Island of the Star Lords

by James L. Ferrell

  Rescue workers at the scene of the fatal accident on Highway A1A loaded Arthur Voyles' body into the back of an ambulance and closed the doors. The Florida Highway Patrol trooper in charge of the investigation noted the time on his report as the ambulance departed the scene. A construction worker, the one who had called in the accident, waited patiently while the trooper made some other notes on his report then said, "I still can't believe he did this. He went right around the flagman and started up the opposing lane with cars coming straight at him."

  The trooper nodded. "I doubt we'll ever know the answer. Most likely he fell asleep at the wheel for a few seconds."

  Another officer, who had been directing traffic around the emergency vehicles near the wreckage, handed the trooper a plastic bag filled with small items and papers. "This is all the personal effects he had on him. Some paperwork in the glove box indicates the vehicle's a rental. It was picked up at the Miami airport early this morning. It's supposed to be returned within twenty-four hours. But the most interesting thing is the ID case from his coat pocket. This guy was an NSA agent. On top of that, he had a New Mexico driver's license."

  The trooper's eyebrows went up. "Oh yeah?"

  The other man nodded. "He must have been on some business in this area. He wasn't here long enough for a pleasure trip." He put his hands on his hips and said, "Maybe we should notify the NSA before trying to locate any next of kin. We can probably get all the information we need from them."

  "That's a good idea," the trooper agreed. "I'll have our Miami office get on it right away." He looked at the ambulance heading north, it's siren almost inaudible in the distance. "I wonder who he was," he said to no one in particular.

  Kasdan materialized in darkness, as he had expected. He stumbled a little on the uneven ground but regained his balance. Losing your balance was a common occurrence in time transitions, as the topography at the destination was usually of a different configuration than the one you left behind. He stood still for several minutes, allowing his senses to adjust to the new conditions. His first observation was the change in darkness. 1950's Cuba was decidedly darker than it would be seventy years in the future.

  As Voyles had described, he was standing in a sparse grove of tall umbrella palms. There was nothing to the south but blackness; however, about a quarter of a mile northward he could see a bright red antenna light. Faint green and amber glows were coming from somewhere near its bottom. The lights were undoubtedly part of the Leeward Point Airfield control tower. He walked to the edge of the palm grove and paused to get the lay of the land. Overhead, a tiny sliver of moon that astronomers referred to as God's Thumbnail provided a little light. A field of knee-high grass ending at the bottom of a low hill lay directly ahead.

  He could not see them from where he stood, but guessed that the tower and administration building were located on the other side of the hill, a little to the south. He began walking toward the hill. The grass was tall, but a light breeze prevented dew from forming on it. A short climb brought him to the hilltop, from where he could see the west end of the runway. As expected, the tower and admin building were located about fifteen hundred feet eastward. A large aircraft hangar sat next to them. He pressed the illumination button on his watch and saw that it was 3:12 a.m.

  A short descent brought him to the bottom of the hill, where he turned left toward the buildings. Daylight was several hours away, so he walked slowly, alert for guards. A four-foot high hog wire fence had been installed on his left, with the open expanse of runway on the right. The airfield seemed devoid of activity at this time of the morning. There were no takeoffs or landings, and no ground personnel were moving about the area. When he was within a hundred yards of the administration building he stopped and considered the best way to proceed. Just ahead was what looked like a small storage building of some sort. He walked up to it and eased the door open.

  From what he could see in the darkness, the building was a mechanical shop. A workman's bench ran across the length of the room on one side, with machines of various types along the opposite wall. He nodded to himself, satisfied that the shop would be a good place to wait for the next aircraft to begin preparations for departure. He had no intention of going closer to the tower or hanger before then.

  With nothing to do but wait, he sat down on one of the workbench stools and closed his eyes. As with many people who are not afflicted by conscience, he immediately drifted off into a light sleep.

  Matt Leahy and several other people were sitting in a circle in the darkness looking at some kind of device. He tried to discern all their faces but could only make out the detective's features. One of them was a woman who seemed familiar but he could not see her clearly. However, it was of no consequence; his target was sharply defined. He stood watching them from the edge of darkness as they made adjustments to the instrument. The longer he stood there the greater his anger grew. He tightened his grip on the long sword in his hand until his knuckles turned white. There was no reason to wait any longer; he was in position to kill Leahy at this very moment. Dying by decapitation would be a fitting death for the man who had plagued his life for so long. He tensed his muscles for the attack but found himself frozen in place. He began to shudder; sweat broke out on his face. With great effort he began to move but much too slowly. It was as though the air had turned to heavy syrup, holding him back. Using all the strength in his powerful body, he managed to get within ten feet of his target. Suddenly Leahy turned and looked him full in the face. The detective's hand shot to his side, reaching for the pistol he wore. With a supreme effort of will, he raised the sword over his head. The pistol came up to meet him, and as his sword fell toward the target, he saw the yellow muzzle flash.

  A roaring sound startled him, and he jerked awake. Pale daylight illuminated the interior of the tool house. He jumped from the stool and ran to the door. Opening it just wide enough to see the hangar, he could see a C-47 aircraft sitting on the tarmac with its engines running. Several men were finishing up loading crates into the cargo area. The timing could not have been better. He grabbed the suitcase, left the tool house and started off at a brisk pace toward the aircraft. Two sailors in dungarees were putting the last crate aboard when he arrived.

  "Excuse me, men," he shouted over the engine noise. Startled by the interruption, both men turned to face him. He held out the ID card that Voyles had supplied. One of the sailors leaned forward to look at it. Seeing the rank of the man who held it, he snapped to attention and saluted. The other man followed suit. "Where are you headed?" Kasdan shouted as he returned the salutes.

  "Naval Air Station Key West, Captain," the sailor replied, standing very straight.

  Kasdan nodded. "Do you think you could find room for a passenger?"

  "No problem, sir," the man assured him. "I'll let the pilot know you'll be aboard. Just climb in and find a seat."

  Kasdan smiled. "Thank you, sailor, but I'll speak to him myself." He entered the aircraft and made his way around some crates to the cockpit. The pilot and copilot were making preparations for takeoff when he came up behind them. He noted the lieutenant's insignia on the pilot's shirt collar.

  He touched the man on the shoulder. "Excuse me, Lieutenant," he said in an authoritative tone. Both men turned at the same time. Kasdan held up his ID card.

  The pilot looked at it and half-rose from his seat. "Yes, sir, Captain. How can we help you?" He looked to be in his mid-twenties.

  Kasdan stuck the ID back into his shirt pocket. "What's your name, son?" He inquired in a businesslike tone.

  "Lieutenant Brad Greene, sir."

  "Well, Lieutenant Greene, I'll be flying with you to Key West," Kasdan continued. He gave the copilot a stern glance.

  Greene nodded and smiled genially. "Welcome aboard, sir." Momentarily distracted by the radio, he glanced down, turned his attention from Kasdan and pressed one hand against the headphones he wore. After a second, he pressed the mic button at his throat and said, "Roger, tower." He looked bac
k to Kasdan. "We're cleared for takeoff, sir, if you'll have a seat aft."

  "There's just one other thing, Lieutenant." He gave the young officer a guarded stare. "I'm here on a classified assignment. No one must know that I was ever aboard your plane. Is that understood?" His eyes narrowed.

  Greene hesitated for an instant, as though about to ask a question then nodded. "Understood, sir." He cut his eyes toward the copilot, who also nodded.

  "Very good, Lieutenant." His voice was tight. "Now, let's get to Key West, boys." He turned, went back to the cargo section and strapped himself into one of the web benches. That was easier than I expected, he thought. He was always amazed at how stupid and vulnerable most people were.

  Back in the cockpit, the two pilots looked at each other without speaking. After a short moment, Greene shrugged, pushed the throttles forward and taxied onto the runway.

  Chapter 7

  3,302 BC

  Kasdan experienced no difficulties in acquiring transportation from the naval air station to the little town of Key West. It was still early morning when he arrived, and he found himself facing a problem that he had been contemplating for several hours: finding a place where he could activate the Chronocom and transport back into the modern world without being seen.

  He walked the streets for several hours, finally discovering an isolated spur of land jutting out into the sea behind a thick grove of palms. In considering the date in which to transport, several things required consideration. Since the time of day was the same in both places, returning to the date of his escape was unacceptable. The guards had long since discovered his absence and would have alerted the military police and NSA. He needed to obtain a gun before leaving for Ireland, but since 9/11, air safety had been increased to a point where it was almost impossible to smuggle a firearm aboard an airplane. There was also the problem of purchasing a handgun in the twenty-first century. Federal and State laws would require a background check that could take up to a week to complete. He had no intention of being delayed that long. Then there was the obvious: He needed money, but in this time period ATM's were unknown; therefore, he must select a date where that problem did not exist. He finally settled on the current date in 2011.

  He took the pager out of his pocket and set the coordinates to 04112011. After ensuring that no one was nearby, he pressed the SEND button. He closed his eyes and waited for the flash of light. There was a sudden brightness, after which he found himself standing waist deep in saltwater. The little spur of land where he had been standing had been landscaped away and replaced with a manmade beach. He had materialized ten feet out into the ocean. And where before there had been only vacant land, a motel now occupied the other side of the palm grove. Luckily no one was in sight. He waded ashore and sat down with his back against a tree.

  To avoid suspicion, he needed to dry off before proceeding. The sun was hot, so twenty minutes later he was dry and standing in front of the motel. A number of other buildings now existed on both sides of the street. A short distance away was a grocery store with an ATM in front. Using Voyles' debit card, he withdrew four hundred dollars and went inside. A young woman working behind the checkout counter allowed him to use the telephone to call a taxi. While waiting for the cab, he purchased a soft drink and package of peanut butter crackers, which he devoured ravenously.

  When the cab arrived, he had the driver take him to the nearest car rental agency. The rental attendant asked for his driver's license, which he did not have. He used the excuse that he had accidentally left his wallet at the Navy base but promised to return with it later. After a few minutes of fast-talking and showing his military ID card, the clerk finally acquiesced and let him have a car.

  He spent the next two hours shopping for clothing and other articles he would need to carry out his plan. In short, he needed everything that would have been contained in the equipment package provided at Apache Point for an expedition into the past. The only item he could not buy, which he sorely regretted, was the L-suit. Lack of the garment increased his risk of injury or death ten-fold, but the danger did not lessen his resolve. Everything else was proceeding according to plan. His shopping completed, he drove out of the town and headed north on Highway A1A.

  The trip to Miami was uneventful, and after checking in at a local hotel, he spent the rest of the day looking for a secure location in which to make the transfer back to 1950. He finally settled on an alleyway between two older buildings that appeared to be have been built prior to that time. Since the paper money he carried, all Federal Reserve Notes, would not be acceptable for transactions in 1950, he paid two visits to a nearby ATM where he withdrew the maximum allowable amount from Voyles' account. In all, he now had over $2,500 in cash.

  After finding a rare coin shop in downtown Miami, he swapped the notes for silver certificates, the standard paper money of 1950. At the going rate of exchange in 2011, he wound up with $422 cash. He placed the money in his passport and returned to his hotel to wait for night. It was time to return to 1950.

  While waiting, he lay down on the bed and dozed a few times but did not fall into full sleep. At 5:00 a.m., he arose and packed his small suitcase. He left the hotel by a side door and drove to the alleyway where he intended to make the time jump. Before exiting the car, he set the transport coordinates to 04111950. He checked the immediate vicinity, and after satisfying himself that there were no witnesses, crept into the alley. He checked his watch. It was 6:05 a.m. Ten seconds later, there was a flash of green light and he was gone.

  When the time jump was complete, his next step was to find a gun shop. As he had expected, the streets of 1950 were virtually deserted at this hour. The downtown area was only a short distance away, so he started walking. An hour later he located a phone booth with a yellow pages book inside. A number of gun shops were listed. He wrote down the address of Blinkie's Firearms and Sporting Goods. It was still early, so he continued on down the street until he found a restaurant that was open for breakfast. After he had eaten his fill of steak and eggs, he called a taxi and proceeded to Blinkie's. The store was just opening when he arrived.

  "Good morning, sir," the proprietor said in a friendly tone as he moved behind the counter. "What can I help you with?" He was a redheaded kid with a toothy smile.

  Kasdan gazed around the store for a long moment before answering. The walls were lined with shoulder weapons of all types. The glass-enclosed counter where the kid was standing held a large inventory of handguns. In addition to weapons, camouflage clothing hung in racks along one side of the store. He acknowledged the clerk's greeting. "Yes, it is a good morning. I'm interested in a handgun with above average capabilities."

  The clerk smiled genially. "We have a number of excellent weapons that fall into that category. Are you interested in a semi-automatic or revolver?"

  "I think a revolver."

  "Good choice, and much more reliable than a semi-auto." He reached under the counter and brought out two guns. "These are both excellent weapons," he said. "But my personal choice is this one." He held up a nickel-plated Smith & Wesson Model 27 with a six-inch barrel. "It's a .357 magnum, capable of stopping everything short of a charging elephant," he exaggerated for effect.

  Kasdan took the gun and inspected it. While not a handgun expert, he was well aware of the .357 magnum's power, having fired several makes and models on the range. "Yes, I think this will do nicely. I will also need a holster and ammunition." He handed the weapon back to the clerk.

  A wide variety of hunting knives were on display inside the counter next to the guns. Several of them had blades twelve inches long. "Could I see a few of the long knives in this counter?" he asked. The clerk took out three knives and placed them on the counter. Kasdan picked them up one at a time, testing their balance and edges. He picked one made of stainless steel, razor-sharp, with a serrated back. "I'll take this one and a belt scabbard."

  While the clerk busied himself with calculating the cost of the items, Kasdan walked over to the camouf
lage clothing. He looked through the racks until he found pants, shirt, and cap that were his size. He also selected a lightweight jacket of the same material. When he finished shopping, the total cost came to $113.56. He smiled at what a difference in price seventy years could make. After he paid the clerk and placed the items inside his suitcase, he asked permission to use the telephone.

  "I need to call the airport to get some flight information," he informed the clerk.

  "No problem. The phone is in my office." He directed Kasdan to a small office in the back of the store "Take your time," he said in a friendly voice.

  Kasdan picked up a phonebook lying on top of a file cabinet and looked up the number of the Miami airport. Within a few minutes he had obtained the information he required. A Delta flight direct to Shannon was scheduled to depart at 12:05 p.m. After making another call to request a taxi, he thanked the clerk and went to wait for the cab. He gave no thought to the weapon in his suitcase. Terrorism was virtually unknown in this time period, so there would be no search of his luggage or person.

  He smiled to himself. Everything was going according to plan.

  Chapter 8

  The Forest

  As expected, Kasdan had experienced no problems while checking his suitcase through the customs desk at the Miami airport. The bored customs agent had simply asked if he had anything to declare then stamped his passport. If he had looked inside the carry-on, he would have discovered the two boxes of ammunition, which would have led to a body search of its owner. Then they would have discovered the revolver concealed beneath his camouflage jacket. He smiled to himself and sneered at the agent while he was busy stamping the passport. Had the weapon been discovered, it would have led to the deaths of the agent and anyone else who tried to interfere. Under no circumstances would he have allowed himself to be taken into custody.