Portals in Time 1

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Portals in Time 1 Page 15

by Michael Beals


  “Don’t worry; it’s not going to send you anywhere. It hasn’t been programmed yet. These buttons allow you to decide exactly where you’re going. It’s like a portable telephone in the sense that you type in the number, but instead of talking to someone, you press Go, and it takes you to your destination. Of course, you’ll need a tutorial, so you know how to navigate. At a certain point, the screen will show you a map of where you’re going. You can then choose a spot on that map.”

  “It looks incredibly complicated. How do I get back again?”

  “You press the Return button, wait a few seconds, and then press Go again. You should come back to exactly where you started.”

  “And we’ll all have one of these?”

  “It’s advisable. You could all cling to each other, but it’s not very safe.”

  “What if we get separated?”

  “If you ever get into trouble, there’s an alarm button that tells us you need help. We’ll come looking for you, but it could take a while to trace the device.”

  She became aware that the room had become noticeably silent; the murmur of voices had stopped. She looked around. The other people in the laboratory were all watching them as if they were waiting for something to happen.

  “Did I say something?”

  Harper shook his head and smiled. “Everyone’s curious. We all heard about your gunfight with the demons. That sort of thing doesn’t happen very often. You’re becoming famous.”

  She grinned at Dore. “How about that, Jock? You’re famous.”

  He jutted his chin at her in a strangely Italian way. “Makes a change from being surrounded by secrecy.”

  “So, what do you think?” Harper asked, in an attempt to draw them back again.

  Kat studied the device, then handed it to Giselle, who peered at it for long seconds before giving it to Dore.

  “It’s not exactly small,” he said, hefting the weight of it. “How do we hide them when we’re back on Earth?”

  “You need to keep them on your person, so you’ll need an inside pocket. We recommend that women wear a jacket.”

  “What happens if we’re robbed?” Kat asked. “Or it gets broken?”

  Harper cocked his head. “I have to admit, that is a problem. Going back to Earth isn’t without risk. A robber won’t be able to use it, but if you don’t have it anymore, you’ll be stuck in time until we come get you. The easiest way of letting us know where you are, just take out a personal ad in the New York Post and write something like Harper, Astor Hotel, 5/5/1875 3:45 PM. We monitor the papers, so when we see the ad, we’ll come pick you up… Or simply kill yourself, and you’ll end up back in Hell, which of course, is a lot quicker.”

  Kat rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, I think the personal ad might be the better choice.”

  Harper shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Giselle asked. “Do you have any advice about the best way of looking for Grantham?”

  Harper raised his eyebrows. “Hmm… He won’t be easy to find; he must know we’re looking for him. But if he’s living in the mid-1800s, and he’s been shipping gold, I imagine he’ll be living in the most expensive part of New York City. In 1875, the Upper East Side was pretty wealthy.” Harper held up a finger. “Grantham loved horse racing in his past lives. Think about taking a trip to Goshen Race Track.”

  “Seems like a bit of a long shot. Have you a photograph of Grantham?”

  Harper frowned. “Actually, I do, but if my memory serves me correctly, it’s not very sharp. Let me give you a tutorial on the artifact; then we can go and look for it.”

  So Harper gave them a long tutorial, at the end of which, Dore was looking decidedly bored, and Kat could see that she’d have to go through it again with him before they went back to Earth.

  Taking them back to the living room, Harper dug out an old photograph album, and Kat smiled as he leafed through the photographs. She’d never imagined people in hell having photograph albums. Who would want to remember living in Hell?

  “Ah, here we are,” Harper said, unclipping one of the photographs, and handing it to her. “Grantham is the third from the left.”

  Kat took the photograph and peered at it. Harper had been right; it wasn’t very sharp. It was a group shot that looked as if it had been taken near the helipad. Harper was in the shot as well, and by comparison, Grantham seemed quite tall, probably somewhere in the region of six foot three, which was already a good start. But when she got a magnifying glass and studied the photograph, she could also see Grantham’s basic features. The picture was quite grainy, but he looked as if he was somewhere in his fifties. He had a slightly hooked nose, full lips, and what looked like a divided right eyebrow. Was that a scar that could identify him? Interestingly, Grantham reminded Kat of the wing commander she’d met at the air force base in Benghazi. Of course, it wasn’t him, Grantham had been in Hell for a few hundred years, but it was a useful guide.

  When Harper turned his back to her, Kat pocketed the photograph. Much as Kat loathed the idea of leaving Harper’s cozy living room, with its beautiful view of the sea, they should really be getting back to New York City. She still needed to persuade Pernass into letting her go on the field trip, then either she or Dore would have to fly back to Orleans to pick up the artifact. It would probably be her; she had to prepare for the trip, and she doubted if Pernass was an expert on that kind of thing.

  Turning to Harper, she said, “Could I ask you one more favor?”

  “Absolutely. Any way I can help.”

  “Would you be able to help me with clothes for 1875, and the kind of money I might need? I’m planning a short field trip on my own.”

  “We do have a props and wardrobe department. We can outfit you in era-appropriate clothing, and provide you with currency. When will you need them?”

  “I’m not sure. I still have to get the Commissioner’s permission, but probably tomorrow.”

  Accompanying them back to the helicopter, Harper looked concerned, and as they all climbed aboard, he told Kat why. “Miss. Wolfram, I don’t want to worry you, but you should be very careful if you’re going back to Earth on your own.”

  “Why? Is it dangerous? I’m just going for a look around.”

  “Yes, at night, it can be. A woman alone at night in New York City… Well, let’s just say… Hell is a safer place to stay.”

  END OF PART ONE

  Slaughter in the Desert

  The Declassified History of World War II

  The Adventures of Kat’s Commandos

  PART ONE

  There are three parts of Slaughter in the desert. Each part is included with each part of “Kat’s adventures in Hell” as a thank you for your purchase.

  All pictures contained herein are public domain, courtesy of either the Imperial War Museum (UK) or the Bundesarchiv (Germany).

  Cover art, sketches, and maps are provided courtesy of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either used fictitiously or are the fevered products of the author’s twisted imagination.

  Table of Contents

  Slaughter in the Desert

  Prologue, London

  Part I

  7th Armored Division

  Outskirts of Misrata, Libya

  Tawerga Oasis

  Ras Lanuf, Libya

  Bir al Akhariyah Oasis

  Description

  Churchill once quipped, “In wartime, the truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies.”

  So strap in while we shoot our way through the lies of history and take a peek up truth’s lengthy skirt. These recently declassified MI6 reports and patrol logs from the Long Range Desert Group have never before stained the pages of any history book. Officially, Kat never existed, and the Whiskey Patrol is a fantasy.

  Unofficially… well, the truth is wilder than any fiction.

  For the first time, we’re publishing these non-canonical Dead Sea Scrolls
of lost World War II history in their entirety. Because frankly, Hollywood has nothing on Kat and her merry band of desert raiders.

  Prologue, London

  March 1939

  T his way, gorgeous. You’re with me and the VIP trade delegation, remember? Security is for the commoners.”

  “Oh my! Buckingham Palace… I feel like a princess.”

  The lithe redhead squealed and snuggled up to her bespectacled date. She kept oohing and ahhing as he guided her away from the line of lowly nobles and up the royal staircase to the ornate ballroom. Her obsidian, skin-tight silk dress, swaying above her knees, drew plenty of attention. Mostly sly nods from the other young playthings and daggers of jealousy from the older wives and duchesses, all decked out like somber funeral floats.

  She ignored the old biddies disgust and grinned as every man, especially the security staff, glued their eyes on her ample exposed skin. They soaked in everything except her face.

  Her tuxedo-clad date slid a chair out from the endless oak banquet table. Dieter swept a well-manicured paw towards the daffodils and fine china lavished across the satin linens.

  Kat only pouted her lips. “Oh, must we sit so far away? Can’t we dine closer to your boss? That’s where all the other bankers, all the big-time wheelers and dealers are.”

  “Well, seats are assigned by the Majordomo…” The junior account executive clenched his jaw while she dropped her shawl. His annoyance caught in the throat as his drooling eyes raced down her backless dress. Kat leaned over and arched her rump a tad, batting her eyelashes at the far end of the table.

  “That’s okay, darling, just my silly, girlish fantasies of being with a powerful man. This is fine. Thank you.”

  With his mouth gasping for saliva, Dieter cleared his throat. “Ah… let me see what I can do.”

  A minute later, she glided into a spot across the table and two seats down from Werner von Brauchtisch, the CEO of her escort’s Austrian bank. She never took her hawk eyes off the banker as a Royal Air Force General hopped out of his chair and gave Kat a bow. He shot the nervous young man a wink while guiding his bored wife farther down the table.

  “Not a problem. It’s all about who you know.” Dieter patted her hand and eased next to his odd girlfriend.

  “Oooh, now this is more like it! Tonight’s going to be quite special, hmm?” She massaged his thigh under the table and brushed her lips across his cheek.

  The thirsty man leaned in, purring in German while the rest of the table gossiped and topped off their glasses. “Does that mean I finally get to explore your palace of treasures?”

  “You naughty…” Across the table, Werner rose and clasped hands with his counterpart at an English bank. Kat squinted as they pressed close and whispered, but nothing seemed to pass hands.

  “Uh, sure thing. After three months, I’d say you’ve been patient enough.”

  Dieter spilled a little of his wine and crossed his legs in a hurry. He wiggled closer and murmured sweet nothings in her ear, as Kat tensed up again.

  “Now, where’s he going?” She wiggled her glass in her boyfriend’s face, stalking Werner like a wolf as the aging grandfather lit a cigar and gossiped his way towards a side door.

  Dieter grunted and reached for his wine. “Again, with Herr Brauchtisch? Why are you always so obsessed with that man? Work is over. I respect that you’re the most dedicated translator we’ve ever had, but don’t you ever shut off? This is purely a social occasion.”

  Kat darted out of her chair. “I need to go to the powder room. Back in a moment, my dear.”

  “But, the prince could be here any…” Dieter sighed at her swaying backside, already halfway across the banquet hall.

  She slowed just shy of the small door Werner disappeared through, taking a deep breath before creeping outside as well. The side gallery, vivid portraits of past monarchs coating the walls from end to end, was breathtaking.

  But also empty.

  With exits at both ends, she gambled on the shortest route and dashed to the right, deeper into the sprawling complex. She swooped the double doors wide open, skidding to a halt in a new hallway. Just shy of colliding with two eagle-eyed King’s Guardsmen. They hovered in front of a red-carpet staircase, both with steady hands on their holsters.

  “Is there a problem, madam?”

  Over their shoulders, a squeaky, angry young voice hollered from the private residences above. “Where’s that next damn bottle? You can’t keep a duke locked up without hydration!”

  A harried steward brushed past Kat and the guards, taking the steps two at a time with a fresh flask of Moët & Chandon in each hand.

  “Oh, I’m just looking for the little girl’s room.”

  One of the grim-faced men jerked his head down the hall. He ignored her charms and focused on that delicate face, clearly memorizing it. She spun away and tried to relax her stride. Rounding the next corner and out of their sight, Kat rushed past the lady’s room and barged inside the men’s water closet.

  A lone Scottish Officer perched over a urinal with his back to her. He twisted his neck around and chuckled.

  “Don’t let the kilt fool you, Lassie. Wrong room.”

  “Oh, my!” Kat dropped her slim pocket purse and squatted to pick it up. With one sweeping glance under the finely polished wooden stalls, she forced herself to blush up at the Scotsman, shaking something between his legs. He was the only one there.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  She slipped back out the door and punched a marble column in the hall. “Scheiße! Three months of work pissed away in a minute!”

  Kat reached for the lady’s room handle, just as the Highlander came out and grinned. She avoided his wandering eyes and focused on the floor-to-ceiling mirror at the end of the corridor, making a big show of fixing her curls back in place.

  Still grinding her teeth after he left, she gave up and turned back to the Grand Hall.

  Kat froze when the faint reek of tobacco wafted over her.

  She crouched on her knees and scanned the floor. A little mound of ash rested on the slick tile just to the side of the mirror. One corner was perfectly straight, as if someone tried sweeping it out of the way.

  “You cheeky royals!”

  She ran her hands over the gilded mirror frame, not flinching when she snapped a painted nail off in a hidden latch. Popping it as gently as possible, she creaked the whole mirror open wide enough to stick her head in for a peek.

  Kat stifled a whoop and ducked inside the narrow passage, clicking the hatch tight behind her. She shuffled up the pitch-black, winding staircase until bumping her nose against another hidden door.

  For a solid minute, she pressed her ear against the inside panel, but nothing in the next room was louder than her pounding heart. Fumbling around, she finally found the latch and flicked it open.

  Kat had to smother a whistle as the 18th-century dresser swung open, and the girl tip-toed into the most massive, most lavish bedroom she’d ever seen.

  “Well, I guess there’s one in every family.”

  She crept past the bed, alone as big as her apartment, doing her best to avoid all the filth. Kat nicked a discarded bottle of whiskey with her high heel, sending it rolling under the bed. Thankfully, an unconsumed portion of a block of hashish cushioned the crash.

  A loud laugh through the half-open master door drew all her attention.

  “Oh, come on, Weiner! Stay for one drink. It’s so boring up here. My cousin’s too ashamed to ever let me join one of his soirees.”

  “It’s Werner, you drunken fool. And be thankful for his indulgence. If I were king, you would’ve disappeared a long time ago.”

  Kat dropped prone on her belly, sticking only her emerald-edged eyes out the door at ground level. Werner hovered over a scrawny man sprawled on a sofa in the common room, wearing a loose pink bathrobe. The banker dangled a microfiche roll into the light and ran a pocket magnifying glass over it.

  “Indulgence?” The pale brat stagge
red to his feet and drained the rest of his champagne, straight out of the bottle.

  “I should be third in line for the throne! He keeps me hidden away just to make sure his own kids take over. It’s nothing but greed! Why else do you think his fucking majesty cut me off from the royal purse? And besides, who do you think you are, speaking to me like that? You Goddamn NAZI!”

  The duke hurled his empty bottle at his guest. The flask missed by a good five feet and shattered a Chinese vase worth more than Kat’s yearly salary, from both her official and cover jobs.

  Werner only snorted. “Would you prefer me to stop paying off your whores, drug dealers, and bookies? Or maybe call the king to pick you up the next time you’re strung out in an opium den somewhere.”

  He rolled the microfilm tight and tucked it inside a hollowed-out cigar in his tuxedo’s inner vest pocket. The duke kept sputtering and tried to light a hookah. Werner snatched the pipet from him.

  “You did good here, but I didn’t see anything about how many new Matilda tanks are being deployed to the British Expeditionary Force in France. That was part of the deal.”

  The royal heir stomped around in a little circle. “Yeah, yeah. I’m trying. I’ll get it soon, promise.” The duke’s mood tilted again as he popped the cork on another champagne bottle.

  “How about a toast?”

  Werner sneered again. “You better have that next week, plus the sub patrol schedules, or I stop all payments. We’re done here.” With shocking speed for such an elderly man, Werner dashed into the bedroom before Kat could get the hidden passage completely open.

  “Katelyn? What ze hell are you doing here?” The businessman’s practiced Cambridge accent slipped a tad. Kat bounded across the bedroom and clutched at his collar.

  “Oh, Mr. Brauchtisch, thank God! I got a little tipsy at the party, and some royal guards grabbed me. Told me to head up here and entertain a prince or something like that.” She laid on the crocodile tears. “I’m so scared!”

 

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