by Mayer, Bob
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2015 Bob Mayer
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North, Seattle
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ISBN-13: 9781503946637
ISBN-10: 1503946630
Cover design by Jason Blackburn
“The only reason for time is so that everything doesn’t happen at once.”
—Albert Einstein
WHERE THE TIME PATROL ENDED UP THIS PARTICULAR DAY
BEFORE THE TIME PATROL ENDED UP THERE AND THEN
EVEN BEFORE THEN: THE DISTANT PAST
THE POSSIBILITY PALACE, HEADQUARTERS, TIME PATROL
THE PRESENT; OUR TIMELINE
THE POSSIBILITY PALACE, HEADQUARTERS, TIME PATROL
EARTH, OUR EARTH, THE PRESENT
IN THE PAST: PART ONE
THE PRESENT; OUR TIMELINE
IN THE PAST: PART TWO
THE PRESENT; OUR TIMELINE
IN THE PAST: PART THREE
THE POSSIBILITY PALACE, HEADQUARTERS, TIME PATROL
IN THE PAST: PART FOUR
WHAT WAS THOUGHT TO BE THE HEADQUARTERS OF THE TIME PATROL
IN THE PAST: PART FIVE
THE SPACE BETWEEN
AFTERMATH
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MORE WORLDS TO EXPLORE
ALSO BY BOB MAYER
ON MAPS OF OLD, THOSE BLANK SPACES BEYOND THE KNOWN WORLD WERE MARKED: HERE THERE BE MONSTERS.
Off the East Coast of England, 999 AD. 29 October
Roland was ready for battle, a sword in his hand rather than a machine gun, but the general concept was the same: fell deeds awakening against the forces of darkness.
And here be the monster as a thick, ropy tentacle lunged up out of the water. At the tip was a mouth fringed with sharp teeth, snapping, searching for flesh. It hit one of the Vikings directly into the chest, the teeth boring deep. The man slashed at the creature with his sword even as he died.
The Viking leader was fast to the defense with Roland at his side, almost as fast. They battled desperately as more tentacles came out of the water. Roland sliced through one, stomping down with his leather boot on the snapping end, crushing the teeth. To his right, another Viking was lifted into the air, tentacle wrapped around his chest. The unfortunate warrior was pulled down into the black water, disappearing. The man never cried out in terror or for help, swinging his sword even as he was taken into darkness. It was the way a Viking should be taken, weapon in hand, guaranteeing a place in the hall of Valhalla.
If such a place exists.
But warriors need to believe in something beyond themselves, whether it be country, flag, unit, comrades, or Valhalla.
Neeley had told Roland of these creatures, the kraken.
He was elated to finally meet one.
Roland jabbed the point of his sword directly into the mouth end of a tentacle, right between the teeth, as it came straight for him. The sword went in and then farther in, the teeth snapping down on the steel, getting closer and closer to his hand, finally stopping at the cross-shaped haft before the tentacle pulled back, dripping gore.
It is 999 AD. The last year before the turn of the first millennium anno Domini. In another part of the world, the Samanid Dynasty, encompassing parts of Iraq and Afghanistan, ceases to exist after crumbling under an invasion from the north. Not for the first time and not for the last time, that region of the world is convulsed in conflict. Across the sea to the west of England, Christianity is being officially adopted in Iceland. Gerbert of Aurillac becomes Pope Silvester II, succeeding Pope Gregory V. He is the first French pope and introduces the western world to the decimal system using Arabic numbers. He would thus be accused of studying magical arts and astrology in Islamic cities, with charges that he was a sorcerer in league with the devil.
Some things change; some don’t.
And here, on a Viking longship, Roland was facing creatures of legend while on a mission whose objective he wasn’t exactly certain of. But he had a shield and a sword and he was in the company of fierce warriors in the midst of a battle.
Roland was at home.
Los Angeles, California, 1969. 29 October
Shifting her focus, Scout caught her reflection in the mirror and grimaced. Her hair was brown, very brown, with no colored streaks, because the hair-streaking business was still in the future. She had a part in the middle. Most unattractive and nondescript. But one did have to fit in. Her thin little peasant top revealed she was braless, but her breasts were small, so no issue there.
So. She was a feminist. Victoria’s Secret was still a few decades down the road too and maybe braless was the way to go until someone thought up a pretty bra. She checked the waistband of her low-riding jeans and sighed. Yep. Cotton bikini panties. Gross, but thongs were as far off as pretty bras. And thus is the place of underwear in history, she thought.
The sacrifices she made for her duty.
It is 1969. The first man walks on the moon. Joe Namath leads the Jets to a shocking Super Bowl win. The first Led Zeppelin album is released. Faced with pressing needs from the Vietnam War, the first draft lottery since World War II is held. Nixon becomes president. A teenager in St. Louis dies of an undiagnosed disease and it would be fifteen years before it’s realized he was the first confirmed death from AIDS in the United States. The Beatles are photographed crossing Abbey Road. Scooby-Doo airs for the first time. And Monty Python’s Flying Circus. Fourteen men, nine of them Jews, are executed in Baghdad for spying for Israel. Woodstock.
Some things change; some don’t.
As she went toward the door of the small room, it also occurred to Scout that this was the era of free love, which Scout doubted was ever free.
But still. She was only here for a day and then she would be gone.
Scout had a strange feeling. It took her a moment to recognize it: excitement. This could be interesting.
She was sure her mother wouldn’t approve of the feeling or the thought.
London, England, 1618. 29 October
Mac shivered as much from the night air as the pronouncement of the pending execution.
The Lord Chief Justice took a step forward. “Sir Walter Raleigh, you must remember yourself; you had an honorable trial, and so were justly convicted; and it were wisdom in you now to submit yourself.
“I pray you attend what I shall say unto you. I am here called to grant execution upon the judgment given you fifteen years since; all which time you have been as a dead man in the law, and might at any minute have been cut off, but the King in mercy spared you. You might think it heavy if this were done in cold blood, to call you to execution; but it is not so, for new offenses have stirred up His Majesty’s justice, to remember to revive what the law had formerly cast upon you. I know you have been valiant and wise, and I doubt not but you retain both these virtues, for now you shall have occasion to use them. Your Faith has heretofore been questioned, but I am resolved you are a good Christian, for your book, which is an admirable work, does testify as much. I would give you counsel, but I know you can apply unto yourself far better than I am able to give you.”
Raleigh’s head drooped down, the messy hair falling over his face and mostly hiding it. But Mac
caught the hint of a smile on Raleigh’s face through the hair.
The Lord Chief Justice continued. “Fear not death too much, nor fear death too little; not too much, lest you fail in your hopes; not too little, lest you die presumptuously. And here I must conclude with my prayers to God for it, and that he would have mercy on your soul.” He paused, and then announced: “Execution is granted and will be carried out later today.”
As the guards stepped up next to Raleigh to escort him away, he lifted his head and looked at the man next to Mac. “Will you be present at the show later this morning, Lord Beeston?”
“I hope so,” Beeston said. “If I can find a place in the crowd.”
Raleigh smiled. “I do not know what you may do for a place. You must make what shift you can. But for my part, I am sure of having a place.”
The guy had guts, Mac had to grant him that.
And with that, Raleigh was hustled away.
Beeston edged close by Mac’s side and spoke in a low voice. “You are here to help save him. Say the word is yes. I will lend my sword to yours, as will those who have gathered. Surely history cannot allow such a man to suffer this fate. It is not in the prophecy.”
It was also not stated as a question to Mac.
Mac looked at the old man, well dressed for the time period, sporting a wig that didn’t quite hide his baldness. He had a wicked rapier scar slashing across his left cheek, a piece of nose missing, and a gash ending above the right side of his mouth. The wound had not healed well. And his eyes glittered, in which Mac recognized the confidence of a fellow warrior.
Nope, Mac thought, I’m not here to save him.
It is 1618. The Thirty Years’ War, one of the longest and most destructive conflicts in European history, begins when two Catholic lord regents are thrown out of a window in Prague; they land unharmed. Pluto reaches its aphelion, coming closest to the sun, and will not do so again until 1866 and then 2113. Kepler discovers harmonics law. The Truce of Deulino ends the Polish-Muscovite War, until it resumes fourteen years later.
Some things change; some don’t.
But then the question Mac pondered was: Why was he here?
Andes Mountains, Argentina, 1972. 29 October
Moms had done a lot of hunting in her time, but she’d never seen a track like this. Large, over six inches wide by sixteen inches long. Almost human shaped, but different. “What made that? What did we shoot?” Moms asked.
“A monster,” Correa said. “We did not kill it, as you could tell. It has gone off to nurse its wounds. It has had many names, in many lands. Yeti in the Himalayas. Abominable Snowman. Sasquatch. Bigfoot. Ts’emekwes among the Native Americans of the Pacific Northwest. Here in the Amazon and Andes it has been called Mono Grande, or Large Monkey.” He shrugged. “I prefer Yeti. Much simpler.” He slid the FN FAL rifle onto his shoulder. He coughed, hard, for several moments, turning partly away from Moms and bending over.
“Are you all right?”
“A touch of the flu,” Correa said, straightening up. “Nothing to worry about.”
Moms didn’t care for the cold. Early in her career she’d served in a Special-Ops unit that was oriented toward Winter Warfare training. That meant she was prepared, which was both a good thing and a bad thing. It was good that she knew what she was doing here at 13,000 feet in the Andes in the middle of the fall.
It was bad in that she’d learn to hate being cold.
It is 1972. According to Coordinated Universal Time (UTC), this is the longest year ever, with two leap seconds added. The Nightstalkers close a Rift near Hoover Dam. Nick Ut takes his Pulitzer Prize winning photo of a naked nine-year-old Vietnamese girl running after being bombed by napalm. A Japanese soldier is discovered hiding on Guam, twenty-eight years after the end of World War II. A Serbian flight attendant survives a fall of 33,000 feet in the tail section of a plane that explodes midflight. The Godfather is released. Nixon orders Haiphong Harbor mined. Watergate. Atari releases Pong. The last manned moon mission, Apollo 17, is launched. We’ve never been back.
Some things change; some don’t.
Her mission had just begun, and already Moms had battled a creature of legend.
Nothing but good times ahead.
Not.
Eglin Air Force Base, Florida, 1980. 29 October
“Lots of history at that there airfield,” Hammersmith told Eagle, while pointing with the end of a twig at the triangle of runways on the map. “March of ’42, ole Doolittle hisself brought his raiders there. Trained them to take off in a short distance, just like they was gonna do the next month off the Hornet when they bombed Japan. Can still see tire marks where they burned rubber on the tarmac, cranking those old birds to full power, then releasing the brakes. Those marks have lasted longer than the men who made them.
“Then right after the Big War, they tested some flying bombs they copied off the German V-1, launching them in this field, here, off the airstrip. Abandoned now, but some rusting launchers are still there. Use them as objectives sometimes for the students. Those old-timers used Nazi scientists for that ’cause after the war, the Russkies were the enemy. Kinda strange ain’t it, how yesterday’s enemy is today’s buddy, eh?” He didn’t wait for an answer and Eagle began to suspect there was more to Hammersmith than his first impression. “Airfield been abandoned for a long time though.” He looked up at Eagle. “Until lately. Been off-limits for a bit.”
“So,” Eagle finally said, “you’re my contact.”
“Yeah. Surprised, ain’t you, son? Takes all kinds to keep the timeline ticking. I ain’t gonna ask you when you come from. I don’t want to know dick about the future. That would fuck with my head and my head’s already kinda fucked up. I done two tours in ’Nam and sometimes I don’t think so straight. And I know you’re here only for twenty-four hours, so let’s not be dicking around. Let’s get this done. I don’t suppose you know what this is about?”
“You know what’s happening at Wagner Field?”
“Yeah. They’re testing a modified C-130 for short landings and takeoffs. Almost Doolittle like, which I kind of find interesting. I gotta assume it’s got something to do with the cluster fuck in the desert back in April. Know some fellows from the Battalion who were in on that. So maybe we’re going to be trying again? And you’re here to make sure that happens.”
The last sentence was said not as a question, and that was enough warning for Eagle to keep the details of today’s history from Hammersmith.
“Sort of,” Eagle said.
“Fuck me to tears,” Hammersmith said, and Eagle could only think of Nada saying the same thing, so many times. The Ranger Instructor was no fool.
“We gotta stop it, don’t we?”
Okay, Eagle had seriously underestimated the Time Patrol agent. “Yes.”
Hammersmith was silent for several long seconds. “Then that’s the mission.” A soldier accepting his duty. “Do we have to kill any of our own?”
“No.” Hope not, Eagle amended silently.
“All right.” Hammersmith nodded. “I can live with that. Time to get real.” Hammersmith shrugged off his rucksack and opened it. He dumped a sack on the ground. “5.56. Live ammo. Take the damn blank adapter off your weapon and lock and load. I’ll be your assistant patrol leader and I’ll navigate for you. The rest of the men have live ammo in their rucks and I’ve already passed the word to load up.” He slapped his own rucksack. “We got one M60 with eight hundred rounds of 7.62, claymores, some LAWs, grenades, pistol ammo. One of the fellas got an M21 if we need to pop someone at distance. Oh yeah, two M203s with fifteen HE rounds each.” He held up a shotgun with a short box magazine. “And I have my Lola. SPAS-12 shotgun, loaded with slugs.”
Eagle processed the inventory: Claymores were anti-personnel mines; LAWs were light-anti-tank weapons; an M21 was a sniper rifle. Live ammunition. The M60 was a medium machine gun, good firepower. The M203s were M16s with a 40 mm grenade launcher slung under the barrel. And there was Lola, a semi
automatic shotgun.
So they were prepared for battle.
Eagle was starting to feel better about this mission, but Hammersmith put an end to that flicker of optimism. “We might not have to kill any of our own, but that don’t mean this is going to be a cakewalk. I been in these swamps for years, sonny. Grew up down here. Walked many a patrol so I can get us the airfield. But things ain’t right.” He nodded out toward the dark swamp. “There’s something out there. Something that don’t want us getting to that airfield. Something bad, real bad. Evil-like. And it’s between us and the airfield and whatever it is you gotta do.” He paused. “I don’t suppose you can tell me what it is exactly you gotta do?”
“No, Master Sergeant.”
Hammersmith sighed. “Figured.” He turned off the flashlight. After a moment, they emerged from underneath the poncho and stood up.
Hammersmith became formal. “Let me know when you want to move out, sir.”
It is 1980. President Jimmy Carter decides to boycott the summer Olympics in Moscow in response to the Russian invasion of Afghanistan. Mount St. Helens erupts, killing fifty-seven people. CNN goes on the air. John Lennon is shot and killed. The Iran-Iraq War drags on. Operation Eagle Claw, intended to rescue the American hostages in Tehran, fails. There are 226,545,805 Americans registered in the census. A Norwegian oil platform collapses in the North Sea, killing 123 of its crew and spilling oil. Reagan defeats Carter in the presidential election.
Some things change; some don’t.
Eagle took a deep breath.
This was going to suck worse than doing Ranger School again.
AND THEN THERE ARE THE MOST DANGEROUS MONSTERS: THE ONES DISGUISED AS HUMAN.
Manhattan, New York, 1929. 29 October
Ivar was startled as a man darted out from an alley and ran into him. He felt wetness on his face and realized it was blood as the stranger collapsed to the ground. There was blood everywhere and Ivar’s instinct was to flee, but his Special-Ops training upon “joining” the Nightstalkers allowed him at least to stand his ground for a moment.
