by Bob Mayer
Orienting herself to the terrain features of what would be called the Gorges of the Ardèche Valley, which were almost exactly the same in her time, she estimated she was about two kilometers from the target, the cave, which was farther up the Gorges. The Ardèche River coursed down the lowest part of the valley, about twenty feet from where Moms was, but it was almost completely covered with a thick layer of ice, the water pressing through underneath and opening into a narrow central channel. There were brush and stunted trees struggling for life on either side of the stream. Between her and the stream was the only sign of activity: a narrow trail, the dirt hard-packed, following the course of the water on this side.
The walls of the Gorges were too steep to climb in many places. Moms could see how a tribe would settle here if they could find a cave that could only be approached from below. She imagined there were several inhabited caves along the course of the river; not just by humans, but some by cave bears.
“Bears,” Moms said, mimicking someone pretending to be frightened, someone on television a while ago, millennia in the future, but she couldn’t remember who. It had been a joke, but if she ran into a cave bear, it wouldn’t be funny. Males could weigh over a thousand pounds. This was their end, though, this last ice age. They’d be gone in a few thousand years.
Moms giggled. Just a few thousand years. As if that were nothing. A speck of time. And it was; she’d just crossed, what was it, 32,000 or so years, with one step? A step too far. Or was it A Bridge?
Moms slapped herself across the face.
“Pull yourself together!”
Then she slapped herself again for saying that out loud.
Moms stood. She’d preached to the team about being too complacent, but there was another aspect: a mission too vague to understand or plot a course of action. Should she just go to the Chauvet Cave, wander in, and say hi? According to the download, there was some sort of basic language now, but of course, the download had no record of it. So Moms couldn’t even say hi. Scratch that.
She was here, and it was cold and miserable, and she had no clue what was there, in that cave. Dane always seemed so confident they’d figure it out once they got when and where they were going. Observe all the pieces, see how they fit, and see what doesn’t fit, what the Shadow had planned that would upset what was supposed to happen.
Except what, exactly, was supposed to happen? Happened? It was history. It was now. Moms shivered, trying to think straight.
Moms had wanted to complain, to question the mission, but as team leader, it wasn’t something that could be done in front of the others.
Nothing is impossible to the man (or woman) who doesn’t have to do it.
One of Nada’s favorite sayings, and one they’d only shared privately in the CP, Command Post, back at the Ranch. In front of the team, it had always been No problem, can do. Because that’s what leaders did.
Why we are here? Moms had no frakking clue at the moment.
She heard movement to her left, farther downstream. Backing up, she lay down in the snow and dust, behind several uprooted trees that gave a modicum of concealment.
Figures appeared on the trail, bundled in thick furs. Seven bearded men. Two women shepherding children, a boy and a girl, pre-teen, but able to walk on their own.
Not much of a tribe, Moms thought. But this was pre-agriculture, and they survived by being hunter-gatherers, and that didn’t allow for large groups in one place.
Two of the men had spears. The rest had wood, piled high on their backs with rudimentary carriers made of branches and animal sinews. They had clubs in their hands. Moms understood the need for firewood from her winter warfare training. Fire was as essential as water in this type of environment. It was needed to melt ice, cook food, keep predators away during the dark, and keep from freezing to death. Glancing up, she saw that the sun was lower, heading toward the west rim of the valley.
The last man passed, and though she was tempted to follow the party, she remained still. Another tactical lesson learned via the blood lessons from the history of combat. Plus, she knew where the cave was.
Her wait was rewarded.
Five warriors and a woman came down the trail. The men were not bearded. Not of this time. Besides the lack of beards, everything they wore or carried was from another era. The men were dressed in well-worn leather, layered on. The outermost layer was basic armor, pieces of protective metal woven into the fabric. They had swords at their sides and spears in one hand.
Moms placed them at some time during the Bronze era. Warriors, not just by their accouterment, but also the way they moved. One man was out front on point, five meters ahead of the main body. The rear man spent most of his time walking backward.
She remembered Roland speaking of meeting a Spartan whose timeline provided mercenaries for the Shadow. These were from some timeline that appeared to be in the same position. Perhaps early Spartans, before the red cloaks and the crested helmets and the chiseled pecs and—
Moms shook her head. That was a movie. Not real. This was real.
The sixth, the woman, was the outlier. She was dressed in black trousers and tunic, covered by a long coat. She had a pack on her back which appeared to be made out of a material like nylon, and a quiver of arrows was attached to its side. In her hands, she held a bow.
The point man raised a fist as he came abreast of Moms’s position. The other five froze as he looked left, right. Moms had also gone still at the signal. She stopped breathing, her hands on the Naga, knowing that even with the weapon, these were very bad odds.
Seconds passed, an eternity, then the point man signaled for them to continue.
The female hesitated for a moment, and Moms felt the woman’s gaze rake over the area where she was hidden. It was tangible, and it took everything Moms had not to stand up.
Then the woman moved on.
The intruders disappeared up the valley.
Moms took a deep breath and got to her knees, then stood. She estimated there was about an hour of daylight left.
They’d attack once their target was in the cave. The downside of an excellent defensive position was that it being a trap if there was no exit, and the download confirmed the Chauvet Cave had only one ground-level entrance.
Moms slipped through the brush to the trail.
She began following.
There was killing to be done.
The Present
Our Present.
Area 51
“RUSSIANS.” COLONEL ORLANDO spit with the wind; his father had raised no fool. He watched the small plane on approach to the pitted concrete airstrip in the middle of nowhere, Nevada. The runway dated back to World War II when the Air Force decided Nevada was a pretty good place to teach hastily-trained pilots to drop bombs, since the many misses pretty much had the same effect as a hit: a lot of sand and rock blown up.
“You don’t like Russians?” Eagle asked. “Ms. Jones was Russian.”
“She was a Nightstalker,” Orlando said. And that was the end of that, because Orlando had been a Nightstalker longer than anyone knew, which meant everyone alive had come after him, and he’d outlasted all his teammates. When he’d no longer been able to be an operative—the distinct odor of alcohol was his constant companion—Ms. Jones had made him the recruiter for the elite team.
Now she was gone, too.
Time takes all, Eagle thought. His shoulder ached with no painkiller, but he’d piloted the Snake here, and that had precluded taking any.
The plane touched down.
The Snake was behind them, a jet-engine tilt-rotor plane that, according to the Department of Defense, was still being computer simulated and not yet in production. Eagle had been flying one for four years for the Nightstalkers, and now, as a member of the Time Patrol, had access to it when needed.
“Who are the new Nightstalkers?” Eagle asked. It was a question that had been on the edge of his brain ever since being “recruited” into the Time Patrol.
“B
unch of yahoos,” Orlando said. “Never be the same as you guys. Plus, without Rifts to shut, they spend most of their time cranking their yank. Or is it yanking their crank? Working routine stuff like stolen biological agents, nuke stuff, lab mishaps, containment failures. The usual dumb scientist stuff. Be glad you moved on. The scientists seem to be getting dumber.” From the tone of his voice, it was clear he was not happy that Eagle and the others had moved on.
“The Ranch the same?” Eagle asked.
“Yeah,” Orlando said. “The new Nightstalkers headquarter out of Area 51 for now. It’s just as you guys left it.”
“Good,” Eagle said.
The plane decelerated. It was a twin-engine jet with a single blue stripe down the side. No tail number, no other markings. It didn’t exist to the FAA. It didn’t have a transponder. There were lumps under the wings that an observant man could tell housed anti-missile defenses and some offensive capability. Both Eagle and Orlando were observant men.
The plane halted fifty feet away. The front left door opened out and down, providing a short staircase. There was no one for almost ten seconds.
“Geez,” Orlando complained. “You remember the Army, Eagle. Any time you get a tasking for warm bodies, you never send your best people. You send the folks you wanna get rid of.”
Then a big man dressed in nondescript khakis was framed in the exit. He paused and peered about, saw Orlando and Eagle, then looked past them to the Snake. He looked over his shoulder and said something, then came down the steps with the swagger of, well, a big man, used to dominating whatever setting he was in.
He was followed by a woman, dressed the same. She was young, blond, blue-eyed, and beautiful in that not-quite-a-real-person, thin, tall, model sort of way. She also came down the stairs with the aura of one used to being watched at all times, for reasons different than that of the man.
“I think they sent her to the wrong place,” Orlando muttered.
“Don’t judge a book by the cover,” Eagle said.
“I don’t read books.”
A Russian soldier came next, his hand on the shoulder of a young woman confined in a straitjacket. Her head was close-shaven, just a dark stubble. She was of average height, skinny to the point of anorexia, and seemed resigned to her fate.
“That’s just great,” Orlando said.
The big man walked up to Orlando and Eagle, not bothering to wait for the others. “I am—” he began in a Russian accent.
“You’re nobody,” Orlando cut him off. “No names. We do the naming. For now, you’re Boris.” The woman arrived, having heard the exchange. Before she could speak, Orlando also christened her. “And you’re Princess. And you’re”—He looked at the girl in the straightjacket—“Lara. Welcome to Area 51.”
The Missions Phase II
Normandy France, 6 June 1944 A.D.
MAC WOKE IN A PILE OF MUD, but he could see the moon above, so that meant he was alive. And not in the well, so the mud was okay. He had that moment every paratrooper savors, lying on the ground, alive, because it wasn’t the jump that killed you, it was the ground, or the well, which made him wonder: How the hell did he get out of there?
Mac’s face was burning, and the backs of his hands were skinned raw, but otherwise, he felt intact, nothing broken, as far as he could tell initially. He turned his head, wincing in pain, and looked about. The farmhouse was clearer now that the clouds weren’t blocking the available light from the stars and moon. It had been a nice place once upon a time, but was rundown and appeared uninhabitable; five years of war will do that to a place.
There was the sound of artillery in the distance, but no nearby small arms fire, which was a relief. He heard a woman cursing in French and remembered his last vision. He looked the other way, and she was shoveling and muttering profanities, although it didn’t sound bad in her language. There was a body next to her, and he suspected that had something to do with the cursing.
Mac was in his jump harness, and turning his head farther, he could see the risers leading to the suspension lines leading to the canopy—made of nylon, not silk—and Edith’s download tried to jam in the information about a woman, Adeline Gray, being the first to jump the nylon, but really, there was a lot more important stuff Mac needed to know right now. He could see that the apex of the canopy, where all the suspension lines met, had a rope through it, and the rope was tied to a harness worn by the skinniest donkey Mac had ever seen.
The fact that both he and the donkey were in harness caused Mac to laugh, but it barely escaped his parched throat. He was so thirsty after being pulled out of a well. He searched for the cotter pin on the lanyard, his fingers burning, and he realized a couple of them were broken on his right hand. So much for intact. Using remaining fingers that seemed functional, he used the cotter pin to unlock the quick release. As he inserted the pin, it occurred to him to wonder who thought they needed a key on the quick release for the harness, thus negating the quick release aspect. Did they really think someone was going to hit their quick release while still in the air? And then the answer was there, courtesy of Edith Frobish’s download: Yes, indeed. It had happened, so, like many things in life, it had been redesigned for the lowest common denominator, i.e., the stupid.
He hit the release, and the four straps popped free, and his body grew an extra inch. Mac rolled over, automatically feeling for the .45 pistol on his right hip. It was there, but his attempt to open the flap with two broken fingers didn’t work. He knew Nada would be upset with him for not having checked the weapon before anything else, but...
Mac got to his knees.
Relieved of the strain on its own harness, the donkey gave a relieved bray and took a step, dragging Mac’s muddy chute and harness a few feet before stopping in exhaustion.
Mac generated some moisture. “Can I get some water?”
French, the language of lovers, Mac thought. Too bad he’d lose it when he got back to the Possibility Palace. If he got back to the Palace. So far, this op wasn’t going too well. Which reminded him he’d known Latin and Spanish on his last mission, but couldn’t dredge either one up for the life of him right now. He figured his brain only had so much space for so many languages.
The woman stopped shoveling and cursing. She turned to face him. “Oh! Maybe I can get you some water from the well? How would you like that?”
Mac gestured to the canteen on his waist, jammed behind the pistol. “I’ve got some water if you help.” He held up his bloody hands.
She just stared at him.
“Did you drag me out of the well with the donkey?” Mac asked, more to make conversation, since he knew it was a Roland-type question, but she seemed a bit standoffish. Granted, he’d just appeared out of the sky and landed in her well, and she was burying somebody, but...
She cursed and dropped the shovel. “Maurice is not a donkey! He is a mule.”
The download was a smidge late on that critical piece of information: a mule is the offspring of a male donkey and a female horse, getting the best of both species, minus the ability to reproduce. Still, a bit picky, under the circumstances.
She wasn’t done. “Maurice pulled you out. He hasn’t had a decent meal in over a year, and I feared he would drop dead when he had you halfway up, but I gave him the last carrot. A single, stinking carrot, which he would have turned up his nose at before the war, unfit for Maurice, the best and most powerful mule for ten miles all about!”
Mac looked at Maurice’s skinny flanks. “Thank you, Maurice.”
She walked over. In the moonlight, she appeared old, haggard, and very dirty. Her hair was wrapped underneath a kerchief. She wore baggy pants and a loose blouse, both smeared with mud.
“Here,” Mac said, indicating the canteen. “Please.”
She reached down, unsnapped the holder’s cover, then pulled the canteen out. She twisted the top off then held it out. Mac took it with his left hand, which was in better shape than his right. He drank greedily.
“Maybe
some for Maurice?”
Mac felt a moment’s shame, but also wondered why, of all the farms in Normandy, he’d been dropped into this well. He handed her the canteen, and she took it to the mule.
“How long was I out?” Mac asked, trying to get back on track with the mission.
“Not quite an hour, but I was not timing it.” She was holding the canteen up, dribbling the contents into Maurice’s mouth, not too picky about keeping the metal from the mule’s lips, but her hand was cupped underneath, catching every missed drop, and she put her hand to her mouth, drinking and then licking up every bit of moisture.
There was still time to do the mission, or rather, make sure the mission was done. Mac got to his feet, a bit unsteady. He took a step, and right away knew he’d torn something in his knee. He remembered the day his older brother ripped his knee up, during the next to last game of his senior year. That had wiped out the football scholarship to the University of Texas. Not that his family couldn’t afford to pay his brother’s way through school; they had plenty of money. It was more the vanished glory of the future gridiron. Mac’s father missed that more than his brother, and had taken it badly.
Not quite as badly as when the State Troopers showed up and informed the family he was dead, but the difference wasn’t enough to make his father a decent human being.
Mac limped over. Maurice had dried foam around his mouth, and his hide was covered in dirt. Mac felt more shame as he realized what truly bad shape the mule was in. He probably could have climbed out of the well on his own if she’d waited until he’d regained consciousness, rather than hooking the rope to the top of the chute, which he assumed had come down draped over the edge of the well.
“I think he’s done for,” Mac said.
She whirled about to face him, spilling water in her sudden fury. “How do you say in English, va te faire foutre?”
“Close enough in French,” Mac said. Mission. Back on mission, he reminded himself. He looked at the body. “Who is that?”
