying Epaminondas away while others formed a rear guard, holding off Spartan forces trying desperately to capture the wounded leader, as it was their only hope to snatch victory from defeat given the collapse of their allies and their own retreat.
But the Sacred Band got their leader back behind friendly lines, carrying him to the rear. The battlefield now shifted from fierce combat to a rout, as the rest of the allies of the Spartans retreated, then the Spartans themselves were forced to yield the field.
Where were the Legion? Scout wondered, casting her Sight about. And where were Pandora and Pyrrha?
Philip interrupted both the Sight and her wonderings.
“We must go to him.”
Our Present
Deep Under the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City
“That was lousy ice cream,” Lara said.
Spotlights were focused on the HUB in the cavern deep underneath the Metropolitan Museum of Art. This was the Gate through which the members of the Time Patrol traveled to the Possibility Palace. It was also the means by which they could get to the Space Between.
“Sorry,” Dane said, standing at the control panel for the HUB.
“You don’t sound sorry,” Lara said. “So I had to come back here through that, to go back through there to this other place?”
“Yes,” Dane said.
The two of them were at the base of a ramp, which led up to the dark rectangle of the Gate.
“Can that take you anywhere other than the Space Between and the Possibility Palace?”
“We haven’t been able to make it do that,” Dane said. “We believe it has the capability.”
“Okey-dokey,” Lara said. “You guys are pretty limited in where you can go.”
“That’s why you’re doing what you’re doing,” Dane said.
“When I went to other timelines,” Lara said, “I didn’t need any of this. I just went. In my head.”
“But you didn’t go in time,” Dane said.
“I don’t know,” Lara said, thinking about it. “There were time jumps. One or two of the shrinks tried some regression therapy. Sometimes, time just passed and I don’t remember what happened in between.”
Lara was dressed in the bland gray jumpsuit of the Possibility Palace. “No gun? Poison darts? James Bond briefcase?”
“Clock’s ticking,” Dane said.
“That’s weird,” Lara said, “given I’m going to be time traveling. Sorta.” She looked at the ramp. “You could like, you know, paint it with little yellow bricks.”
Dane didn’t respond.
Lara took a step onto the ramp and paused. “Ever wonder where the red brick road went?” She strode up the ramp and into the darkness without looking back.
The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America,
We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these
United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.
The Missions Phase IV
Entebbe, Uganda, 4 July 1976 A.D.
“THEY WERE GOOD MEN,” Avi said. “To die like that. Not even in combat. A waste.”
It was quiet. Eagle and Avi were on the edge of the dirt road where it made a bend. There were lights on in the old tower and terminal building about four hundred meters away, where the hostages were being held. There were two runways, a main one running north-south, and a secondary one, northwest to southeast, on the other side of the road from them. It passed the old terminal. The landing lights for both runways were on. In the distance, across the diagonal runway, the new terminal building was brightly lit.
“It’s always a waste,” Eagle said.
“Not always,” Avi said. “Not when one dies for a purpose. What were those things in the water?”
“Creatures from the Shadow,” Eagle said. “Kraken. Many monsters of legend are actually things the Shadow created.”
“Why would they attack the crocodiles and not us?”
“I don’t know,” Eagle lied. “Maybe they were after us and the crocodiles were in the way. How long until the first plane lands?”
Avi looked up at the sky. “Lost the radio, so we can’t talk to the planes.” He checked his watch. “They’re close. Very close. If they succeed, it will all be worth it.”
“There.” Eagle pointed. Starlight outlined the dark silhouette of a descending C-130. It was lined up on the main runway.
“Hercules One,” Eagle said.
Avi put the scope of the sniper rifle to his eye. “Very good.” He panned toward the old terminal.
The plane touched down and began decelerating.
“You know their plan, correct?” Avi asked, still watching the old terminal.
“Yes.”
“Perhaps there is a reason you did not know our plan,” Avi said.
The C-130 had slowed, enough to turn onto a taxiway toward the diagonal runway. The ramp was most of the way down and the side doors were open. Men were jumping out of the doors while the plane was still moving; paratroopers who would emplace landing lights in case the Ugandans shut down the runaway lights.
The plane halted on the taxiway. The rear ramp went all the way down and a Mercedes and two Land Rovers roared out of the cargo bay, heading toward the old terminal. The idea was to fool the Ugandan guards into thinking it was Idi Amin’s presidential motorcade, long enough for the Israelis to gain the advantage.
“Two guards on the tarmac,” Avi said, eye to scope. “Ugandans. The convoy will run into them.” His finger curled around the trigger.
“They’ll handle them,” Eagle said.
Avi pulled his head back from the scope to look at Eagle. “You know the script and I am not part of it.”
“Neither of us are,” Eagle said.
There were flashes as soldiers inside the Mercedes fired silenced pistols at the guards, one of whom was running away.
Automatic weapon fire burst out. A gun battle raged as Israeli soldiers poured out of all three vehicles, battling Ugandan soldiers.
“The terrorists could blow up the building and kill all the hostages.” Avi’s finger was back on the trigger, and he was tracking the firefight, searching for targets.
“They won’t,” Eagle assured him.
The commandos from the Unit were quickly overwhelming the Ugandan soldiers.
“Very good,” Avi allowed, watching the action. “They will breach soon. If, as you say, the building isn’t wired to explode, they should succeed.”
“They will,” Eagle said, violating Rule One once more.
Avi chuckled as he peered through the scope. “There is Yoni, leading the way, as always.”
More C-130s were landing, carrying the rest of the assault force, armored vehicles to secure the perimeter, and medical personnel for the wounded.
Avi was eager to be part of the action. “There are soldiers in the old control tower getting ready to fire.” He brought the muzzle of his rifle up to aim at them. “Avi doesn’t see them!”
Eagle pressed the muzzle of his silenced Beretta into the back of Avi’s skull. “Put the gun down.”
Gettysburg, 4 July 1863
“Mister?”
Roland recognized the voice. He’d hoped Tad was already dead. The voices were fewer, in the real world, but in his head, even the few left were too many.
“Mister?”
Roland turned his head from watching Cemetery Ridge. ”Yeah?”
“Is the battle over? Who won?”
Roland was surprised at the question, then knew he shouldn’t be. Both armies were still here. Lee wouldn’t begin withdrawing until darkness, disappointed that Meade hadn’t attacked.
From his experience, Roland knew the soldier on the battlefield had little clue how the overall battle went. They only saw one patch of earth, and for these men, that patch was here and it was death. The Confederates who’d been in Pickett’s charge knew it had been a disaster, that they’d been badly repulsed. None of these men had any clue that Lee would withdraw that night. As far as they knew, it was just as likely the battle would continue tomorrow after it stopped raining.
The Yankees had seen so many defeats, most of them had no expectation of victory.
But to tell a dying soldier he was giving it all in a defeat was worse than telling him he was dying.
“Bobbie Lee won’t pull back,” Drawl said.
“We’re done retreating,” First Minnesota threw in.
They were still caught up in it.
Roland spoke in a voice that carried above the rain, to the Dying Tree and beyond. “The battle. It’s over.”
“Who won?” Drawl pressed.
Roland ignored him. “This was a great battle. The greatest battle fought in this country up to now and far into the future. It won’t ever be forgotten. And a hundred years from now Americans, and we’re all Americans and we’ll always be Americans, won’t think of who was Confederate and who was Federal. Or even who won. Because we all win. All they’ll think of and talk of about the Battle of Gettysburg, is the bravery of the men who fought here. Blue and gray.”
“You talk like you know what’s gonna happen,” Drawl said.
“We’re all Americans,” Roland repeated.
Roland broke Rule Number One, sort of, but these were the dying. So he told them of the battle they’d fought in, from the first day, when Hancock decided this was a fine place to defend. He told them all of it, so they would know where they fit in.
He spoke of the First Minnesota saving the Union line. The 20th Maine charging when they had no options left. How the men of Trimble and Pickett and Pettigrew’s divisions came on, no matter what. And Armistead in the center breached the Union line and laid his hand on a Yankee cannon. How the Yankees who lived through that would never forget the bravery of the men in gray and that in fifty years survivors would meet on either side of that stone wall and they would cry and crawl over it, old men, hugging each other as brothers.
As he spoke, Roland thought that if any did survive they would think it was some sort of dream amid the nightmare. They’d all grown quiet, so he kept talking. No one asked for something. No one cried out for their mother or for God.
They listened. They were learning of the epic event they’d been part of. They were listening to the reason why their dying here mattered. They forgot, for a little while, their fear and agony.
&n
bsp; Roland talked for a long time, as some of the men finally let go and became the dead of Gettysburg and not just the dying. He’d never talked so long in his life and when he finally stopped there was just the sound of the rain.
Roland searched the download and grabbed the most significant thing that popped up. He recited: “’Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
“’Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
“’But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate, we can not consecrate, we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth’.”
Roland let out a deep breath and realized he was holding the rifle much too tight, his knuckles white. He had to be relaxed to shoot accurately.
“Thanks, mister. Them some mighty fine words.”
Roland winced. Tad had used his last bullet to save Roland’s life, and now Roland owed him. He’d have been dead by now except for the rebandaging and the story.
