Day Nine

by Clayton Spann

  Saturday, May 3

  The escorting Secret Service agent led him into the ground floor elevator.

  “I’m glad they made things right,” said the agent.

  “Thank you,” said Mauer.

  The agent smiled warmly. The immaculately groomed young man had treated him like royalty the moment he received Mauer from the federal marshals.

  The marshals driving Mauer from Fort Meade to the White House had also acted cordially. Probably more in relief getting rid of a hot potato than sharing joy at his pardon. During his three weeks in custody the marshals had not known whether to regard him as monster or hero.

  Despite the carnage he racked up, the Justice Department never formally charged him. The administration certainly didn’t want to bring him to trial; too much dirty laundry. He bet at one point they debated returning him to the Chinese. He wouldn’t put that past a weak sister like Hightower.

  Instead President Hightower decided to declare him a hero. Mauer had after all saved the country’s bacon, even if he went more overboard than usual. Mauer would get a blanket pardon, a hundred percent disability pension, a medal, and—most importantly—a worry free future.

  Mauer did not know whether the Russians had been bought off or threatened with war. The latter option certainly didn’t seem in character for Hightower; perhaps it was the Secretary of State who laid down the law. Ethan Canon certainly possessed enough savvy and balls to bring the Russians around.

  Whoever engineered the pledge, Mauer was supremely grateful. The bottom line was the Ruskies would leave Mauer and his daughter alone. He would avoid witness protection and Kim could leave it.

  The elevator doors opened. They were on the first floor of the West Wing.

  “This way, sir.” The agent extended his arm to the right.

  But Mauer knew the way all too well.

  They turned a corner and before them stretched the corridor leading to the Oval Office. The corridor was empty.

  That surprised Mauer. There should be at least one Secret Service agent standing before the door opening to the Oval Office.

  He shrugged. Security here wasn’t his problem. Besides, during that nightmare day two years ago there had been dozens of agents around. Which hadn’t mattered a bit.

  Two years ago he wasn’t in the West Wing to receive a medal. In these corridors he had killed invaders and saw a great friend heroically die. Though many other good men fell that day, Day 7 of the terrible days, the loss of Bill Bachman was still an open wound.

  The terrible Days defined his career. Eight of them, spread over a decade and a half, which had killed or ruined everyone he loved except his daughter. Thankfully there would never be a Day 9.

  After he saw President Hightower he would fly immediately to Southern California. Waiting would be Kim, son-in-law Stephen , and granddaughter Teri. Then he would enter a life completely devoid of drama. Just the way he wanted it.

  Thankfully Hightower had agreed to a low-key ceremony. No press or publicity. A quick presentation, a short chat, then Mauer would be off to Andrews Air Force Base to catch a government jet to Los Angeles.

  The agent slowed. “Here we are, sir.”

  The 45-degree angle of the corridor indicated they were outside the Oval Office.

  The agent rapped, then opened the door.

  “Mr. President, Jack Mauer is here.”

  “Thank you, Tom.”

  President Hightower rose from one of the lemon colored couches in the center of the sunlit room. The bland-faced, graying man who had replaced Allison Naylor four weeks ago smiled enthusiastically. Boy, thought Mauer, they really were glad to have him off their hands.

  Two other men and a woman rose from the other sofa. He knew them all. He was pleased and flattered by their presence. He was especially heartened to see Chloe.

  Though this was an informal meeting on a Saturday afternoon, they all wore business attire. He appreciated this gesture of respect.

  He eyed Chloe. He had rarely seen her in anything besides slacks and sweater. Chloe would never win a beauty contest, but he must admit she looked nice when dressed up. And her usually blah brown hair had luster and was tastefully styled.

  Mauer wore a suit himself. He had thought he would never wear coat and tie again—or civilian clothes of any sort. He had fully expected an orange jumpsuit to be his permanent duds.

  Former President Noah Darnell and current Secretary of State Ethan Canon were smiling, but less broadly than Hightower. Pale, thin Chloe sported more of a grimace. She of course rarely smiled.

  The President approached with extended hand. As they shook, his other hand patted Mauer’s forearm.

  Mauer disdained the forearm pat. The pat presumed an intimacy and trust that could only be earned by deed. Too often the pat marked a phony.

  But he cut Hightower slack. The man was probably sincere in conveying gratitude. In addition to rescuing the country for the umpteenth time, Mauer had made him president.

  Hightower swept his arm toward the others. “Jack, I believe you have met President Darnell and Secretary Canon. And of course, you are well acquainted with Director Bryant.”

  Darnell and Canon each awarded him a vigorous handshake. Both expressed hope that he was recovering well. Recovering from Chloe’s shot through the shoulder, they left unsaid. Both thanked him for saving Manhattan from destruction and uncovering Russian authorship of the plot. That he had sunk Allison Naylor was also left unsaid. They wished him well in his future endeavors.

  Chloe still hung back. He stepped and softly embraced her.

  “It’s good to see you, Chloe. And congratulations on being named permanent director of ATU New York.”

  “Thank you.” Then she pulled away to stand a good two yards from the rest of them. She definitely did look uncomfortable.

  Well, no wonder. She was socially clumsy anyway. Finding herself in the Oval Office with two presidents had probably freaked her out. She’d never win the Miss Congeniality award, either.

  But Mauer was certain the men in this office knew her true value. Chloe had distinguished herself during Day 8, when she was named interim director at New York. It had been a no-brainer to keep her in the job. So what if she were only thirty-four? She was smart, decisive, and more importantly, didn’t offer or tolerate bullshit.

  “Jack,” said the President, “why don’t we proceed to the presentation? We can do it in front of the Resolute.” Hightower gestured toward his desk. “I would have of course preferred we hold the presentation on the South Lawn. With the whole nine yards, including the Fife and Drum Corps. You deserve it.”

  “I appreciate your honoring my request, Mr. President.” Just hand him the medal and be done with it. The DDSM was a worthless gong anyway, usually awarded for valorous paper shuffling.

  Darnell and Canon moved over the royal blue carpet to flank Hightower. Darnell towered over the other men. Chloe did not move until the President asked she join them. The group stood around the seal of the United States embroidered in the carpet.

  Then Hightower removed a black case from his suit jacket. The case bore gilt lettering. Mauer came to attention.

  “On behalf of the people of the United States of America,” said Hightower, “I hereby award John Phillip Mauer the Defense Distinguished Service Medal for acts far, far above and beyond the call of duty. His bravery and devotion to protecting this country are awe-inspiring. We can never repay our debt to Agent Mauer. We can, however belatedly, offer our profound respect and thanksgiving.”

  The President’s soft cornpone voice reduced the praise to near parody. But Mauer didn’t care.

  Hightower handed him the case. Mauer did not open it. He would chuck the case and the medal within soon as he got home. He wanted no reminder of the Days.

  Hightower shook his hand again, as did Darnell and Canon. Chloe pecked his cheek.

  For a moment they stood awkwardly. Then the Pr
esident motioned toward the facing couches.

  “Jack, please have a seat.”

  The men once more offered benevolent smiles. Chloe did not.

  Chloe knew him better than anyone else now, including Kim. She knew how much he disliked idle small talk. She knew he wanted out of here, and fast.

  Mauer almost said, thank you gentlemen, but I have a plane to catch. Of course he didn’t. Mitchell Hightower had after all restored his life. And the man was only being gracious in not immediately dismissing Mauer. Mauer must be gracious back.

  So he sat on the very comfortable couch. Through the tall window to the left of the President’s desk Mauer saw Marine One perched on the South Lawn. Guilt pangs stirred. He was so eager to bolt that he hadn’t considered the President’s own plans.

  The helicopter surely waited to whisk the President and First Lady to Camp David or some other spot. The pair would already be gone for a weekend break if not for this presentation. No doubt Hightower too wanted to wrap this up.

  “Thank you again, Mr. President, for the pardon. And for intervening with the Russians.”

  When FBI caught him a week after Naylor resigned, Mauer knew at best he faced a life in the Colorado supermax. Now he had all those sunny tomorrows ahead. The last time he envisioned such a future was before Day 4, when he and Audrey were in love and he was free of ATU.

  Barbed wire pulled through his intestines. He wished he had not thought of Audrey. Audrey would forever live in her own supermax, that of a catatonic state.

  “The least we could do for you, Jack.”

  Then Hightower’s smile faded. Ditto for Darnell and Canon. Chloe looked even grimmer. Heavy silence pervaded the Oval Office.

  Hightower cleared his throat.

  “Jack, have you even been to Camp David?”

  Mauer blinked. What did that have to do with anything?

  “No, Mr. President.”

  Darnell also cleared his throat. “Camp David is probably the most secure location in the country. Even more so than the White House.”

  Mauer knew the facility sat on top of a mountain somewhere in western Maryland. But again, why tell him this?

  Unease stirred, then he relaxed. Hightower was probably about to invite Mauer there for the remainder of the weekend. As a further demonstration of gratitude. A fine honor—which Mauer wondered how to reject diplomatically.

  “Jack,” said the President, “you know I have also pardoned Allison Naylor. I have caught heat, but I am convinced it is best for the country. We have had enough national trauma over the past dozen years, and criminal trial of a president would only add to it.”

  “I understand, Mr. President.” Mauer would have hung her from a lamppost, but mostly for personal revenge.

  “Since I pardoned her, she has been staying at Camp David. She requested a couple weeks there, as refuge from the public and press. I felt it would be good to have her out of sight too.”

  “I see,” said Mauer.

  “I will be departing for Camp David before evening.” Hightower paused and didn’t quite maintain eye contact with Mauer. “I would like you on Marine One with me.”

  Mauer was sure he had misheard the President.

  “Sir?”

  Darnell cast his deep baritone. “I will be accompanying the President. As will Ethan.”

  Mauer didn’t understand. Or maybe he did. His stomach quickly soured.

  He was finally getting it: this medal presentation had been but a ploy. A deception to get him in this office which reeked of call to duty. To plead he undertake another mission, a mission which was of course vital to national security.

  Their gall was amazing.

  Over his career he had sacrificed much and gained little. In his euphoria at receiving the pardon he had thought the President only trying to balance the ledger. Dropping his guard was inexcusable. When had not everything in this world been quid pro quo?

  What dirty work at Camp David did they have in mind? To pry some state secret from Allison Naylor, pry as only he could?

  Mauer stood. “Sir, I have that flight. At four-thirty.”

  “I know, Jack. I apologize for how this looks. The pardon and pension are completely sincere on my part, and free of any obligation on your part. But a situation has developed.”

  “That is not my concern, Mr. President.”

  Chloe had risen to face him. Her too close together eyes were full of foreboding.

  “It’s everyone’s concern, Jack. Please listen.”

  “I wouldn’t think you in on this bait and switch.” He bore his eyes into hers. “From these—politicians—I expect it. Not you.”

  “Hear them out. Please.”

  “I’m leaving. I’m going home.”

  Mauer circled the couches to head for the corridor door. With surprising agility Noah Darnell blocked his path.

  “Allison is going to fuck us all,” he said.

  Darnell, linebacker big, looked ready to keep him from exiting. Mauer of course could make short work of Darnell. But aside from the absurdity of subduing a former president in this hallowed room, he’d blow his pardon and pension for sure.

  Mauer checked his wristwatch. Quarter of three.

  “You have fifteen minutes. Then I am out of here.”

  “Please sit,” said the President.

  “No, I’ll stand.” He again gave Chloe a malevolent stare. She bit her lip.

  “Aaron Price accompanied her to Camp David,” said Hightower. “You know Agent Price.”

  “Of course.” Aaron was one of the finest men ever in the Secret Service. More than once he and Mauer had teamed during the terrible days.

  “Did you know he has become romantically involved with her?”

  “With Naylor?”

  “Yes. For at least a year. They were extremely discreet. We have only become aware of the liaison in the past few days.”

  Soon after Day 5 Aaron had retired from the Secret Service. But he came back on duty during Day 7. He had been instrumental in obtaining evidence against Naylor’s daughter Olivia, when she conspired to murder a federal prisoner. Olivia was still serving time.

  Surprisingly Allison Naylor had kept Aaron on White House duty after her daughter was arrested. Mauer had thought she only did that to not appear vindictive. A romance was the last thing Mauer expected to bloom.

  “You have to be kidding.”

  “It’s confirmed,” said Chloe.

  Again he gave her a hard look.

  Then he shook his head. “So this is the crisis? What crisis? She’s out of office and can sleep with whoever she wants.”

  Even in office she had been a free woman after her divorce. She would have been violating only convention by having a lover in the White House.

  “Jack, what I reveal from this point stays between the five of us,” said Hightower. “I want your pledge beforehand.”

  “Of course.” But it didn’t matter what Hightower said. Mauer was going home.

  Hightower sighed. “No other way to say it, but to say it. Even if you think we are deranged. Jack, Camp David is a front. An astounding discovery was made in 1942, when the place was just woods near a summer camp for government employees. Shortly afterward FDR closed public access and proclaimed the area a presidential retreat.”

  What had they found there? Uranium? Gold?

  His mind raced. What if the discovery was a huge deposit of gold? Large enough to devalue the world’s the other gold holdings? That might cause a financial panic. Was Naylor threatening to disclose that knowledge?

  Mauer told himself to slow down. Let Hightower fill in the blanks. Then Mauer could make his evaluation.

  But it was Darnell who took up the narrative. Hightower seemed relieved. This president did have that rap, a man adverse to confrontation and decision. Hightower sagged into the couch next to his Secretary of State.

  By contrast, silver haired
Canon sat erectly. His posture and vigilant eyes reminded Mauer of an eagle. Which he was. Ethan Canon had excellently served the country in the two highest cabinet posts and as White House chief of staff.

  Chloe sat tightly coiled, her knuckles white. Was she so tense because she feared she had lost Mauer’s good will? Or was there merit to the “situation”? Please, let it be the former.

  Mauer remained squared off with Darnell and his bushy eyebrows and meaty face.

  “Camp David sits atop a geological—and gravitational—anomaly,” said Darnell. “The bulk of the mountain is composed of very compressed igneous rock. The formation is even more dense than lead. The formation should have sunk long ago into the earth’s core, but somehow it is trapped in the crust.”

  What was this, a geology seminar? The former president paused as if waiting for comment from Mauer. Mauer instead looked at his watch.

  Darnell’s eyes narrowed as he went on. “Back in 1942 a ranger at the summer camp was hiking when he knocked loose a rock. The rock rolled into a shallow crater, then disappeared. There was no hole in the crater. The ranger thought he was seeing things. He tested whether it would happen again. It did.”

  Despite himself, Mauer’s interest was piqued. “Go on,” he said.

  “The man knew he had come across something extraordinary. Thankfully he had enough brains to keep his mouth shut until he could show his brother, who was a naval officer stationed in Washington. From there it went up the chain of command. FDR acted shortly thereafter.”

  Mauer checked his watch. Only a few minutes left. “You haven’t hit me with the punchline yet.”

  Darnell broke from in front of Mauer. He went to pour himself some coffee. A silver pot and china cups sat on the table between the couches.

  “Tell him, Ethan.”

  “Jack, please sit. I guarantee you will want to delay getting to Andrews.”

  “I doubt it, Mr. Secretary.”

  “The anomaly allows going back in time.”

  “Say again.”

  “The anomaly—we call it Transit One—apparently has enough gravitational pull to distort the space-time continuum. Transit One allows a person to step back in time in increments of nineteen years."

  Mauer stared at the Secretary, then realized his mouth hung open.

  “Hard to swallow, isn’t it?” Canon smiled wanly. “I was thrown for a loop when James Keller told me.”

  That was a name Mauer never wanted to hear again. The son of a bitch, Audrey’s father, had dared to blame him for her condition. Keller said Mauer was cursed, that he doomed any woman falling in love with him.

  “Jack?”

  Mauer’s face had grown hot.

  “Yes, Mr. Secretary?”

  “I should explain how knowledge of Transit One is handled now. FDR, Truman and Eisenhower knew its exact location. When John Kennedy was elected, Eisenhower decided to divide that knowledge. He didn’t trust Kennedy to act responsibly with the power the transit provides.”

  “The power, sir?”

  “To change whatever you didn’t like about the past. Ike feared Kennedy—who he in private called ‘Little Boy Blue’—would use the power frivolously. Anyway, Eisenhower separately briefed Kennedy and Robert McNamara on the existence of Transit One. To each he gave two of four map coordinates. The coordinates form a trapezoid. The intersection of the lines drawn from opposite corners gives the location of Transit One.”

  Darnell, holding a coffee cup, came back into the game. “Each president hands down his two map points to his successor. As does the Secretary of Defense. The recipients pledge to share the coordinates only if the United States has incurred mortal damage—such as after a nuclear war, or a plague on the scale of the Black Death. Catastrophes that merely wipe out a couple million citizens do not qualify.”

  Darnell smiled as he spoke the last sentence. Darnell had proved a highly competent chief executive, but his sometimes cavalier attitude toward death had probably cost him the election—to the “idealist” Allison Naylor. Mauer had not minded the attitude. The deaths—in the form of enhanced interrogation and even more enhanced retaliation—fell on the mortal enemies of the United States.

  “If it weren’t you gentlemen telling me this,” said Mauer, “I’d say you were handing me a first class line of horse manure. Maybe you are anyway.”

  Chloe patted the couch. “Jack, please.”

  This time Mauer did not refuse. He sat beside her.

  “You buy this? Going back in time?”

  “Yes. They showed me photos—color photos—from George Washington’s time.”

  “No way.”

  “It’s true, Jack. I was just as disbelieving.”

  “Show me the pictures.”

  “Soon,” said Darnell. “But you wanted to know what’s the crisis.”

  The big man sat opposite Mauer. “Two days ago Allison Naylor—and Aaron Price—went down the rabbit hole. Totally unauthorized. To totally screw us over.”

  Quiet again reigned in the Oval Office.

  Mauer broke the silence. “So this is what this kabuki is all about. To get me to go down after her.”

  “Yes,” said Darnell. “But the pardon and pension are yours to keep, whether you say yes or no.”

  “You make the answer easy. I’m going home.”

  “There may not be a home if you refuse.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “Give us another half hour, Jack. If you still want out, we’ll fly you to LA in Air Force One.”

  Chloe Bryant kept her eyes riveted to Jack as Darnell and Canon went on. She fought guilt. They were shamelessly using him, and she was too. She owned the greater shame because her motives were entirely personal.

  She had no doubt that Jack would accept the mission. Bait and switch was right, except the real bait was yet to dawn on Jack. But it soon would. Jack would find the lure irresistible.

  Darnell gave some background on Transit One. Which had been learned via deadly trial and error. The first man through, in mid 1942, had made it to 1923 and back. The next six did not return. The seventh man did return, but barely. All the men were young Secret Service agents sworn to absolute secrecy.

  The first agent through had gone down Catoctin Mountain to the nearby town of Thurmont. He returned no worse for wear. Well, maybe. The observers—one of which was the Secretary of War—did think him a trifle shorter; at the time they dismissed it as just their imagination.

  The agent reappeared within seconds. The agent insisted he had been in 1923 a full twenty-six hours. It was hard to dispute him, for he brought back a newspaper with the verifying date.

  The next agent through had been instructed to go to Washington D.C. and take photos. When he did not return after two weeks, the next man was dispatched to find out what had happened. He also failed to reappear, as did the next four very brave volunteers.

  The agent who did return—like the first, moments after entering Transit One—told a harrowing tale.

  He arrived in Washington within a day of his descent from the mountain. He roamed the city searching for any sign of his fellow agents. He showed pictures of the missing men and even contacted the police. Then someone did remember seeing one of them. This missing man however was a midget. Uh, not really a midget, but still very short.

  This man had been six one.

  By his third day the searching agent noticed his clothes fitting loosely. He checked his height. He had lost two inches. He immediately fled Washington, and was down three more inches when he made it to Transit One.

  Amazingly and fortunately, his height returned to normal within an hour.

  Through later testing it was confirmed that the missing agents had shortened rapidly. They were estimated to have shrunk to helplessness—or to have simply disappeared—within a week.

  The theory was that time possessed its own immune system. Time treated an out of place invade
r like a body did a genetically incompatible transplant. Time reacted to degrade and destroy the invader.

  All this had blown her mind when she first heard it. Which was just yesterday, though it seemed a month ago.

  But Jack did not bat an eye. She saw absolute concentration on his still handsome face.

  It was amazing that he looked as good—and appetizing—as he did. Jack had borne injury and torture that would have aged anyone else into a nursing home. Aside from crow’s feet and some gray in his golden hair he wasn’t that much worse for wear. He fully exuded that raw masculinity that struck to the pit of her stomach.

  “I assume two people last longer,” said Jack, his first words in twenty minutes. “I’m also assuming that’s why Chloe is here, to accompany me.”

  Yes, Jack was catching on fast.

  The assertion seemed to catch Darnell and Canon off guard. Probably even after reading his file, even after experiencing his exploits in real time, they didn’t know with whom they dealt. Both men probably viewed Jack as a superjock, not nearly as quick or clever as they, the skilled politicians. Many people had made the mistake of underestimating Jack Mauer.

  “Very good, Jack,” said Canon.

  “How much longer do two people last?” asked Jack.

  “That depends. Sixty days seems to be the maximum.”

  Bryant braced for Darnell to reveal the criteria for the maximum. It would be so embarrassing.

  She felt heat creep into her cheeks. She hoped they were not reddening. What would Jack think when Darnell said romantic love protected a pair the longest? After the double take, would he laugh?

  No, Jack would not laugh, even if he thought the possibility of a romantic link between him and her utterly ridiculous. Jack would never deliberately hurt her. For all his ferocity in the field, in normal settings he was thoughtful and polite. He was always a proper gentleman.

  Darnell did not reveal the criteria.

  “You haven’t asked what Allison is up to,” said Darnell.

  “Oh, I can imagine,” said Jack. “She’s going back to 1996. Probably to give her 1996 self a heads up about the future.”

  That’s what Bryant thought when they first briefed her. If only.

  “If that’s how it works,” said Jack. “If an older version of a person can exist side by side with the younger.”

  Darnell nodded. “But the hard part would be to convince your younger self you weren’t some nut job. What you’d think, an old guy shows up saying he’s you?”

  “Come on, Mr. President. He would know stuff about yourself only you would. After the initial shock, you’d probably buy it.”

  “Maybe—”

  “No maybe. I can’t blame Naylor going back. Not only can she avoid falling from grace, she can save the life of her son, prevent her daughter from going to jail, and keep her marriage intact. What I don’t get is why any of that would bother you.”

  “Let me give you some perspective, Jack.”

  “I’d don’t need perspective. Just tell me why Chloe and I should risk shrinking out of existence to stop Naylor doing some good. Hell, besides saving her ass, she might be planning to warn about all the terrorist attacks.”

  Then a fire lit behind his light blue eyes.

  “Why haven’t you used this power to stop the attacks of the past fifteen years?”

  “They can’t,” said Chloe.

  He whirled on her. His voice lashed.

  “Because maybe history changes so they don’t make it to the top? And you don’t get to be director of ATU New York?”

  She winced, then turned away. She tried to keep from tearing. He was right to be furious at her, but not for that reason. Oh, Jack.

  Darnell’s deep voice intervened. “A fair question. But you could also ask why haven’t I tried to go back. That way I could advise myself how to not lose the election to Naylor. I could still be president. And I could have snuffed out the last two terror plots and been a big hero.”

  “You must have been tempted.”

  “Regardless of what you might think, Ethan and I—and all our predecessors except this unholy bitch—have had the character to keep our pledge. Which is not to mess with history.”

  “I wasn’t implying—”

  The macabre smile returned. “Hard to believe, I know, politicians with integrity. But you mention temptation. It has been there from the start. Think of the discipline FDR had not to undo things. By sending back someone to take out Hitler in the 1920’s, he may have prevented World War II.”

  “May have?” asked Jack.

  “Yes. You’ve heard of Ernst Röhm? He was head of the Storm Troopers, nearly charismatic as Hitler and just as power mad. Hitler had him killed because he was challenging for control of the party. Point is, if Hitler had died in the 1920’s, Röhm likely would have become Fürher. Which would have been even worse, because Röhm had been a professional military man. It is very unlikely he would have made Hitler’s battlefield mistakes that cost Germany the war.”

  But would the Holocaust still have happened, Bryant wanted to ask.

  “So you don’t mess with history,” said Darnell. “Unless you’re losing the whole ballgame. FDR understood that. Hell, don't you think he wanted to send someone back to warn about Pearl Harbor? But he knew we had the resources to beat both Japan and Germany.”

  “I guess.”

  “Nothing to guess, Jack. I’ll give you another example. How about stopping the Kennedy assassination? I was just a kid when it happened, but I remember the pain it caused my parents and teachers. I don’t think the country has been the same since. So why didn’t we do it, Jack? Clinton or Falmer or I could have prevented the assassination, if we could talk our Secretary of Defense into it. What held our hand?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you should have. Maybe the Vietnam War could have been prevented.”

  “You have your eye on the wrong war, Jack. We dared not tinker with the course of the Cold War.”

  Jack’s brow knitted.

  “If Kennedy lived,” said Darnell, “there is no guarantee that the Cold War would have ended the way it did. Or ended at all.”

  Canon piped up. “The path to Reagan and Gorbachev was not a fix. A two term Kennedy administration would have changed the line of presidential succession. Which could have changed who led the Soviet Union and prevented its fall. Which could mean we would still face the threat of full scale nuclear war.”

  Bryant’s head was spinning. She had never been a student of history. She supposed what Darnell and Canon said made sense. At any rate, Allison Naylor threatened all that history and more.

  Jack sighed and looked at Canon. “As you said, Mr. Secretary, this is a lot to swallow.”

  Canon nodded. “I know. But be sure of this, Jack. Allison is going back to seek the destruction of the United States.”

  “How? What can she do in 1996? And how did she get the other two coordinates? Who would give them to her?”

  Canon puffed his cheeks. “We think Keller gave them up. He denies it. But of all the former Defense Secretaries, only he has motivation.”

  Jack looked like he had been slapped. Jack of course knew the motivation, the fully understandable desire of Keller to prevent his daughter’s brain dead condition.

  If not already, Jack too would soon look to 1996 to save Audrey. And Teri, and Renee, and Bill, all who had fallen during the crisis days. Bryant would have her own motivation, to save coworker Edgar…and to keep from marrying an alcoholic.

  She acknowledged that it did take great discipline to not give in to such temptation. Roosevelt’s policy was seemingly cruel. But the unintended consequences of violating that policy could be much crueler.

  Would Jack see that?

  “Since Franklin Roosevelt,” said Darnell as he stood, “every president has refrained from altering history. FDR, Truman and Eisenhower used Transit One for research purposes on
ly. Ike put an end to even that. No one has gone through Transit One since 1960. Until two days ago.”

  “So what is she up to?” asked Jack. “Can she muck things up that much in 1996?”

  Darnell paced in front of the Resolute. He clamped hands behind his back.

  Bryant didn’t blame the former president for his hesitation to speak. When yesterday Darnell had broached what Allison Naylor intended, Bryant had thought him mad. And said so. Darnell had flashed that weird smile, then showed her the proof.

  Darnell stopped pacing and faced Jack. “Forget 1996. We believe Naylor and Price have gone to 1863. To change the course of the Civil War.”

  “What?”

  “We believe she’s going to kill either Lincoln or Grant.”

  “Or possibly Sherman,” said Canon. “Or maybe all three. With Price at her side, she’ll certainly have the capability.”

  Chloe saw Jack looking at both men dumbfounded. She had rejected their assumption, too. Now she took it as gospel.

  “Wait, wait,” said Jack. “I don’t see how she gets back that far. You said the men going from 1942 to 1923 returned to 1942 when they reentered Transit One.”

  “Transit One is a tricky entity,” said Darnell. “Fortunately we had that stretch of sending people through to learn the ins and outs. If a person—or couple—reenters the transit within ten minutes, they go back another nineteen years.”

  “Why nineteen years?” asked Jack.

  “We can only speculate,” said Canon. “Some of Ike’s investigators thought it was tied to the nineteen year lunar cycle. Nineteen years is a multiple of both the lunar month and the solar year. Lunar and solar gravity affect the tides. In some way they may also affect Transit One. It’s just a theory, of course.”

  Jack still looked unbelieving.

  “Whatever the reason, the intervals are nineteen years. Using them Eisenhower’s people reached as far as the 1600’s,” said Canon. “We believe you could travel to the time of the cavemen—if so inclined.”

  “Jesus,” said Jack.

  “No,” said Darnell, “Jesus H. Christ.”

  “There are some constraints,” said Canon. “The primary one is that once you stop, you can’t go any further. If Allison is indeed at 1863, she can’t go from there to 1844. From 1863 she can only come forward. When she returns she can proceed directly to 2015. Or she can stop at each way station in between. With opportunity at 1882, 1901, etc., to wreck historical havoc.”

  Jack waved his hand. “I—there’s something else you said, that a person returns seconds after he left. If Naylor and Price left two days ago, they should already be back. And far as I can tell, the North still won the Civil War.”

  “They will return May 1,” said Canon. “But the clock is still ticking on whether they can change things.”

  Now Jack appeared utterly confounded.

  “Jack,” said Darnell, “I said Transit One was tricky. But in a way it has its own perfect logic. Eisenhower’s people did a simple experiment. In 1956 they sent a guy through on a Monday—to 1937—and he waited until Thursday to chisel an X in a rock near the transit. On Tuesday another man came through. He stayed only a couple hours. Back in 1956, Tuesday, there was no X in the rock, nor had the first guy returned. When the first guy did return, on Friday in 1937 but Monday in 1956, now there was an X. Which means that Naylor and Price have not yet applied their chisel. There is still time to stop them.”

  Jack looked at Bryant. “This making sense to you?”

  “Not at first. But today it does.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely, Jack. It is entirely logical.” Well, as Darnell said, in its own way.

  Jack turned to Darnell and Canon. “If any of this is true, why would Naylor want the South to win? Where’s the gain in that for her?”

  Canon looked glum. “Losing office may have partly unhinged her. We—”

  “Partly?”

  “But there is something else,” said Canon. “As an undergraduate she was a history major, an exceptional one. She graduated summa cum laude. Anyway, her sophomore year she wrote a term paper. It proposed that if the Confederacy had won the Civil War—mainly through the untimely demise of Abraham Lincoln and Ulysses Grant—then Fascism would not have succeeded in Germany or communism in Russia. No World War II, no Holocaust, no Gulag. She concluded that at least one hundred million lives would have been saved.”

  “That paper was used against her in her first Senate campaign,” said Darnell. “Her opponent thought he had a sure thing; you don’t advocate killing Lincoln and Grant. But you know her charm. I had a quarter her charm, I’d be president for life. She laughed it off, saying she was playing devil’s advocate, and besides, she was just a sophomore. She won that election by eighteen points. Nobody brought it up again.”

  Jack snorted. “That’s why you think she went to 1863?”

  “She was dead serious,” said Canon. “She told me so after that election.” Canon had been a long time friend and advisor to Naylor.

  “Even if she was serious, how does the Confederacy surviving do anything to help with World War II? If anything, a divided United States would probably give Hitler the victory.”

  “You’re forgetting the First World War,” said Canon.

  “I don’t follow.”

  “The entry of the United States snatched victory from Germany. By 1918 Germany had won vast territories in the east, including modern day Poland, Belarus, Ukraine, and Romania. Britain and France were worn out. If America had not entered the war, an armistice favorable to Germany would likely have been concluded.”

  Bryant saw Jack shaking his head.

  Canon went on. “The Kaiser would have remained on his throne. Germany would have avoided the humiliation and upheaval that brought the Nazis to power. A Germany with her armies intact would also have been in position to quash the communist revolution in Russia. The world would be a very different—and probably a much better place.”

  Jack was looking as if Naylor wasn’t the only one who had become unhinged. Bryant had to admit Canon sounded wistful.

  “Thing is,” said Darnell. “She now has the means to act on her ‘devil’s advocate’ musings.”

  Jack again shook his head. “Even if the South won independence, the North would still be a strong country. The North had most of the population and industry. It could still enter World War I with enough strength to matter.”

  “Not according to Allison,” said Canon. “She believed the deaths of Lincoln and Grant would derail the Northern war effort. Great Britain was itching to recognize the Confederacy; chaos in the North would have given them the excuse. Allison believed that once Britain made the recognition, the North would be unforgiving. It would not come into World War I on Britain’s side. A grateful South might have, but its military contribution could not be decisive.”

  “She’s out of her gourd,” said Jack.

  Darnell smiled. “I know, I know. But this is how Allison Naylor sees things. And right now she’s gunning for Abe Lincoln. If she gets him in the middle of the Civil War, history is going to flow a hell of a lot differently. Probably not the way she wants, but neither will it be good for the United States.”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “So what do you say, Jack, are you in or out?”

  In the Rose Garden Darnell walked with Canon and Hightower. Ethan looked grim, but accepting. Mitch looked sick to his stomach. Jack and Chloe were in the Oval Office telephoning loved ones with some lie as to why they would be out of touch a couple days.

  On the South Lawn the late afternoon sun glinted off Marine One. Shortly the bird would be airborne with three super duper VIPs and two prospective time travelers. If it all worked out, the VIPs would return, and the time travelers would not. If the venture failed, no one would come back from Camp David.

  It was such a beautiful afternoon. Darnell loved ear
ly May in Washington. The days were balmy and long. Foliage was lush and fragrant, the skies mostly blue, and the air free of the brutal humidity to come. In early May there was little reason to leave the White House for Camp David.

  “You going to be okay with this, Mitch?” asked Darnell.

  Pain crossed Hightower’s face. “I wish we had another option.”

  Darnell hid a sneer. On his own, Mitch would have had neither the wisdom nor fortitude to kill Mauer and Bryant.

  “It has to be done,” said Ethan. “I don’t like it. I’ll take the regret to my grave. But the necessity is absolute.”

  “I can see it for Mauer,” said Hightower. “But Bryant? She has no axe to grind in 1996.”

  “Mitch—”

  “And maybe I’m old fashioned. Killing a woman just seems wrong.”

  Darnell wondered how Naylor could have picked this man as her running mate. Regional and gender balance had been the excuse, but she knew Mitch’s limitations. It had been highly irresponsible to put such a dithering lightweight a heartbeat away from the presidency.

  And here they were. With almost two more years of presidency remaining. The only good thing was that Mitch seemed more than ready to accept his and Ethan’s guidance.

  Darnell didn’t cotton to killing women either. Especially one like Chloe Bryant, who had served her country so well. It would bother him.

  But she was in love with Mauer. She would not take his death sitting down. She would want revenge with the fury that only a betrayed woman could muster. Upon return to 2015 she would not rest until she had all their hides.

  That they might be able to handle. But in her rage Chloe might let slip—or willingly spill—the beans about Transit One. That they could not permit. Consequently everybody and their brother would demand that Transit One be employed to prevent or warn about calamities from traffic accidents to earthquakes.

  The political pressure to institute such a regime would be unstoppable. The historical disruption caused by such “minor” corrections would be bad enough. Far worse would be attempts like those of Allison Naylor, which could shatter history altogether.

  “Mitch,” said Darnell, “it’s the right call. For the greater good.” And beyond recall.

  “We better hope so,” said Hightower. For the first time there was some bite in his voice.

  This morning two men went through the transit, bound for 1939, before the presidential retreat existed. Both men—Navy SEALs—would stay at Transit One. The SEALs would let Jack and Chloe pass through on the way to 1863. On the return journey, Jack and Chloe would be shot as they emerged into 1939. They would not get close to 1996.

  “What we better the hell hope is that this works,” Darnell said. “Otherwise we can kiss the USA goodbye.”

  Hightower nodded. “I hope Mauer will have enough time on the other side. From what you tell me, there’s no guarantee he and Bryant will get more than two weeks.”

  Darnell fumed. That Mitch had been unaware of Transit One compounded Naylor’s treachery. After her fall, she did not brief him. She obviously hoped that would buy her extra hours or even days before the reason for her disappearance from Camp David was determined.

  When word she had gone missing arrived late Thursday, Mitch had thankfully first called Ethan. Though Ethan had no idea of the location of Transit One, his suspicions were immediately aroused. They were confirmed when Mitch said he’d never heard of the transit.

  Ethan contacted Darnell. Darnell, hunting in Montana, could not get to the White House until dawn Friday. There he and Ethan put the coordinates on a map, drew the lines, and with dread watched the lines intersect at Camp David.

  It was Ethan who suggested putting Jack Mauer on the case. Darnell immediately concurred. When the bases were loaded in the bottom of the ninth, you brought in your best closer. Didn’t matter if off the field he gambled or whored or brawled, you brought him in.

  Mitch blanched at using a man he considered a wild beast, but he folded quickly. A check of the records pointed to Chloe as best choice for Jack’s companion. While they secured her cooperation, got the SEALs in position, and obtained Civil War era gear and intelligence, they readied for today’s meeting with Jack.

  Darnell answered Hightower. “Yeah. There’s no guarantee. But at least they can get the warning out.”

  That was the main thing, if an airtight guard could be put around Lincoln and Grant before Naylor struck.

  But an initial setback would not cause Naylor to throw in the towel. It never had. Given enough time she would figure out how to penetrate whatever security was devised. And Price would serve as her faithful and able co-conspirator as they tried to murder the country’s greatest president and its toughest general. A Jack Mauer was needed on the ground to counter them.

  Darnell hoped Jack and Chloe would get at least a month in 1863. It had taken some prodding yesterday, but Chloe finally admitted she was crazy in love with Jack. Which from reading their files, was what Darnell expected. Chloe Bryant had risked her career—and lengthy federal prison sentences—many times for him.

  What Jack felt for Chloe was the big question mark. Nothing in the files indicated it went beyond strong friendship. At the very best Jack might feel something akin to sibling affection.

  The tests in Eisenhower’s time had shown that mere friendship bought an extra week. Affection topped out at a month. A solid marriage got a pair six weeks, while mutual head over heels love bought two months.

  One way affection or love didn’t cut it. One way feelings restricted both parties to a single week.

  Darnell chuckled to himself. He could make a fortune using Transit One to test couples’ commitment. “The Transit Don’t Lie” would be his company’s motto. He sure could have used Transit One with Lisa, who he knew loved him and instead betrayed him.

  Transit One had to be the wildest entity ever discovered. How could a time portal know anything about true love? Ike’s people could not come up with a plausible scientific explanation.

  One investigator threw up his hands. He declared the transit was a manifestation of the Deity, who smiled on lovers out of time and place. For a couple of months, at least.

  Whatever. All Darnell knew for sure was that the country faced dismemberment because a disgraced president was reaching for redemption—and yes, for glory. If the Deity controlled the transit, may He damn Naylor to the netherworld.

  Allison Naylor. When she arrived in the Senate at the constitutionally minimum age of thirty, an enraptured reporter said the honey haired looker possessed both the face and the soul of an angel. This grown man declared that her eyes, which he rhapsodized turned from blue to aquamarine to green depending on how the light struck, were the window to the gloriously empathetic soul.

  From her start in Washington the media had treated her with kid gloves. When sixteen years later she ran against Darnell—the devil incarnate because of his brutal dealings with the country’s enemies—the media awarded her goddess status. She was a great campaigner and debater of course, but the media tilted the field so far in her favor he never had a chance.

  Like a betrayed lover the media had turned on her with a vengeance after her transgressions last month. As did the populace. “Put not your trust in goddesses” was the lament throughout the land.

  But Darnell had never been fooled. He had always suspected underneath her soaring rhetoric and hypnotic charm lay a ruthless hypocrite. Half of him took solace at her uncloaking, half of him grieved at the terrible letdown for the country.

  Aaron Price was probably the latest victim of her siren song. Darnell knew the man only in passing. The records indicated a dutiful Secret Service agent who had risen slowly through the ranks to a midlevel supervisory position. Price was a turtle rather than a rabbit. Brave, competent and unflappable, but hardly a world class talent like Naylor.

  Darnell could understand Price falling in love with Naylor, who
was still attractive even if now rounder in face and bottom. But Naylor in love with Price? Where was the physical attraction to a bald man built like a fireplug? Where was the intellectual attraction to a man by all accounts with the personality of a stone?

  The only halfway plausible explanation was that Price had caught Naylor on the rebound. She supposedly took very hard the desertion of her husband, after she refused to let her murderous daughter off the hook. In her double sorrow she must have found the stolid Price a trusty rock to which to cling. Guess that applied even more so after her disgrace.

  Darnell saw Jack and Chloe emerge from the Oval Office. He took a deep breath. It was time to crank up Marine One.

  1863