There was a humming sound as the module came to life. Kelly fed a last second variable into the system and the module picked it up from the logarithmic generator. He was already moving off his chair and running toward the particle chamber controls. “Watch that retraction line, Jen. Are we green?”
“Looks good—Green one hundred.”
“Integrity?”
Maeve shook herself. “Eighty-one point three.”
“OK… the chamber is responding. Density looks good.
“Integrity below eighty!” Maeve gave him a pleading look.
“Damn it!” Kelly ran back to the retraction module. “This is going to be right on the edge.”
Jen could see what he was worried about. The line was moving, scudding forward on the temporal monitor, but fading slightly as it went. The integrity was slipping into the yellow. She suddenly remembered Paul’s last words to her before he left. “What about the focal routines on terminal three?” She gave Kelly a questioning look.
The information took a second to register in Kelly’s thoughts. Terminal three? Yes! That was the code someone had entered into the module. He had to dump one of his retraction schemes to enable the last shift because it was taking up so much room. “What exactly did he say to you, Jen?”
“Well, he said to watch the retraction closely, and if there was a problem I was supposed to—”
“Enable the focal routines on terminal three!” Kelly finished for her and he was already reaching over her for the switch, flipping it on with a terse motion.
“That’s helping!” Maeve called from the other side of the console. “Integrity has jumped three percent…Five percent. It’s over ninety now.” Her voice carried the first note of hope she had felt for some time.
“Good for you, Paul,” Kelly breathed. “Good for you, old buddy.” He eased back, heaving a great sigh of relief. “Well, we may just pull this thing off after all.” He gave them a broad smile.
Jen sighed with relief. “I wonder which one is coming back,” she said. “Will it be Doctor Dorland, or Professor Nordhausen?”
Kelly gave her a smile. “Well,” he said, “we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we.”
21
The Desert - November, 1917
They were some time, traveling over hard, rocky ground broken by occasional swathes of wet sand. Each footfall was a slow, incremental pain to Nordhausen, and he wished he had his comfortable walking shoes, no matter what Maeve might think about the possibility of contaminating the time line. Their track took them eastward under a low, cloudy sky backlit by the pale light of a fading moon. Along the way his two Arab companions chatted amiably to themselves, casting occasional glances at the professor.
Nordhausen suffered along in silence, distracting himself with the puzzle of what he hoped to accomplish when they reached their destination. Paul said they had figured everything out, but it was a pity he never bothered to share the information. He found himself going over the account of the incident in Lawrence’s Seven Pillars, somewhat amused that he was recalling details of an experience that had not even been lived yet, at least not at this point in the continuum.
He sniffed the cold night air, smelling rain on the wind. If Lawrence’s account was accurate the weather should worsen as they approached dawn. That must still be several hours off, he reasoned, as there was no sign of light on the horizon. There would already be a train heading south from Damascus through Deraa. It would arrive in the early morning, nearly catching Lawrence and his men by complete surprise as they were planning the placement of their gelatine charges.
The details Lawrence had penned in his account of this incident were the only comfort Nordhausen had. He was going to place the charge under the main arch of a low bridge, well hidden, deep beneath a railroad tie. The bridge, little more than a four meter masonry arch, supported the track as it crossed a shallow culvert at the base of the twin hills called Minifir. They had only sixty yards of wire with them, all that they thought they would need for the attack on the Yarmuk bridge but barely enough for blowing up a train. Their change of plans presented a bit of a problem. The approach to the arch lay across the relatively exposed ground of a runoff channel that wound down from the base of the hill. Lawrence would take some time, hiding the wires in the rocky culvert and extending them up the wide mouth of this channel. Nordhausen remembered that he would single out a small isolated bush as the terminal end of the wire, a convenient place for him to attach his exploder. Even there, some fifty yards from the rail line, he would be painfully exposed to the passing train. It was a dangerous situation.
Now, how am I supposed to get at that damnable wire, he thought? After the first train took them by surprise, Lawrence posted lookouts on high ground to both the north and south so they would not miss another opportunity. He buried his wires and they just waited the whole morning out, huddling under their cloaks to conserve heat against the cold gray drizzle of the rain. Six hours, he thought. If we can get to Minifir by dawn I’ll have that much time to do something about this. The second train, the one coming up from Amman, would be spotted by the south lookouts around noon. It would reach the ambush site about an hour later. Whatever I do, it will have to be accomplished in those six hours.
The irony of the interval did not escape him. They had six hours to figure a way to get him to Minifir on November 10, 1917. Now that he was here he would have another six to save the world. He considered that, realizing that his two Arab guides could present some problem. He heard them speaking of Lawrence, and it was clear to him that they probably believed he was a lost member of Lawrence’s party. That was the difficulty now. Nordhausen knew he could not afford to make contact with the men who lay hidden on the craggy slopes of Minifir. The thought that he might catch a glimpse of the legendary Lawrence of Arabia was an exciting lure to him, but he could hear Maeve’s warning whispers with every step he took. There was no way he could allow himself to come face to face with the man. How would he explain himself?
He thought about that, knowing that he had to have some contingency plan should fate work its awkward magic. Could he tell Lawrence he had been sent from Cairo to see about him? He was sure that his obvious American accent and sketchy knowledge of the people and doings there would be an immediate giveaway. Lawrence would see though him at once. Could he claim to be a lost traveler, perhaps a pilgrim on the road to Mecca? That avenue offered more prospect of believability. He could say he was an American history professor trying to retrace the old pilgrim’s road to Mecca on sabbatical. Most people took the train now, but the old caravan road was still there.
Trains to Mecca! That had been the first intrusion of the modern West into the long history of the Arabic speaking world. The local tribesmen had made a living for generations, charging 40 to 60 pounds sterling to caravan the believers along the pilgrim’s road to Mecca. Then came the Hejaz rail line, and a journey of two months by camel was reduced to a few days by train for a tenth the cost. Angered by the loss of their income, the tribesman mounted futile attacks against the cold, unfeeling iron rails and the trains they carried. But they would be coerced to carry on that fight for other reasons when the First World War broke out.
The rail line through the Hejaz was the extension of Ottoman power into the heart of Arabia. When hostilities erupted the pilgrims were quickly replaced by Turkish soldiers trying to prop up the Sultan’s empire and the Arabs had accepted this yoke for a time. Though Turkey was a secular society, it was at least rooted in the Muslim traditions and culture. Now, however, the Arabs were becoming pawns in the hands of the Western Generals. Germany and England both wanted to use the Arabs for their own ends.
Germany had ambitions of forcing a great wedge down through the Middle East and Central Asia by igniting a Holy Jihad against the British and French colonies there. It was the Kaiser’s dream to have a pair of strong metal rails all the way from Berlin to the Persian Gulf—steel lines that would cut across the map and sever overland connections b
etween the Mediterranean and the heart of Britain’s colonial empire, India. For her part, Britain struggled to prevent this, and to wield the Arab uprising as a foil against the Ottoman Turks. This was how the game began, a struggle of power and competition—a clash of interests that would take many decades to work itself out. While the German hope of fomenting a Holy War against the British failed, England had a little more luck with Lawrence and the Arab uprising. Why did they fight for Britain, Nordhausen wondered? Lawrence believed they were fighting for their independence, yet this war would ignite a nationalist fervor in the Arabs that would burn, unsatisfied, for another century.
The dominoes of history seemed so clear to him now as he reviewed it all in his thoughts. One thing led to another, a line of causality that would end on the island of Palma nearly a century later. The onerous peace imposed upon Germany in the Treaty of Versailles would prove fertile ground for Hitler’s radical views. World War II would result, with its hideous gas chambers, and it would lead to a fervent desire of the oppressed Jews of Europe to seek a homeland of their own in Israel. That the land of Palestine was already occupied by Arabic peoples did not matter. The Western powers had been slicing up the desert and giving it away for years, what harm would there be in making one more slice? Unfortunately, the birth of Israel would leave the Palestinians without a homeland, and the nationalist desires ignited by Lawrence and others would go unfulfilled.
With sudden clarity Nordhausen realized that he was just another soldier in the battle that had been unfolding for decades. Here he was trying to save the world, but whose world, he wondered? The long battle that had begun here in the deserts of the Trans- Jordan would reach a fever pitch in the early 21st century. It would culminate in a climax of terror that would send the slopes of a long unstable volcanic island thundering into the sea—surely an act of God. He was certain that Ra’id Husan al Din and his Holy Fighters would view it that way. They were listening to a different voice whispering in their minds and hearts as they brandished the gleaming edge of a scimitar against the West. It was the will of Allah.
Nordhausen realized that the sword that was even now being drawn from its scabbard in the Arab rebellion of 1917 would eventually cleave the side of that mountain, and spell the doom of the West. He was here to make sure that never happened; to render that stroke as feeble as the pathetic attacks the Arabs mounted against the rails of steel that scored the holy soil of their deserts. In a way, he was just another Lawrence—sent back into the desert to make sure the West had its way in the end. The layers of clothing he wore were a fitting metaphor of what he was about. He was an American, covered in British kit and then wrapped in the robes of a Sheikh—a wolf in sheep’s clothing, to be sure. Now he was worrying that he might meet the other beasts on the prowl in the night—that he might cross paths with Lawrence himself!
He sighed, inwardly realizing that, if he succeeded and they managed to pull him back to his own time again, he could have the satisfaction of reading about the encounter in Lawrence’s Seven Pillars. That notion released him from his reverie with a note of alarm. The more he thought about it, the more risky his mission seemed. Maeve was correct. He knew he had to do everything in his power to avoid contact with a Prime Mover. He would just have to find a way of ditching his Arab guides once he got Minifir in sight. That might end up being a task all on its own. Suppose they insist I follow them? They’re the ones with the gun.
He drew his robes tighter about him, wincing as he stumbled over a loose shale. His heart ached as well, for he was bothered by sudden misgivings about his mission, and the grim realization that it was the West that would always land the final blow. The technology represented by the Arch was absolute power. It was greater than the doings of any man; greater, perhaps, than the labors of a God. It all seemed a bit unfair to him now. He realized that he was a soldier sent from the distant future to ensure the continuation of a way of life—a wolf set loose in the Holy Lands, intent upon preserving the continuum for the West.
He didn’t like being a wolf, he thought. His feet hurt.
MERIDIAN
Part VIII
Pushpoint
“Little drops of water, little grains of sand,
Make the mighty ocean and the pleasant land.
So the little moments, humble though they be.
Make the mighty ages of eternity.”
Julie A. Fletcher-Carney: Little Things
“A little thing comforts us because a little thing afflicts.”
Pascal: Pensées
22
Hejaz Railway - November, 1917
Paul knew he did not have much time. The train was moving slowly, and gathering speed. If the Colonel was waiting for his car to come up from behind he could be at the doorstep any moment. Paul eyed the window at the back of the coach, and crept that way, keeping low. When he reached it he peered over the lip of the window sill, cautiously taking in the gray morning as it painted the tumbled landscape in sallow strokes of hazy light. The sky was still dark and low, with the threat of rain.
He examined the window latch and saw that it would be easy enough to force it open and slip out. What should he do? If he was caught here like this the Colonel was just the sort to shoot first and ask questions later. If he jumped from the moving train at this point he could be hopeless miles away from the ambush at Kilometer 172. That was the key. He remembered working it all through with Maeve. They decided that the best way to try and spare the second train was to get at the wires somehow. If he was to have any chance of doing that he had to get as close as possible to the ambush. How could he remain on board and yet be undetected?
Nordhausen said it was an old locomotive, overburdened, and prone to many stops along the way. If he could hide himself he might have a chance to slip off as they approached Minifir. But he had to make it seem as though he were gone. He moved on an impulse, unfastening the latch and forcing the window open. The sound of the train blew in with the cold morning air. He breathed deeply, suddenly feeling very much alive. He wanted to stay that way, and the adrenaline in his system began to gear him up for the trial ahead.
He stuck his head out of the train and felt the cold mist on his face. He could not see much, but it looked like he could get up on the roof from here. Thankfully, this window was on the opposite side of the train from where the Colonel had exited. What would he think when he returned to his coach and found his prisoner missing? Would he stop the train and begin a search?
Paul realized that it all depended on when the Colonel returned. If he was planning to reach his coach soon, then Paul had no choice and he had to act now. If the Colonel was riding out this segment on another train car, then it would probably be another twenty kilometers before the train would stop again. I want him to think I’ve jumped, he thought. That way he won’t be likely to mount a serious search.
He padded back to the desk, and found the Colonel’s ink pen next to a half filled dipper. He took a leaf of paper from the man’s brief and dipped the pen to write a note on the back… “Good-Bye, Colonel. I’m off to my desert. I hope you enjoy the coffee!” A moment later he was squeezing up through the window, gathering his robes tight about him and grateful for his long, slim build. He was hoping the Colonel was forward on another car.
He won’t stop the train, Paul thought. He’s a man on a mission. There’s another train coming down from Damascus and he has to clear the rail line by at least reaching Deraa before it gets there. Besides, I could be anywhere in a twenty kilometer area for all he would know. A search would take too much of his precious time. No, he’ll just curse me, punish the guards, and move on.
He passed a precarious moment, his body extended out of the window as he strained to gain a hand hold near the roof. He managed it with one arm, then the other, as he slipped up through the window and struggled to pull himself up with as little noise as possible. His boots thumped on the window sill, but he made it. Wind ruffled his lanky frame as he settled onto the roof and stretched
out behind a raised manifold. The guards assigned to his coach were very close, just at the rear of the car on a low porch. Paul squinted into the chill wind, looking ahead to see if there might be a better place where he could conceal himself. If he moved forward he would be farther from these two guards, but he would risk discovery. The noise of the train had masked his movements thus far, but he had been climbing on the roof of an empty car. The cars ahead were probably packed with troops and officers, and someone could easily hear him on the roof if he risked moving.
He decided to let well enough alone, and stay put, lying as low as he could and using the manifold to break the cold wind that washed over his body. There was a wide, shallow groove in the roof, probably a gutter, and he wedged himself into it, trying to conceal as much of his body as possible. It was going to be a miserable ride, he thought, cold and wet when the rains began again. If the guards on the porch saw their Colonel had not returned, would they venture inside the coach to warm themselves? He couldn’t bother himself with all the potential possibilities any longer. He had made his choice, a single cast of the die, and his fate would now have to ride upon it. If I’m discovered, he thought, then I’ll just have to keep my wits about me and hope they don’t shoot me down. Anything I can do to delay, and get myself closer to Kilometer 172, plays in my favor.
Thankfully, circumstances appeared to favor his bold move and he was not immediately discovered. His guess about the Colonel was about to be severely tested. He sensed a gradual slowing of the train, and strained to see ahead, catching the vague shape of a low, squat building complex off to the left. There was a water tower with a wind mill, and a few plain wood buildings.
Meridian - A Novel In Time (The Meridian Series) Page 24
