The Eternity Machine

by Vaughn Heppner

  This feels like a trap.

  Selene’s gaze narrowed. While keeping her one-arm hold around the clerk’s waist, she put her other hand in her suit pocket. She almost shoved the snub-nosed revolver against the man’s lower back. Instead, she simply shouted in his ear.

  “I need you to stop a minute.”

  “There’s no time,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “Stop!”

  He shrugged fatalistically. A second later, the scooter winded down, finally idling as the clerk put his feet onto the blacktop, balancing them on the scooter.

  “We have a schedule to keep. He said—”

  “I’m changing the schedule,” Selene told the man.

  The clerk twisted around. She expected to see surprise. Instead, there was calculation in his gaze.

  “Why did you pay the police captain to act as he did?” the clerk asked.

  “What are you talking about?”

  The leathery-faced clerk searched her eyes more deeply. “You pretend to act like a tourist. But I sense strength in you. You are not what you seem.”

  “If you have a point to any of this,” Selene said, “I’d appreciate hearing it.”

  The clerk frowned. “You did not pay the police captain?”

  “Pay him to do what?”

  “Pretend to slump unconscious,” the clerk said. “Did you not realize he faked his fall?”

  “I doubt that. My palm where I hit him still hurts.”

  The clerk studied her.

  Could the man be telling her the truth? That didn’t make sense. “We’re going to take a slight detour,” Selene said.

  “Do you say this in hopes of avoiding the shadowy ones?”

  His words shocked her, making Selene’s stomach twist. “What do you mean shadowy ones?”

  Instead of answering, he said, “Yes, I will take a detour. Perhaps it is wise.”

  Selene nodded, more unsure of the clerk than ever. Who was he anyway? He acted like a fool at times. At others, he seemed dangerous.

  Despite her misgivings, she said, “Let’s go then. The sun is getting hot.”

  The clerk faced forward, twisting the throttle, making the scooter rev. Then he caused the small machine to lurch as he set out once more.

  -31-

  QATTARA DESERT

  EGYPT

  “Jack,” the voice said on the other end of the satellite phone. “This is Deputy Secretary Smith.”

  Jack frowned. Why would Smith be calling in the middle of an op? That was strange.

  “There’s been an accident,” Smith said.

  Jack said nothing, but a bad feeling radiated outward from his sternum.

  Smith hesitated before he said, “Secretary King is on life support.”

  Jack closed his eyes. He couldn’t believe it.

  “She’s had a heart attack,” Smith continued.

  “That’s confirmed?” Jack whispered, not knowing what else to say.

  “I wouldn’t have called otherwise. The Secretary was unconscious by the time I spoke to the doctor at Memorial. Mrs. King is in critical condition. It’s highly unlikely she will live through the night.”

  Simon Green and now Mrs. King—

  “D17 protocol required that I immediately brief the advisor on any ongoing ops,” Smith said. “I have to report…”

  Jack opened his eyes. This was going to be bad. It felt as if strings were tightening around him. How could Mrs. King have a heart attack at this precise moment?

  “Did the doctor find any marks or abrasions on Mrs. King?” Jack asked.

  “That was my immediate concern,” Smith said. “The answer is no. This was a natural disaster.”

  Jack didn’t believe that. He wondered if Smith really did, either. Who else listened to the call? It must be the advisor, put in place at the inception of D17. They were America’s ghost, but someone had to have watch over them to make sure they stayed within governmental control.

  “The advisor does not believe this is a wise operation given Egyptian hostility to former American involvement in their country,” Smith said.

  Jack realized he’d guessed right. “The antimatter—” he said.

  “I’m only going to say this once,” Smith said in a rush, interrupting Jack. “French security forces raided the D’erlon Plant several nights ago. The Secretary risked her career convincing them to do so. The French didn’t find any evidence of antimatter in the plant.”

  “The D’erlon people destroyed the antimatter before the security forces got there,” Jack said. “Or they got it away before—”

  “Agent Elliot,” Smith said. “Listen to me carefully. One doesn’t just destroy antimatter. It would be like destroying nuclear bombs by exploding them. People would notice. This is important for you to understand. There was no antimatter at the D’erlon Plant nor was there any equipment that could have conceivably produced it. Thus, that ends the matter.”

  “But Simon Green’s readings—”

  “Agent Elliot,” Smith said, interrupting once more. “We don’t possess Agent Green’s data. Secretary King believed you about Simon but we came up empty. The advisor cannot in good conscience continue the Siwa Operation given these parameters.”

  “But the radiation signature readings in Cairo,” Jack said.

  “I understand. That was strange. However, on the advisor’s direct orders, I am canceling the present op.”

  “Sir—”

  “It’s out of my hands, Elliot. There was no antimatter in the Ardennes and certainly none in Hammond’s trucks. That is the official position. You are to return to Libya at once for extraction.”

  Jack said nothing.

  “Are you there?” Smith asked.

  “I’m here,” Jack said in a tired voice. He couldn’t believe this. Had Simon died for nothing?

  “Leave Egypt immediately,” Smith said. “Do you understand?”

  “Suppose Hammond is transporting plutonium,” Jack said, grasping at whatever he could. “We picked up radiation signatures. If it’s not antimatter—”

  “Hammond cannot possibly have plutonium or antimatter. The advisor has spoken. While I am the acting Secretary, I do not have the authority to dismiss her orders. We’re recording you, as you know, so I hope you follow orders exactly.”

  “We’ll leave Egypt, sir,” Jack said. Smith had as good as told him the advisor was listening in to the conversation. If he failed to comply, the advisor would likely cashier him on the spot.

  “Immediately,” Smith added in an ominous tone.

  Jack got the message, and he found it strange. Still, orders were orders. “I’ll need to collect my team first, sir.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the satellite phone before Smith said, “Brief me on the present situation.”

  Jack told him about Carter six miles away, waiting by a cluster of mud brick ruins along the Cairo road.

  “I see your problem,” Smith said. “You’ll have to let Hammond’s trucks pass. You are not to engage in any activity concerning them. That means I want Agent Carter to stand down.”

  Jack ingested the order, gripping the satellite phone harder. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “Do you have a drone in the air?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “It has a kill switch?”

  “It does, sir.”

  “Land it immediately and destroy it.”

  Jack said nothing.

  “After Hammond’s trucks pass Carter’s position,” Smith said, “you are to pick him up and head for Libya. We will discuss a rendezvous point after you’re out of Egypt. Do you understand your orders?”

  “Yes, sir,” Jack said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, Hammond’s trucks are almost to Carter’s location.”

  “I’m sorry, Elliot. I’m… Good luck with the extraction.” A click sounded afterward as Smith hung up.

  In the Chief Cherokee in the Qattara Depression, Jack set down the satellite phone.

  “Sounds like
trouble,” Terrell said.

  Jack nodded, giving them a rundown on the situation.

  “So we just leave?” Terrell asked. “Simon died for nothing?”

  The words were like nails in Jack’s heart. “Bring the drone home.” He leaned near a microphone, clicking a switch. “David.”

  “Yeah?” Agent Carter asked.

  “Turn off your optics.”

  A second passed before Carter said, “Are you kidding me?”

  “Turn them off.”

  “But—”

  “Now,” Jack said.

  “This is crazy, but I’m turning them off.”

  The desert view and approaching trucks on Jack’s screen disappeared.

  Jack felt a cold knot in his stomach. This was wrong. He knew the advisor was with Smith. She would be studying his files. Why did the advisor insist on this? Didn’t they believe Simon?

  “I’m disappointed in you,” Terrell told him.

  Jack didn’t reply.

  “Letting a suit like the advisor—”

  “Hey,” Carter said over the comm-line, with worry in his voice. “The trucks are slowing down. I can hear their brakes squeal.”

  “Trouble?” asked Jack.

  “Yeah, there’s trouble,” Carter said in a low voice. “I think the trucks are going to stop. One of the drivers is staring at me.” Carter swore. “Jack, I recognize a driver. You’re not going to believe this. It’s—”

  At that moment, a harsh sound filled the speaker in the Chief Cherokee.

  “Carter,” Jack said into his microphone. “Carter, can you hear me?”

  “Listen to that growl,” Terrell said, as he indicated the speaker. “Someone is jamming Carter’s signal. If that someone is in those trucks—Hammond could be on to us.”

  -32-

  DESERT ROAD

  EGYPT

  David Carter squatted on his heels outside the ruins of a mud-brick building. He wore a Bedouin robe that blended in with his White Mountain Apache skin-tone.

  Sunlight glinted off the windshield of the lead truck belonging to the arms smuggler. Carter didn’t know why, but the moment felt surreal. It sent a chill down his spine. He remembered the last time he’d felt that: it had been seconds before the horrible injury his senior year in college.

  At that moment, he noticed that the middle truck was swaying from side to side. Was it carrying a heavier load than the others?

  “Hey,” Carter said into the microphone pinned on the underside of his robe. “The trucks are slowing down. I can hear their brakes squeal.”

  “Trouble?” asked Jack, the words coming out of the earbud in Carter’s left canal.

  “Yeah, there’s trouble. I think the trucks are going to stop. One of the drivers is staring at me.” Carter swore. “Jack, I recognize a driver. You’re not going to believe this. It’s—”

  Before Carter could give the name, a harsh sound came out of the earbud. Carter said, “Ney,” even as he realized someone jammed his device.

  Several thoughts jumbled together in a mess. They’re jamming me. They’ve cut me off. What is Ney doing with Hammond’s people?

  Carter spat the stub of a cigarette from between his lips. The orange glow burst apart on the dirt. He hated the cancer sticks, but it seemed as if every Egyptian in the country smoked. Squatting here puffing had helped him to blend in better.

  That’s not going to work anymore, now is it?

  Carter stood, stumbling forward three steps. His legs were stiff from squatting for so long.

  Ney Blanc waved to him from the front cab. The Frenchman even had the gall to smile.

  Carter didn’t have time to show surprise or bother to wonder why an agent of the French DGSE—General Directorate for External Security—was driving for Hammond. Ney was one of the best, a ruthless case officer. Yet, if Ney was undercover, why was the Frenchman waving?

  My cover is blown, Carter thought. I wonder if Jack heard me name Ney.

  Deciding that waiting here would almost certainly result in his death, Carter pivoted. He hiked up his robe and sprinted for the nearest entrance.

  The unreality of the moment impinged upon Carter. This was crazy. Incredibly, a jackal poked its pointy-snout through the entranceway. The carrion-eater stared at Carter before its ears lay down on its head. The next second, the animal vanished, likely tucking its tail between its legs as it fled the premises.

  Behind Carter, the squeal of brakes increased in length and volume. Old springs groaned. Was that the clack of a machine gun bolt he heard?

  Carter’s sandaled feet struck the hard-packed dirt as pain blossomed in his right knee. The old injury loved to make itself known at the worst possible moments. Carter ignored the agony, straining to reach the door, wanting to get behind the thick bricks.

  Time seemed to slow down for Carter. It felt like the moment he’d that made the runback in overtime. Notre Dame had kicked the football right into his arms. Oh, man, that had been the highlight of his life. No one had been able to touch him. He had juked, faked and outmaneuvered all of them, spiking the football in the end zone and doing his signature war dance with the tomahawk chop.

  I’m going to make it.

  That’s when the first assault rifle opened up. The peculiar rat-a-tat-tat told Carter it was the Chinese knockoff version of the Russian AK-47.

  Why are they using such an old weapon?

  In lieu of an answer, the dirt a little to the left of his feet spit, leaving three ugly divots. Those were bullets, damnit! The firing stopped. Carter faked left. The firing began again as he’d known it would. A bullet seared the skin of his left shoulder, burning away part of the robe and causing a splash of blood to fly. Agent Carter launched off his feet, diving to the right and the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw bullets smash against the left part of the doorframe. Then he sailed through the entrance, tucked his shoulder, hit the ground, rolled and launched to his right. Bullets followed him, but they weren’t fast enough.

  Carter came to a thudding halt in the gloom of the hut as more assault rifles opened up. The bastards were trying to kill him. Ney’s wave—he tried to lull me. The Frenchman’s in tight with Hammond.

  “All righty then,” Carter said under his breath. A second later, he gripped his Glock. However, only an idiot would try to trade gunfire using a pistol against assault rifles. He felt better holding it, and there might come a moment soon when he could strike back. But under no circumstances did he intend to dart into view and pop off a few rounds.

  Carter crawled on his belly for a back window. At this point in the game hitting back wasn’t nearly as important as remaining alive. Jack and the others would be coming. The Chief Cherokee had more than pistols. Would Hammond want to stay around and engage in a firefight with the cargo he carried?

  Ney’s with Hammond. I have to figure out a way to use that.

  Carter reached a back window. He darted up, crawled through and tumbled onto the ground outside. Scrambling to his feet, he limped for another of the mud-brick buildings. It was time to play hide and seek for real.

  -33-

  QATTARA DESERT

  EGYPT

  The Chief Cherokee’s oversized tires spun in the sand. A second later, they bit. The desert-colored jeep jerked forward. Inside, Jack drove with his hands at ten and two o’clock on the steering wheel.

  “What do you see?” he asked.

  Terrell swayed in his chair in back. “Give me a minute, boss.”

  “That’s too long. Carter’s in trouble.” Jack wasn’t going to lose another agent in the field.

  “I can appreciate that,” Terrell said, “but trouble or not doesn’t change the laws of physics.”

  “You’re right,” Jack said. “It’s just—Simon—”

  Terrell grunted, focusing as he manipulated the drone controls. He still managed to ask, “Does it bother you that Smith ordered us to explode the drone immediately?”

  “It does,” Jack said.

  “So th
at means we’re staying on the mission?”

  “No. It means we grab Carter and hurry to Libya.”

  Terrell looked thoughtful. “Think we’ll ever make it to Libya?”

  Jack glanced back at the big man. “You think the D’erlon people got to the advisor?”

  “What did Simon tell you?” Terrell asked. “He said the antimatter was worth trillions. Given enough dough, you can buy just about anyone. Well, anyone but Jack Elliot.”

  Jack concentrated on driving. If Terrell was right… Why had they stayed so far away from Carter? Six bloody miles was too many.

  “I have them in drone sight,” Terrell said. “The trucks have stopped. Men with AK-47s are swarming the ruins, hunting for Carter.”

  “Give me a visual.”

  Terrell tapped his screen.

  The windshield’s upper left-hand corner showed Jack what the drone camera saw. This was the latest technology, used on the newest U.S. Air Force fighters.

  The three big trucks were parked just off the tarmac road. Seven men wearing combat fatigues and gripping AK-47s advanced on the closest mud-brick ruin. It told Jack that Carter had high-tailed it. Smart man. The agent would be trying to buy time. The thought caused Elliot’s facial skin to tighten. He didn’t plan on disappointing Carter.

  “Phelps,” Jack said. “Get an AT4 ready.”

  “If Hammond has plutonium…you’re risking spilling it everywhere. If he has antimatter…”

  “Got any other ideas?” Jack asked.

  “We have the drone,” Terrell said. “Let me buzz them. Let Hammond know we see him.”

  Jack gripped the steering wheel harder than ever. The advisor would burn him for this, saying he should have left Carter to the wolves. They had protocols for events like this. No one agent was worth saving if it exposed D17—that was the team’s golden rule. Besides, he was already supposed to have deactivated the drone.

  “Buzz them,” Jack said. He wasn’t leaving anyone behind. “Once we get in AT4 range,” he told Phelps, “fire wide so as not to hit a truck. We don’t want the antimatter to spill—if it’s onboard. But right now they don’t know we know about it and that we’re firing to miss.”