Box Set - The Time Magnet Series

by Russell Moran

  Chapter 33

  At the Airport in Kuwait City we boarded a Lockheed C-141 Starlifter, the biggest plane any of us had ever seen. Buster has a professional habit of giving us only the information we need to know, so he couldn’t answer our questions about why we should be on such a large plane. He just told us that the plane was delivering goods marked “none of your business” back to the States. An hour after take-off, we huddled in the huge passenger space for a meeting. Buster had seen to it that we had a well-stocked bar at our disposal. Buster is a full-service spook. We sat around a make-shift conference table, nursing our drinks. The flight was amazingly smooth, the gigantic plane casually flicking off cross winds.

  “Jack, you’ve convinced the Directors of the FBI and CIA, not to mention myself, about this time travel stuff. I’m authorized to tell you that the Agency is at your side and we’ll do anything we can to help. But I need to know something. How does it work?”

  “Well,” I said, “I can only go from past experience with this weird phenomenon. Time portals or wormholes are physical locations throughout the earth. Some people, like me, have a strange habit of stepping on them. When the USS California tripped into the past during that Gray Ship incident, it was something new for me. We had to find a spot in the ocean, not an easy job. When I stepped on that grate on the East Side of Manhattan, it was a more traditional, if that’s a good way of putting it, wormhole. What I have to do now is reverse the procedure. I have plenty of photos of the spot to help me to locate it. I just have to go back to the grate and step on it, and if

  my past experiences mean anything, I’ll find myself back in July 2015, about 4 months before the Thanksgiving Attacks.”

  “You’ve been here in 2017 for just shy of a month, Jack,” said Bennie. “I guess there’s been a full tilt search going on for you.”

  “That’s another weird thing about this business,” I said. “In my book, as you well know Bennie, all of the people who time travelled found that the time in the past was very short compared to the place they came from. Remember that one guy who went from 1987 to the First World War and spent seven months on the fields of France. When he came back he had only been gone for five minutes. The same thing happened to the California. We spent four months in the year 1861 and when we came back to 2013 only seven hours had gone by.”

  “Yeah, but this time you travelled to the future,” said Wally. “Do you think that will make a difference?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “I don’t know if time travels slower in my 2015 or maybe even faster. If it’s faster, I’m worried. When I hit the wormhole it was about four months before the attacks. If time moves slow then I’ll have plenty of time to get the job done. If it goes faster, the job will be a lot more exciting.”

  “I could use another vodka,” said Janice.

  “So what’s the plan, Jack?” said Buster. “I’m sure you’re not going to walk around with a sign saying, ‘repent, the time is near.’”

  “Ashley Patterson is the simple answer,” I said. “Ashley’s a very influential woman. She’s the youngest person to command a nuclear aircraft carrier, not to mention the first woman and the first black woman to hold that position. She’s going to make admiral soon. People listen to her, including people at the White House. And I don’t have to convince Ashley about the reality of time travel. Remember, we met in 1861.”

  As I said that, my friends shook their heads like dogs climbing out of water. They all knew it. They all bought it. But they all had a hard time believing it. I don’t blame them. I have a hard time believing it myself.

  Chapter 34

  Our plane landed at JFK at 7 AM. We decided to meet in Wally’s office at the Times that afternoon at 1 PM, giving us enough time to freshen up after our flight.

  I was 20 minutes late after my workout at the gym. When I got to Wally’s office a light lunch of assorted wraps and salads had just been served.

  “Jack,” said Wally, “I have a big question. Assuming that you’re successful in pulling this off and preventing the attacks, what happens to our reality here in 2017? Take a look at this.”

  Wally circulated copies of an article he had written six months ago about the press coverage given to the Thanksgiving Attacks.

  “There have been more articles and TV spots devoted to the attacks than any event in human history,” Wally said, “more than 9/11, the Iraq war, or Afghanistan. The Thanksgiving Attacks have become part of our history, but even more than that, they’ve become part of our consciousness. Every time we’re stopped by a cop to see our ‘papers’ we remember Thanksgiving Day 2015. So what I’m asking is, do we just suddenly forget? Will the attacks just be erased from our collective memories?”

  “Look,” I said, “all I can tell you is what I experienced. In the Gray Ship incident, an entire crew of the USS California was away from the year 2013 for seven hours in 2013 time and spent four months in 1861. We changed the course of the Civil War. When we came back to 2013 it was a different 2013. History had changed and people’s recollections had changed with it. So, yeah, if I pull this off, none of you will remember the Thanksgiving Attacks, because they will never have happened.”

  ***

  “Jack, the three of us have been conspiring,” said Bennie with a nervous smile. “We started talking about this on the plane when you were sleeping, and we continued the conversation before you got here.”

  “So what’s the big conspiracy, Bennie?” I asked.

  “We all want to go back with you, back to 2015,” said Ben. “None of us are married, except for Janice and I don’t think she much gives a shit about her husband. We have no kids, we’re flexible. You’re planning to go back with a bunch of non-dated photos. We want to be part of your evidence, a big part.”

  “You can’t pull this off alone, Jack,” said Wally.

  “It’s no time to break up the team,” said Janice.

  So we agreed. We’d all make the trip to 2015, or at least try.

  “Okay,” I said. “I have my doubts about this, but you all make a good point. The critical thing is to accomplish the mission, to stop the attacks. Let’s meet at the vacant lot over on the East Side tomorrow. Then let’s plan to cross the wormhole the following morning.”

  Chapter 35

  The next morning we met at Bennie’s office and took Wally’s car to the vacant lot on 119th Street. Construction trucks were parked bumper to bumper along the curb, making it hard to see the field until we got to a curb cut.

  Suddenly, the bottom dropped out of my life. The empty lot that was here three weeks ago was now a beehive of construction activity. A dozen bulldozers worked the soil at the far end of the site. Three large cranes were dropping dirt into dump trucks. I tried to get my bearings as best as I could, but the look of the site had changed since I last saw it. I took some photos of the wormhole out of my pocket and tried to line it up with what was going on in front of me. From one of the pictures, a Bank of America sign was clearly visible in the near distance. I lined myself up with the sign, and the blood started to return to my brain. There was the wormhole, not yet disturbed by the earth moving equipment.

  A construction foreman approached us, yelling over the din of the machines.

  “You people are going to have to clear out of here,” he said. “We’ll be working on this section next.”

  “You can’t dig here yet,” I said. I was blunt but entirely unpersuasive.

  “Why not?” he shouted.

  “It’s hard to explain,” I explained. “It’s a matter of national security.”

  “If you people don’t leave here immediately I’m calling the cops. I don’t have to tell you what that will mean.”

  “Okay, let’s move outside the curb,” I said to the team. The last thing we needed was a time wasting confrontation, and possibly jail if the police showed up.

  “We need clout, Jack, some big clout,” said Bennie. “Let’s get the FBI Director on the phone.”

  We got inside
Wally’s car and I dialed the number of FBI Director Watson. The person who answered the phone told me that the Director could not be disturbed because she was in a high level meeting.

  “Please tell her it’s Jack Thurber – she knows me – and tell her it’s absolutely urgent.”

  “I’m sorry Mr. Thurber but I have strict orders not to disturb the Director. If you give me your number I’ll make sure she calls you back.”

  Shouting seldom works, especially with government types. I took a deep breath and said, “Please tell Director Watson that it’s a matter of life and death and an immediate threat to national security. I repeat that the threat is immediate.”

  “Okay, said the assistant, I’ll put you through. My job is on the line.”

  That’s an amazing thing to ponder. A federal employee actually getting fired.

  Sarah Watson abruptly left the meeting and went into the hallway to take my call. I told her what was happening and that we needed to somehow get a stop work order.

  Watson placed a call to the Mayor of New York City, who was also in a meeting. When he heard it was the FBI Director and that it was urgent, he immediately took her call.

  “Bill,” said Watson, “I don’t have time to give you all the details (she figured now wasn’t a good time to educate the mayor on time travel) but all I have to tell you is that it’s a matter of urgent national security. You need to put a stop work order on the construction site on corner of 119th and First Avenue. I’ll fill you in on the details later.”

  “I don’t know if I have the legal authority to do that Madam Director. The construction unions won’t like that a bit, and because part of the plan includes a new school, I’ll get heat from the teachers’ union too. I’ll have to consult with counsel.”

  Watson fantasized about putting a bullet through the phone.

  “Bill, just do it. Just fucking do it. If you get yelled at by the City Council you’ll be able to say that it was a direct request from the FBI based on national security. I’ll back you up all the way. Do it, Bill. Do it now.”

  The mayor had been getting a lot of heat in the press for wrong-headed decisions. He was also under constant pressure from labor unions, the people who funded his election campaign. He could just picture the headlines. “Mayor Stops Construction Project Without Court Order.” He also pondered that as mayor of New York City, he didn’t take orders from the FBI.

  “I’m sorry, Madam Director, but I have to go through proper channels.”

  “You will have a court order shortly,” said Watson through clenched teeth, “verbal followed by email and physical papers. If you don’t comply with the order I will personally escort you to prison.”

  Watson called Lysle Buchanan, senior Federal District Court Judge for the Southern District of New York. Watson was friends with the judge, having sat on the Southern District court herself five years ago. His clerk told her that the judge was presiding over a murder trial.

  “The judge knows me. I’m the Director of the FBI and this is a matter of national security. Barge into that courtroom and tell him I need to talk to him NOW.”

  Judge Buchanan was on the phone in less than half a minute.

  “Sarah, my old friend, good to hear from you,” said Judge Buchanan. “How’s your exciting new job going?”

  “Lysle,” said Watson, “I don’t have a lot of time. I need a stop work order for a construction project on the East Side. If the construction continues it can result in the loss of thousands of lives from a terrorist attack. I can’t give you a lot of details, but I need that order now.”

  Well,” said the judge, “if the FBI Director tells me she needs a piece of paper, who am I to doubt her. Just give me the management and location details and I’ll draft an order immediately. I’ll personally call the company president and give him a verbal order and tell him the paperwork will be arriving shortly.”

  “God bless you, Lysle. Can I convince you to run for mayor of New York City?”

  “What?”

  “Long story. Thanks again, Lysle.”

  Back at the site, the construction foreman was digging in his heels. We could see a crane approaching the wormhole spot.

  “Bennie,” I said, “do something. Just do something. Do you have your badge?”

  Bennie reentered the site as the foreman approached him, looking pissed. Bennie flashed his NYPD badge and walked toward him. He looked at the guy’s name badge.

  “Mr. Guarino,” Ben said, “I’m detective Ben Weinberg of the NYPD. What’s your first name?”

  “Sal.”

  “Sal, you haven’t committed a crime, but I’m telling you that this site involves national security. As you know, the criminal law isn’t what it was a couple of years ago, so let me be perfectly clear, Sal. If you work on this section I will place you under arrest, and we’ll figure out a charge later. Now I don’t want to do that, Sal, and you don’t want me to do that. I’m just asking you to slow down. We should have a court order shortly. Meantime, I don’t think your project is going to collapse if you don’t work on this part of the site today. What’ll it be, Sal?”

  “Do I have a choice?” said Guarino.

  “No, you don’t. So why don’t you and your guys enjoy a break.”

  Within 45 minutes a gray car pulled up to the curb. A young man in a business suit got out and yelled to no one in particular, “I’m from Federal Judge Buchanan’s office and I have a temporary restraining order to cease work on this site.”

  When you go from despair to elation in an hour, it plays with your emotions. We all hugged like a bunch of kids whose team just won the World Series. We won much more than that.

  Chapter 36

  You can call me Philip Murphy, but I prefer you call me Mohammed Islam, my true name. As Philip Murphy, I’m an American naval officer and I’m in charge of the weapons department on the aircraft carrier USS George Washington. As Mohammed Islam, I am a jihadi, a weapon in the arsenal of Allah.

  I guess that sounds strange. Not many American naval officers call themselves by the proud title of jihadi, a man who struggles for the justice of Allah. And strange as it may sound, it would even sound stranger to the people I work with and who work for me. My second identity, the one known as Philip Murphy, is very good at playing his role. It’s been a role I’ve played for over twenty years. Soon, Allah be willing, I can give up that role and be the true me, Mohammed Islam.

  Twenty years ago I was an 18-year-old high school kid. Twenty years ago I couldn’t imagine being the man I am today. Twenty years ago I had no idea what Islam was all about.

  A man named Ayham Abboud changed all that. In 1994 I took a school trip to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. Sheik Abboud was my mentor, as well as the counselor of four other kids on the trip. Our journey was arranged and sponsored by a group called The Center for Open-Minded Youth, funded by our host country Saudi Arabia. Sheik Abboud was about 25 and spoke English with a perfect American accent, which I guess should be expected because he’s American.

  I had no idea what to expect, but the idea of a vacation in an exotic place that my parents didn’t have to pay for sounded great. I was what you would call a typical American teenager, and my main goals in life were forbidden pleasures, especially sex, which my Roman Catholic religion was especially touchy about. I had decent grades, but nothing great. I managed to get into George Washington University, after which I went to Officers Candidate School and became a commissioned officer in the United States Navy. Ayham Abboud had a lot to do with my going to OCS after college, as I’ll explain shortly.

  So there I was, a typical horny American teenager, in a strange land that seemed like a movie set. Sheik Abboud gathered me and my friends Joe Monahan, Ralph Martin, Fred Peyton, and George Quentin, and slowly began to change our lives.

  We all stayed in the same dormitory, just the five of us and Sheik Abboud in a private room. Every day began with prayers, which we all thought strange. None of us were deeply religious, so we figured it wasn’t
any big deal. We knelt on rugs and prayed simple but uplifting prayers that the Sheik gave to us. He then began to lecture us on the mysteries and beauty of his faith, Islam. Abboud’s words and our prayers began to change our thinking, in ways I can’t remember, but in a way that was irreversible. After a month we had all converted to Islam, not as a fluke thing to do, but as a deep commitment from the heart. My life had changed in four weeks.

  Sheik Abboud lectured us on commitment, especially to our new-found religion, and on the traits of dedication and discipline. He told us that we were warriors in the army of Islam, and that Allah had chosen us to perform a special mission, a mission that would not take place for years. The Sheik counseled me to become a commissioned officer in the United States Navy, a first step in a plan that would be revealed in time. Over the years we would meet periodically with Sheik Abboud as he helped us focus on our journey to come.

  Our sacred mission, my sacred mission, is now only weeks away. I will tear at the hearts of the infidels, and begin the march to a new and glorious caliphate in America.

  Chapter 37

  That evening we all had dinner at Patsy’s, a great Italian Restaurant on 57th Street. I asked the host to seat us where we’d have the most privacy. I gave him a generous tip with Ben’s money.

  “We’re about to take a strange trip, a trip not to a different place but to a different time,” I said. “I promise you it will feel weird. I know, I’ve been there. Let’s talk about our journey and make some detailed plans for our arrival in 2015. We’ll be in the same place we left, the site on 119th and First Avenue. It will look very different, a weed choked vacant lot with no construction going on. Based on my past experience, I have no idea what the weather will be, or even what day or month we’ll land in. After we go through the wormhole, we’ll take a flight to Norfolk, Virginia where the Abraham Lincoln is home ported. I’ll get you guys booked into the Marriott near the base. Ashley and I have an apartment nearby, and we can use it as a base of operations.”