D-Day

by Bob Mayer

  “So you are from this world”—Jager was speaking slowly, thinking out loud—“but not of this time.”

  Double frak.

  “You are from the future of this world,” Jager concluded. “Why are you here?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “To make sure your world survives.” He nodded. “Yes. Yes. That makes sense. Why you would be here in this place. Now. Because your world does lie in the balance today.”

  He fell silent, and Roland sensed the mood, so he waited.

  “If we could have done that,” Jager finally said, “things might have turned out differently. We could have saved our world. Some did think the Darkness was able to travel not only between worlds, but also in time.”

  “The ‘Darkness?’”

  “It makes the monsters.”

  “We call it the Shadow,” Roland said.

  Jager nodded. “The same. It goes by different names in different worlds.”

  “So you do not work for it?”

  Jager turned and finally gave Roland his full focus, his eyes dark. “It killed us. Destroyed our world. There are, were, only a handful of us left. The Jagers. I might be the last, for all I know. And I will never find out any different. This world is where I will end. It was a one-way journey. This is my final Hunt.”

  “‘Hunt?’” But Roland had seen the lack in that stare. There was nothing behind those eyes that was the essence of what most considered human anymore, no empathy, no love, no fear, no emotion at all, nothing other than revenge.

  “We fought the Darkness for generations,” Jager said. His voice was so low that in the hall filled with revelry, Roland had to lean forward to hear. “It sent its monsters into our world over and over again. Each generation, they were harder to fight.” He laughed bitterly. “Kraken? We could kill them. The—” He paused. “It doesn’t matter, what the others were. Finally, the Grendels came through the doors into our world. Many good Jagers died learning their weaknesses. But once we did, we killed them, almost as fast as they were coming through. Almost.”

  Jager fell silent.

  Roland began to reach for his second mug, but noticed that Jager hadn’t taken another drink from his first mug. Roland pulled his hand back. Waited.

  “Tell me,” Jager said, “where do these people think this Grendel came from if they have never seen its like before?”

  Roland accessed the download. “‘They are fatherless creatures, and their whole ancestry is hidden’,” he quoted. “It’s believed they are descended from Cain.”

  Jager’s blank look indicated that name meant nothing to him, so Roland accessed the download once more because, honestly, the name didn’t mean much to him, either. “Cain was the first human born to the first humans created by God, Adam and Eve. He had a brother, Abel. He killed Abel out of jealousy and anger.”

  Jager pondered that. “The first human born. A murderer. We had legends, too. The fatherless thing, that comes from the poem?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fatherless. Interesting. I suppose, in a way, the Grendels are fatherless. And you are here to make sure the poem remains true?”

  “Yes, and—” Roland paused. Was that his mission? “I don’t know what my mission is. I have only twenty-four hours to make sure nothing is changed.”

  Jager arched an eyebrow. “Perhaps I have changed things. Perhaps I am why you are here. Perhaps you should stop me.”

  Roland shook his head. “I don’t think so. In the poem, Grendel’s arm is ripped off. He goes to the water hole and dies. Beowulf would never have done that without you. So, you are part of this.”

  “Interesting,” Jager said. “Can you tell me how the poem goes?”

  “I have rules,” Roland said. “I cannot speak ahead of the time.”

  “That’s fine.” Jager shrugged. “Knowledge can be dangerous. I have wondered if we grew overconfident,” he added, as much to himself as Roland. “If we’d lost sight of everything beyond the Hunt. Our world was focused on supporting the Jagers. Everything was built around that. The older ones told me there used to be more to living than Hunting. That there were songs—” He nodded toward the front of the hall, where a bard was providing entertainment. “That there was happiness before the Darkness attacked. That a child was looked at as more than just another possible Jager or, if not Jager potential, one who would spend all their life working to provide food and shelter for Jagers. We’d given up so much. Sometimes I think the Darkness had already won, before it finally won.”

  Roland wasn’t quite following, but he remained silent.

  “We’d learned how to kill Grendels,” Jager said, “but we hadn’t learned what the Grendels really were. When we finally realized, it was too late.” Jager sighed and sat back against a pillar of the hall. “Those of us who were left near the end, the last Jagers, made a vow to prevent what happened to our world from happening to other worlds. Perhaps the Darkness was overconfident, too. It was beginning to pull some of the Grendels back through the doors. We feared they were being sent to other worlds, so we infiltrated their lair. The Valkyries who were running it were overconfident. They did not guard the doors. They saw no need. Every chance we got, we sent a Hunter through the door after Grendels went through.”

  Jager picked up his first cup. Drained it. He indicated the second cup Roland had bought over. “I thank you, but I must have my wits about me. My skills.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then it was my turn,” Jager said. “And I went through. And here I am.”

  “Is it really dead?” Roland asked.

  Jager nodded. “Yes.”

  “Then your Hunt has been successful,” Roland said.

  “Is that what your poem says?” Jager asked.

  Roland checked. “Grendel is dead.”

  “And that’s the end?”

  “No.”

  “No,” Jager agreed. “Because that wasn’t the only one that I followed through the door of the Valkyries. There was another. This will be the beginning of the end if I do not complete my Hunt.” He grabbed Roland’s hand. “But you do come here from the future?”

  Roland didn’t know how to answer a blatant First Rule question.

  Jager saw the hesitation. He let go of Roland’s hand. “If only we could have done that. Gone back.” He closed his eyes. “But.” He opened his eyes. “You know from this poem how it is supposed to happen, right?”

  Roland broke First Rule by giving the slightest nod.

  “But you’re here to make sure that it happens as it is supposed to,” Jager said. “So nothing is certain.”

  Roland rubbed his forehead. He was from the future, but behind Jager’s dissection of the current situation.

  “If you fail,” Jager said, “the poem will not be written. If I fail, the poem will not be written. Of course, it’s about more than the poem, correct?”

  Roland nodded. He’d lost track of the First Rule.

  Jager looked out over Heorot. “Another monster comes tonight in your poem?”

  “His mother comes to avenge him.”

  There was a spark in Jager’s eyes. “The mother? What happens?”

  “She grabs a thane of the king along with Grendel’s arm.” Roland indicated the grisly trophy that had been mounted. “Drags both back to her lair. Beowulf goes after her in the morning. Kills her.”

  “Not likely,” Jager muttered, staring at an obviously inebriated Beowulf sitting between two maidens. He brightened. “But the mother will come. That is good. Very good.”

  “Why is that good?”

  “She’s the dangerous one,” Jager said. “She’s the one that will destroy your world.”

  “How?”

  “She’s pregnant,” Jager said. “That’s what we missed. We focused so much on the ones that fought us, we ignored the ones that went into hiding. The mothers.”

  “We have to kill a baby Grendel, too?” Roland asked.

  “If she spawns,” Jager said, “there won’t be a baby Grendel. There w
ill be thousands of eggs that hatch all at the same time, tens of thousands. Do you think they”—He indicated the hall—“could defeat ten thousand Grendels?”

  Kala Chitta Range, Pakistan, 6 June 1998 A.D.

  “What have you done, you fool?” the old man demanded.

  Apparently, Doc having an automatic weapon and being covered in blood didn’t bother this guy.

  Doc walked past him, ignoring his questions. They were in a room thirty feet wide that curved away in each direction: the buffer and observation room outside the Core of the Containment Center of the Depot, where the fissile material was stored. A thick glass window beckoned to the interior. Doc peered through. The weapons were arranged in clusters according to the platforms they’d be deployed in: bomb, missile, mine.

  “Who are you?” The old man was next to him. He had short white hair, a clipped beard, and deep shadows under his eyes. He wore baggy white pants and a white shirt, and leaned heavily on the cane.

  “So, the fissile material isn’t demated?” Doc stated the obvious, more to himself.

  The elderly scientist blinked. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  “My name is Doctor Ghatar.” Doc held out his hand, aware that it was stained with blood.

  The old man had his own ingrained instincts. He shook Doc’s hand. “I am Doctor Hamid.”

  Doc nodded toward the weapons. “Publicly, your country has claimed the fissile material is demated from the warheads. This is not true, obviously.”

  Hamid peered at him. “Why have you locked us in here? There is no way out, other than the door you just shut.”

  A klaxon went off, adding to the chirping, to produce a very irritating cacophony of alerts.

  “The Containment Core is not breached,” Hamid said, tapping the radiation badge clipped to his shirt, undeterred by Doc’s lack of reply. “I suspected there was no breach when everyone began running like scared children. My running days are long past. I also suspect that you triggered that alarm. And I suspect that whoever’s blood you are wearing has been found, and that has triggered the second alarm.”

  “You suspect a lot,” Doc said.

  “You look Indian, but your accent says you are American.” It was not a question. It was, of course, followed by a question. “Why are you here?”

  “To keep your country from starting a nuclear war,” Doc said.

  Hamid shook his head. “By doing what? The vault door is indeed very thick, but they will get through it eventually. And then?”

  “And then, whatever crisis that caused your country to decide to load out the nukes today will have passed,” Doc said. “What has happened, by the way?”

  “It is in the news,” Hamid said. “An Indian commando team attacked Prime Minister Shari’s motorcade, and he was assassinated. That is an act of war.”

  “Are you certain this happened?”

  “There are pictures in the news,” Hamid said. “I’ve seen them myself. This occurred just hours ago. And perhaps, even though you sound American, you, too, are an Indian commando, sent to render us defenseless while your country launches its own weapons.”

  “If India was going to launch,” Doc said, “they would have already, and this place would be a smoking hole in the ground. My parents were Indian, but I left there as youngster, and we moved to the United States. I am American.”

  Hamid shook his head. “We suspected the Americans were spying on us. They are not our friends. They are the friends of India. I think you are conspiring with the Indians.”

  “I’m not conspiring with anyone,” Doc said patiently. “I’m here to stop your country from throwing nuclear warheads at India and starting a conflict neither country will survive.”

  Hamid shrugged, a gesture Doc had seen more times than he cared to remember. “It is what it will be.”

  “Not anymore.”

  Hamid shook his head. “They will get in here. And then what will happen to you?”

  “I’m not worried about that.”

  “And what about all the nuclear weapons your wonderful United States has?” Hamid asked. He was surprisingly calm, given the circumstances. “Should you not break into your own Depots and secure them?”

  “They are secure,” Doc said.

  “Ah, Americans.” Hamid said the word as if it were a curse. “You rant about other countries having the terrible weapons you invented, and which only you have ever used on other humans. How hypocritical! You have more nuclear weapons than any other country, yet you act like the bully on the playground the moment another acquires one.”

  Doc was more than ready to get snatched back the Possibility Palace. This guy reminded him of his father and his way of looping logic to win every argument. The secret was if the immediate point was not winnable, to change it to something that was.

  The sudden silence was as startling as the alarms going off. Doc glanced at Hamid. “What happened?”

  “I believe someone outside has figured out what I just figured out. That you are in here. That there was no breach of Containment. That the vault door is locked from the inside.”

  A phone rang, the sound echoing on the curved walls. Hamid walked to it without asking permission.

  For a moment, Doc considered telling him not to answer, but by the time he could have made a decision, it was too late.

  “Yes?” Hamid said into the phone. “This is Doctor Hamid. There is a man named Doctor Ghatar in here with a weapon. He says he was born in India but is an American now. He has locked the vault door control from the interior, which means it can only be opened from in here.” He listened, then held out the receiver toward Doc. “General Raju wishes to speak with you. He is most upset.”

  Doc took the phone. “Hello?”

  “This is an act of war,” General Raju yelled, so loudly that Doc had to hold the receiver away form his ear.

  “I’ve done this to prevent war,” Doc said. “Not just between your country and India, but your country and the United States.”

  “And how would that happen?” Raju demanded. “There is already a state of war between my country and India.”

  “There’s a Task Force of American Special Forces heading toward this facility right now,” Doc said. “I need access to a Satcom link to order them to turn around. Otherwise, they will penetrate your airspace. It is likely you will shoot them down. But in doing so, you will escalate the potential for conflict between your country and the United States. I don’t think you want that on your hands.”

  There was a long silence on the other end.

  “You have created an act of war between our countries,” the general finally said. “Now you say there will be a further act of war perpetrated. Why should I do what you ask?”

  “Because I’m in here and you’re out there,” Doc said. “And you want what’s in here.”

  “Your name is Doctor Ghatar?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ghatar is Indian, is it not?”

  “I’m American.”

  “So you say.”

  “General, is there anyone else listening on this line?”

  “No.”

  Doc checked the download. “You’ve been skimming funds from the Pakistan Atomic Energy Commission. You’ve already accumulated over ten million U.S. dollars in a secret bank account in the Cayman Islands.”

  Doc could hear harsh breathing coming out of the receiver. Hamid was staring at him, finally surprised by something.

  “You lie,” Raju finally said.

  “Perhaps,” Doc said. “But if you don’t get me the Satcom link, that will become public knowledge.”

  “Wait.” The phone clicked off.

  Doc checked his watch. Task Force Kali was out of Iranian Airspace now and over Afghanistan, less than an hour out.

  Which spurred a thought. Doc wondered where Osama Bin Laden was right now and, of course, it was in the download, a footnote appended to Afghanistan. In February 1998, Bin Laden signed a fatwā declaring the killing of North
Americans the duty of every Muslim, and proclaimed that Americans were very easy targets.

  The Kali team could divert, then parachute into Afghanistan right on top of—

  Doc stopped the train of thought.

  “It is what it is,” he muttered to himself, waiting for Raju to call back.

  “What is?” Hamid asked.

  Doc had almost forgotten about the old man. “What do you do here?”

  Hamid shrugged. “I am just an administrative man.”

  “You’re lying,” Doc said. “You graduated from the Government College University in Lahore with a degree in Applied Physics.”

  “How do you know this? How did you know about General Raju skimming funds?”

  “I know many things,” Doc said.

  “Your CIA is very dangerous,” Hamid said.

  The phone rang, and Doc answered. “Yes?”

  General Raju did not sound pleased. “Get Hamid on the line. We must do this through the computer. Your satellite link will be text only.”

  Doc gestured, and Hamid took the handset. The conversation was swift and one-sided, with Hamid’s contribution consisting of uttering “Yes, sir,” several times, then hanging up.

  “Come,” he said to Doc, leading him to a control console holding a large computer display and keyboard.

  Hamid typed in a command, and the screen went blank, then came back with just a cursor.

  “You must enter the coordinates for the satellite dish to orient,” Hamid said.

  Doc knew he was giving the Pakistanis access to a U.S. military satellite, but he had little choice. He typed in the coordinates from the download, then hit Enter.

  The screen flickered, then coalesced.

  >ACCESSING

  Doc waited, Hamid looking over his shoulder.

  >SATELLITE ACQUIRED

  Doc typed in the authorization code for the mission, then waited for a response from the inbound Task Force.

  The seconds passed. Then a minute. Another.

  >KALI

  Doc breathed a sigh of relief. His fingers flew over the keyboard.

  >MISSION COMPROMISED. ABORT. REPEAT. ABORT.

  >VERIFY ABORT CODE

  Doc typed it in.

  >ABORTING. GOOD LUCK. CONTACT SFOB FOR FURTHER ORDERS.