by Steven Gould
There was the too-familiar flash of light and two inches of an M-16 barrel landed on the dirt floor of the tunnel.
We stood there, frozen for a second, staring at the dead end of the tunnel. Finally, Rick took a pencil from his pocket and slid it into the hot piece of barrel, police procedural style. He held it up.
“Too close.”
I nodded. “Maybe we should just give in? I didn’t think they’d push so hard.”
He looked wistful for a moment, considering it. “No. We’re only guilty of having something they want.” He flipped the pencil and the piece of barrel flew down the tunnel to land among the debris from my gate device. He looked back at me. “But if we give them any more chances at the gate, somebody is going to die.”
None of us ate well.
Clara spread her sleeping bag in the corner, next to Impossible, tethered to the wall. Impossible was eating horse feed from Clara’s saddlebags and a bit of hay. Unbeknownst to me she’d moved several bales in from the barn that morning before the army arrived.
Marie and Joey put their bags together on the far side of the hangar, between the Coyote and the wall. My tightly rolled-up bag was still sitting on the plywood table with the video monitors. I was cleaning the dinner dishes with boiled creek water hauled up for that purpose. Rick was listening to his Walkman and staring at nothing.
I was wondering what was happening on the other side, both at the ranch, wherever Luis was, and out in the world, where our countermeasures were in motion. I was also wondering where Rick was going to put his sleeping bag, wondering whether or not I should put my bag near Clara. I had mixed feelings about it. I wasn’t sure how welcome I’d be. I wasn’t sure how Rick would take it if I was welcome. In a flash of paranoia I also wondered if I should sleep between the others and the gate, lest one of them open it while I slept.
Clara solved the problem by coming over to the table, picking up my bag, and taking it back to her corner.
Rick looked at me and shrugged. He took the earphones off his head and said, “She’s like that. Get used to it.” He picked up his sleeping bag and unrolled it at the back, beneath the ladder to the control tower. His face was a mask, but there was anger and hurt in his voice.
We spent the night in darkness—the generator made too much noise, even in its insulated cabinet, to make sleeping comfortable with it on.
Clara and I held each other, nestled like spoons, fully clothed. We didn’t discuss it—she’d zipped our bags together, but only took off her shoes before slipping inside. Her hair tickled my face and halfway through the night I rolled over, only to feel her arms go around me and her body press warm and soft against my back.
She woke up in the cold light of morning to take Impossible out to graze. Shivering, I followed her forty minutes later with breakfast—a fried egg sandwich and coffee.
“You angel!” She kissed me enthusiastically.
“Is it me or the food?”
“Don’t ask. Not before I eat.” She bit into the sandwich.
“Whoa—let me get my fingers out of the way.”
After she ate, she had me watch Impossible while she dealt with his corner in the hangar, shoveling up the manure and urine-soaked dirt and carrying it outside. Then we put Impossible back in the hangar.
The others were up by then—we left the hangar door open for light and I sat on a folding chair in front of the Maule with my shotgun handy while they went about dressing, washing, and feeding themselves.
I could see a small group of buffalo in the distance; snow-white cattle egrets dotted the grass around them and perched on their backs. As the sun rose higher, more and more birds rose from the grass—doves from trees, quail from the grass, cranes moving toward the river, and hawks, high above them all until they stooped, so to speak, to conquer.
Clara joined me, holding two cups, tea for me and coffee for her. She sat on the ground and leaned against my knees. I touched her hair softly, like one might touch a wild thing, trying not to scare it into flight. She pushed her head against my hand and I swallowed convulsively.
“What’s that?” she asked, pointing skyward.
I looked. High, even higher than the hawks, a large black bird circled lazily. I squinted my eyes.
“It’s got the spread pinion feathers like a turkey buzzard, but it’s so big.” I handed her the shotgun and went to the Maule for binoculars. The bird resolved itself into a large buzzardlike creature, but instead of the red-wrinkled head, the skin was yellow and red and there was a white patch of feathers on each of the wings.
“My god, it’s a condor.”
Clara took the binoculars from me. “A California condor? Is it lost?”
“No. This was part of the historical range…per the fossil record. I just never saw one before—I wonder how many there are? I mean, there are fewer than eight in the wild on the tame side and every one of them was born in captivity.”
The condor dipped sharply, spun, and then rose again, one, two, three flaps of impossibly long wings before it resumed gliding. Clara sighed, her eyes locked to the binoculars. “I hope there are millions.”
I nodded, then realized she wouldn’t see that. “Yes, let there be millions.”
We’d waited until midday to take a snapshot of the other side. We’d stayed in the hangar, peeking around the edges of the tunnel entrance. After the last encounter I didn’t know what to expect, but I didn’t want to take any chances.
A bullet could make it through the gate while it was open.
We narrowed the aperture—the time the gate was open—by splitting the operation. I counted, “One, two, three, four, five.” On the count of four, Joey opened the gate with his control and on five I shut it with mine. It practically blinked. Then we went to the video recorders to see what we’d gotten.
Maybe I was still shaky from the attack the night before—maybe not. I felt my knees buckle, though, when I saw the image on the video monitor, and I staggered, catching the table’s edge to steady myself.
Clara asked, “Charlie, what’s the matter? Oh—”
The video image on screen, flickering from the video-pause, showed a single figure in front of the gate. He was seated on a folding camp stool to one side of the tunnel and reading a newspaper, his back straight and unsupported. Beside him on the rail was a Styrofoam cup. If it wasn’t empty, the cup held coffee, black, with artificial sweetener.
I knew, because that was what my father drank.
“Now what the hell does that mean?” said Rick.
My father was the only one visible—the rest of the tunnel was empty. The hole in the floor they’d dug for their attack was still there but uncovered and empty, I guess as a demonstration of good faith. The doors to the barn at the end of the tunnel were shut, but the video cameras were still there and the little red LED record lights were on.
“What do we do now, Charlie?” asked Joey.
He was still wearing his flight uniform, something I hadn’t noticed from the video, though his hat was someplace else. He’d put the paper down and was looking at the gate when it opened. He flinched and I was pleasantly surprised. My unflappable father was surprised.
“They told me what to expect, but I didn’t really believe it.” He stood slowly. “What have you done, Charlie?”
I was standing there with a handheld VHF radio in my hand. From outside I could hear the distant sound of the Maule’s engine. Rick, Joey, and Marie were waiting in it and listening to the radio. Clara, much to my distress, had saddled Impossible and was waiting on the hill at the back of the hangar. She was also listening—at least that was the plan.
Joey had both controls to the gate.
My eyes shifted everywhere, looking for soldiers to drop out of the ceiling, or step out of the walls—even explode out of the bale of hay. My knuckles were white where I held down the transmit button on the radio. If I stopped transmitting, Joey was to shut the gate.
“Please step across the terminus, Dad.”
He tilted his head. “I’ve been sitting here looking at a sign which threatens death and dismemberment. I’m not sure I want to risk it.”
My voice became a little more strident. “I’m shutting the gate, Dad. If we’re both on the same side, we can talk.”
“Why not just leave it open? What’s wrong with that?”
“I don’t know what they’ve told you, but they probably didn’t mention the part where they held a gun to my head and threatened to kill me.”
His eyes narrowed and he looked back over his shoulder. His voice flattened. “No. They didn’t say anything about that.” He stepped forward.
When he was standing beside me I said, “Close it, Joey.” Then, to make doubly sure, I released the transmit button.
Dad turned his head in time to see the dead-end tunnel replace the tame side. He was very slow in turning back to me.
Clara’s voice came back over the radio. “Everything okay, Charlie?”
My dad looked at the radio and raised his eyebrows. I lifted the radio to my mouth but waited to thumb the transmit button as I studied Dad’s face. He met my gaze, then said, “Don’t ask me—I don’t have the faintest idea what’s going on.”
I hit the button. “It’s okay. Uh, stand down.”
“Stand down” was the phrase we’d agreed upon. The one that meant I wasn’t transmitting under duress. I certainly didn’t say “Things are good.” That meant run like hell.
“This way, Dad.” I led him out to the hangar, picked up my shotgun from the rack, and asked him to help me open the hangar door.
His head swiveled from side to side, from the Coyote to the gun rack, to the scene revealed by the opening door. His mouth kept opening, as if to ask a question, and then he’d shut it. But I knew he wasn’t skipping the questions—he was just making a list, and I knew he wouldn’t let go of any of them until he had answers—satisfactory answers—to every question.
Clara arrived first, and for a moment I forgot my father was there.
She rode around the corner of the building at a canter, her hands still, steering Impossible by seat and leg alone. Her survival gear was strapped to the saddle behind her and she’d rigged a saddle holster for her shotgun. I knew her saddlebags were full of feed.
She was wearing jeans, riding sneakers, and her equipment harness. Her hair, short in the middle of summer, now blew around her face. Her breasts rose and fell to the rhythm of the horse’s gait.
I took a deep breath of air and exhaled sharply.
Clara sat back in the saddle and Impossible dropped back to a walk and then stopped. I took Clara’s shotgun while she dismounted.
“How are you, Captain Newell?” she asked.
Dad shook his head sharply. “Confused.” He’d pulled up the collar of his uniform jacket against the chill.
The Maule turned the corner formed by the crossing of the runways and the engine noise became too loud for talk. Impossible started shying from the noise, and Clara took him inside before the Maule got too close. Marie swung the Maule around so it was facing out and shut down by the numbers. Rick and Joey got out and used the screw-in tie-downs to secure the plane.
To stall, I said, “I thought you were on the DFW-Salt Lake-Seattle run until Sunday.”
“They delayed our takeoff at Salt Lake and had us put back into the gate. I was met by a man from the Defense Intelligence Agency and a replacement pilot from the airline. They put me on a Learjet into Easterwood and a Blackhawk helicopter out to here. They didn’t want me to call your mother and I guess I didn’t really want to until I knew what you’d gotten into.”
“Um, excuse me a second,” I said, and used the tractor to pull the fuel trailer over to the Maule.
We topped off the tanks, put the fuel trailer back, and then trooped back inside.
My dad walked with us to the plywood table that held the video monitors, then said, “I take it there wasn’t a summer internship.” He leaned forward slightly and crossed his arms. I could tell by the tone of his voice and his body language that his list of questions had gotten long enough.
My shoulders slumped, and I thrust my hands deep into my flight jacket pockets. I didn’t say anything for a moment, weighing the possible answers, then settled on saying, “No.”
“How long has this been going on?” he asked next.
I winced and looked away. Automatically, I’d translated his question into “How long have you been lying to me?” It took a major effort to turn back. I cleared my throat. “I discovered the gateway last year, in the late fall. I brought the others into it at the end of the school year. When we sold the pigeons.”
“The pigeons.” He paused. “The passenger pigeons.”
I nodded.
He took a deep breath. “That man, uh, Mr. Bestworst?”
I laughed—I couldn’t help it. “Is that what he told you his name was?”
Dad stared at me, frowning. “That’s what he said, yes.”
“I gave him that name. When I first asked him who he was he said he was my best friend or worst enemy. I shortened it to Bestworst. Did he show you any ID?”
“No. I assumed he was DIA, like the guy who met the plane.” He digested that for a moment.
“So they’re doing this completely in the black. That’s not good.”
“Anyway, Bestworst told me about the pigeons. I’d seen the news coverage, but I thought it had to be a hoax or maybe somebody had been raising them in captivity these last eighty years, in secret. I certainly didn’t expect it to be you. Why the pigeons?”
“We needed the money,” I said. “For operations. Aircraft, fuel, supplies, salaries, training.”
“Operations?” His voice rose and he blinked, then gritted his teeth, visibly pulling himself back.
More calmly he said, “What kind of operations? I guess I mean, what is this place? When is this place? Bestworst said things…”
“About a time machine?” asked Clara.
“Well, yes. He said one extinct species was bad enough, but four was excessive.”
It was my turn to be surprised. “Four?”
“Two species of microscopic insect in the feathers and an intestinal parasite. They have microfossils of the mites but they don’t exist today—well, not over there.” He tilted his head toward the tunnel. “Ditto for the intestinal worm.”
“It’s not a time machine,” said Clara. “It’s an alternate earth, but one without humans.”
That took some explaining and I let the guys handle it, sitting back, kind of numb. Dad seemed to take it well, even when Clara talked about mammoths, saber-toothed tigers, and California condors.
“So that’s what this place is. Now what kind of operations are you talking about?”
I stirred. “Aerial surveys. Creating landing fields and fuel depots. Gold mining.”
“Gold mining.” He stared at me with unblinking eyes. “Near here?”
I shook my head. “No. The Colorado Rockies—Cripple Creek.”
“Can you open the gate to there?”
I shook my head. “We fly it.”
“That’s seven hundred miles.”
“Six hundred and ninety-four nautical miles,” supplied Rick.
“Who flies it? What do you do about the weather? What range does your Maule have? What about your maintenance? Do you know how dangerous that is?” His voice rose with each question.
My shoulders hunched farther down with each question. Finally, I held up my hand and began counting off on my fingers. “We all fly it. We’re all IFR qualified. We have to do our own meteorology so we’re conservative. All our landing fields have AM beacons. The Maule could barely do the distance one way but we don’t have to. We have several fuel stops between here and Cripple Creek. As far as maintenance goes, Marie and I have Airframe and Power tickets, and we’re conservative there, too.” I took a deep breath. “And yes, we know how dangerous it is. We had a forced landing early on.”
He opened his mouth and shut it. Then he dro
pped into a chair and slumped. “Jesus.” He stared blankly ahead, envisioning God-knows-what horrors. Finally he muttered, “I’m too old for this. I have a lot of apologizing to do to your grandfather.”
I stared at him, mystified.
He shrugged. “Before you were born I flew two tours in Vietnam. I had had two aircraft go down under me—one weather, one antiaircraft fire. He said that’s when his hair turned white.”
“Ohhhhhhh.”
“Gold mining.” He shook his head. “Get any?”
I kept my face straight. “Four hundred and fifty.”
“Dollars? You risked your lives for 450 measly dollars?”
“Pounds. Four hundred and fifty pounds. Actually, 5432 troy ounces.”
I guess he didn’t have any reaction left to give. “And in dollars?”
Joey said helpfully, “Approximately 2.148 million…going by Monday’s closing market price.”
“Oh.” He was silent for a moment—then smiled slightly. “I can see why you wanted to take those risks.” The smile dropped off his face and he said, “Now tell me about Mr. Bestworst and his friends from Fort Bragg.”
Dad and I waited in the hangar, by the video table.
I’d shown him the videos of our encounters with Captain Moreno’s men and the conversations with Bestworst, finishing up with the Bestworst’s trigger man—the man from the hole in the tunnel floor. He was not amused. “What do they think this is, Waco?”
Marie’s voice came out of the VHF radio in my hand. “We’re in position, Charlie.” Marie, Joey, and Rick were in the Maule outside, the engine idling, pointed into the wind and ready to rip. Clara waited with Impossible, on the hill. We’d also fueled up the Coyote and left it around the corner, on the north leg of runway 015.
Dad was going to try and talk to Bestworst’s superiors. “He’s way out of bounds, here. This operation stinks, and I really wonder if he has any authorization from above.”
