“Tell him the rest, Sam.”
“The timing is the problem. Gogh thinks the effect will be disrupted, but he isn’t sure of the outcome. He thinks each segment will return to its own time, but he admits there is a chance the explosions will freeze the displaced sections in whatever time they are in. The problem is the oscillations for various locations are different.”
Nick saw where Cannon was going, and a horrible thought formed in his mind. Cannon had been looking Nick in the eye—but now Nick’s expression made the CIA director drop his head to study his shoes.
“Mr. Cannon, have they timed the oscillations in Portland?”
“They’re working on it, but the data from out west is coming in slow. It won’t matter though. They’re going to use the Atlanta oscillations for the timing.”
“They can’t do that.”
“The President can, and he’s ordered it.”
“They could kill everyone in Portland.”
“Elizabeth and I argued that. The President sees it as a lesser of two evils. Lose everyone in all the affected locations, or risk the residents of Portland.”
“He could minimize the risk by waiting for the oscillation analysis.”
Cannon had no heart for arguing the President’s position and slumped back in his chair, just as Elizabeth leaned forward.
“This isn’t about saving anyone but the President’s wife,” she said urgently. “He’s going to time the blast to freeze Atlanta in the present. We think it’s a mistake.”
“It is, it’s a deadly mistake.”
“We want you to come with us. We’re going to talk to the President one more time. We need you to handle Gogh.”
The President was in the Oval office, his back to his desk, staring out the window, his fingers involuntarily twirling a paper clip. Gogh and Natalie Matsuda were there too. As usual, Elizabeth ignored them and took charge of the meeting.
“Mr. President, I think you need to reconsider this plan to bomb Portland.”
The President whirled around in his chair and threw the paper clip onto the desktop; it bounced onto the floor at Elizabeth’s feet.
“Elizabeth, I told you before, we’re not going to bomb Portland! We’re going to detonate nuclear explosions in the distant past to return things to normal. If it works, and I’m confident that it will, Portland, and every other city in this country … and everywhere in the world, will return to normal.”
The President spoke with venom.
“A decision had to be made,” he added, “and I made it. The longer we wait the less chance there will be of it working. Isn’t that right, Arnie?”
“The effect is stabilizing,” Gogh said. “If we don’t act soon, we may lose our only opportunity.”
“What about the timing?” Nick cut in. “How will you time the blast?” The question reduced some of the President’s self-righteousness, and he deferred to Gogh.
“We are timing the explosions with the most accurate data available,” Gogh said crisply.
“Portland data,” Nick offered.
“That is not available. The best available data is from the Southeast.”
“From … ?” Nick prodded.
“From Atlanta!” the President roared. “Is that what you want to hear? I ordered it, I’ll live with it.”
“People may die with it, sir. I’ve been monitoring the debate over Gogh’s plan on the PresNet. There is no support for it.”
The President sank back in his chair and picked up another paper clip.
“There is debate, I know. But what else—”
“We’re only asking you to wait a little longer. Data are coming in rapidly now. We might get the timing information you need.”
The President didn’t answer and wouldn’t look Nick in the eye. Nick glanced at Gogh, but he too turned away. Reluctantly, he handed the Puglisi photo to the President.
“There’s been a new development, sir. The time displacement has been from the past to the future on earth, but on the moon the future comes to the past.” The President’s eyes remained on the paper clip in his hands. “I have evidence something from the future is now on our moon. You can see it in this photo.”
The President looked up at Nick, confusion in his eyes.
“Here, sir. In this crater.”
“We should investigate, sir, before we do anything else. It may be something that helps us.”
Finally the President spoke.
“Investigate with what? The Florida launch facilities are gone. Only two shuttles remain, and they’re strictly close orbit vehicles.”
“This is nothing but a shadow,” Gogh cut in. “This is nonsense, Mr. President. You’ve made the right decision.”
“A rectangular shadow?” Nick protested.
“Not impossible. There is a face shadow on Mars, you know.”
“It should be investigated—”
“Too late,” the President said, and then turned his chair back to the window. He twisted the new paper clip into a crank and began to twirl it furiously. “The decision has been made, and the order has been given.”
Endless PresNet messages scrolled before Nick’s eyes. He had no interest. Gogh’s bombs were on their way—everything else paled in comparison. Images of children playing in Portland streets and people strolling in parks occupied Nick.
The moon photo was tacked on Nick’s bulletin board. The ultimate mystery out of his reach—maybe forever. If Gogh’s plan worked, whatever was in that crater would disappear. If it failed, in a decade maybe, they might be able to explore Flam-steed crater. Guiltily, Nick realized a part of him wanted Gogh to fail.
The computer beeped for his attention, as something he’d requested came across the screen. It was another variation of the Gomez model. Nick looked it over for the differences, but found himself thinking about the beep the computer made. He wondered if he could program it to jangle instead.
64. Landfall
We were out on the ice trying to free the Terra Nova. Suddenly the pack of killer whales attacked. They smashed their backs against the ice trying to knock us into the water. Such was their power that the ice exploded, showering us with fragments. We were lucky to scramble to more solid ice.
—Captain Robert Falcon Scott, January 5, 1911
West of Naples, Florida
PostQuilt: Wednesday, 1:20 P.M. EST
Patty’s crimson trail steamed into the distance as far as Ron could see. She was losing massive amounts of blood, yet she kept swimming. Her breathing was labored and she was wheezing, and Ron regretted the burden he and his family were to her. Still, they had no choice but to stay.
No one had slept since Pat had been killed, but weak from thirst and hunger, they sat quietly on Patty’s back, with no energy for talking. Ron had no desire to sleep, fearful of the nightmares Pat’s grisly death might generate.
Ron sat up and looked behind him again for signs the orcas were following. Pat was surely enough to fill the killer whale pack, Ron assured himself, but looked anyway. There was no sign of the pack. Ron looked ahead and got a shock—he could see land,
“Look! We made it! We made it!”
The others roused themselves and looked past Patty’s head to the thin line of brown along the shore. Hidden reservoirs of energy were released and the Tubmans cheered and hugged one another.
“Good old Patty,” Rosa said, leaning down to rub her sides. “I’m so sorry about Pat.”
The family watched the shore creep closer, Ron estimating the spot where they could make it to shore in case something happened to Patty. Carmen turned to Ron, her mouth open to speak, but said nothing. She was staring past him to the sea. Ron turned to see a flock of birds in the distance. It took him a moment to understand the importance. The orca pack was following.
Looking back to shore Ron realized it would be close. The kids picked up on their parents’ looks and were soon as worried as Ron and Carmen.
“They’re coming, Dad.”
“I
know, Chris. But we’re close to shore.” Ron didn’t add they weren’t close enough. “We can swim if we have to.” Chris didn’t look reassured.
Soon the flock was close enough to make out individual birds, but the shore remained despairingly far. Suddenly the sleek form of a killer whale leapt from the water and splashed the Tubmans. There were no other whales in sight, but Ron knew the others would be there soon. The whale breached again, by Patty’s head, and she bleated from fear. Then the whale leapt across her path and Patty heeled over, nearly throwing her passengers into the sea.
Ron feared she would be driven off course, but quickly she came around again. The orca leapt again, but this time Patty wouldn’t be driven off. Two more tries, and two more failures, then the orca gave up and simply swam alongside, waiting.
Now the flock was nearly overhead, and they could see the fins of the pursuing whales. They split into two groups, one coming up on each side.
“Hang on, everybody.”
The family flattened, ready for the attack. Just as before the orcas went for the legs.
Patty’s shudder announced the first blow, and her scream the second. The orcas angled in, diving deep and then jetting up, attacking Patty’s dangling legs. The blows continued, and soon Patty was streaming blood from all four limbs. Still she strug-gled toward the nearing shore.
Three blows in quick succession rocked Patty, and she rolled to the right, nearly tossing the family, before she righted. Patty lost all sense of direction and swam aimlessly for a few minutes, and then turned toward shore again.
It was close now; Ron could make out buildings behind the beach. “Come on, Patty!” Ron whispered. “You can make it.”
The whales picked up the attack, sensing the nearing shore. Quivering silently now with the blows, Patty continued her struggle. The water was red now, not pink, but still she swam. Then an orca hit her undulating neck, severing an artery. When the neck cleared the surface between waves blood spurted from the wound. In a few minutes her head began to sag, and her body listed to the right.
“Time to get off?”
Ron asked, rather than ordered. Carmen hesitated briefly, looking at the crimson water and then the attacking orcas.
“All right, kids,” Carmen announced. “Down the side.”
The kids didn’t hesitate. Rosa checked the catches on her life jacket, folded her left arm across her chest, and then slid down Patty’s side into the water. She pushed herself a few feet away and waited for Chris. Patty was still swimming, and Rosa was falling behind. Carmen checked Chris’s life jacket and then pushed him down the side. Rosa immediately swam to Chris and began towing him away from Patty’s bloody wake.
Carmen turned to Ron and held out her hand. Ron took it and smiled.
“For better or worse, isn’t that what we said?” Ron asked.
“You should have been more specific,” Carmen responded, then slid down, pulling Ron down after her. They were still swimming when Patty’s screams started again, and kept on until they were outside what they considered the orca’s circle. They finally stopped, exhausted. They were completely spent, and the adults hung on to the kids’ life jackets to keep their heads above water.
Patty swam slowly in circles, suffering the constant attacks of the orcas. They could see her shudder with every piece of flesh torn from her body. Shortly she fell silent and rolled over in the sea, her head disappearing into the waves. Her blood slowly diffused through the water, and soon the Tubmans were swimming away, fearing the orcas, but also sharks and other predators.
The family swam for shore, under a canopy of screeching seabirds. They were coated with Patty’s blood and left a pink trail of their own, and Ron worried something might follow it. Slowly the waves washed them clean and Ron switched to worrying about making it to the beach. It was there, tantalizingly close, but they had little strength.
They lost speed with each stroke, and soon were doing only a slow crawl. Without life jackets, Ron and Carmen struggled through the waves. Ron found he didn’t have the strength to ride the waves, and they began breaking over him. Each time he went under it took longer to come up.
Ron popped to the surface to see Chris well ahead of him, Rosa right behind. Carmen was to his right. As he watched, a wave caught the kids and washed them toward shore, pushing them well ahead. They would make it, he knew—he didn’t know about himself and Carmen. Ron relaxed between waves, then stroked furiously, trying to catch a wave and bodysurf in. Without enough speed, the waves kept washing over him.
Ron was semiconscious when he felt hands pulling him. Rosa and Chris dragged him through the surf, then dropped him in the shallows. Ron crawled the rest of the way to shore and turned to see the kids helping Carmen out of the surf. Soon they were lying side by side on the warm sand, thankful to be alive.
The joy of survival renewed Ron’s strength, and he pushed himself into a sitting position. The remains of a shattered dock littered the beach and a parking lot. Behind that was what was left of a small town—it had been hit by a tidal wave.
“Come on, everyone,” Ron urged. “Let’s find something to drink.”
“And eat,” Rosa added.
“Do they have a McDonald’s?” Chris asked.
Then a bloody wave washed over them and they hunkered down to keep from being sucked back to sea. Turning, Ron saw Patty thrashing in the surf. She struggled to get what was left of her legs under her and stand. Weak from blood loss, she couldn’t lift her long neck, and only her head was held above the waves.
“You can make it, Patty!” Rosa yelled.
“Yeah, you can make it!” came Chris’s echo.
But she couldn’t. The orcas hit her again from the oceanside and Patty staggered through the waves and then fell onto her side, washing the family with another bloody wave. Her head came up out of the water briefly, then slipped below the surface for the last time.
Hoping she would recover, they stood silently and watched for a long time. Then Carmen took charge and turned them toward the remains of the town. Ron looked back at the mound resting in the sea and felt sadness, as if he’d lost a family member. She’d saved his family, but he could do nothing for her or poor Pat. He regretted that, but it also made him cherish his own family more. Stepping closer to Rosa he said, “Well, Rosa, how do you like sailing?”
Rosa turned and smiled, then reached out and took his hand.
65. Magic Mountain
Early one morning, a young woman looked through the mist to see a herd of buffalo approach. Then an opening appeared in the mountain and inside she could see the world as fresh and green as it once had been. The buffalo walked into the opening, and the mountain closed behind them.
—Kiowa legend
The I-5 Mountain, Oregon
PostQuilt: Wednesday, 11:32 A.M. PST
Kyle needed a bath and a night’s sleep. Instead, he found himself staring up the sheer face of a mountain, preparing to climb into the unknown. Kyle had listened to the stories of the I-5 mountain with mild interest. He liked a mystery as well as the next person … until it involved him. And it involved him when the little girl had been carried up the mountain by the bird-thing.
The state police had taken charge at the mountain and were trying to send trapped motorists back down I-5. Many of the motorists were resisting, however, preferring to stay and watch the drama with the little girl unfolding. The congested traffic had dissolved a little, but it still meant driving up the median. To Kyle, the mountain looked like a scene from Disneyland. Right where the freeway should continue was a tall rock mountain, surrounded by boulders and a small meadow. Hundreds of people milled around the clearing, radiating fear and excitement in the air. Kyle half-expected to see hot dog vendors.
“It looks like a carnival,” Shirley whispered.
“It looks like the Twilight Zone,’ ” Kyle responded.
A state police officer named Murphy was giving orders and greeted Kyle and the other climbers. He talked directly to Kyle, i
gnoring Shirley and the others.
“Thanks for coming. You can see the situation,” Murphy said. “We got no idea where this sucker came from,” he said, jerking his thumb toward the mountain, “and no way of getting up the damn thing. The little girl makes noises once in a while, so we’re pretty sure she’s still alive. We’ve tried climbing up, but we can get only about a third of the way. Can’t get good footholds.”
“What about this bird that picked up the little girl?” Kyle asked. “Not many birds could do that.”
“You got that right,” Murphy assured him. “It was a big sucker for sure. Had wings fifteen or twenty feet across. Funny thing though, it seemed to have trouble picking up that little girl. Like it didn’t have much strength. Witnesses said it kind of floated her up.”
“What kind of bird was it?” Shirley asked.
“They said it was a diseased condor. Didn’t have any feathers, but it was too big to be anything but a condor.”
Shirley shook her head in disbelief. How could a diseased, featherless condor fly?
“Where’s the bird now?” Kyle asked.
“Shot. Probably dead. Fell down behind those rocks up there with the little girl. Christy, her name is—no, Chrissy.” Murphy pointed to an outcropping a few hundred feet up the mountain.
“Probably dead, or dead?” Kyle asked.
“Haven’t heard the bird for a while. Not since the other one left.”
“Other one?” Kyle probed.
“Where’s the mother?” Shirley cut in. Murphy pointed to a woman sitting on a blanket in the clearing, surrounded by people. Two men with guns were standing nearby. Shirley walked off toward the mother.
Kyle waited until she was out of earshot. “Other one?” he repeated.
“Yeah. There’s another one. Every once in a while it floats out over the peak of the mountain. It came down low at first, but we scared it off with shots. It doesn’t come down anymore. We figure it’s the mate. Probably gave up when the other one died. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. If it comes back while you’re climbing, we’ll give you cover fire.”
Footprints of Thunder Page 48
