Time Patrol

by Bob Mayer

  Scout bit her lower lip as she considered this twist. Before she could reply, Moms called out, her voice echoing in the cavern. “Scout. Roland. Let’s gear up. We’re going in.”

  * * *

  Ivar had told Amelia Earhart as much as he could about his timeline. He knew there was a lot he’d left out, but her questions had been pointed and targeted. Which had left no time for Ivar’s questions about her, this place, or what the frak was going on. Though loaded with quite a bit of new knowledge, he still felt almost about as clueless as he’d been when he’d first arrived in the Space Between.

  After describing the events of 9/11 and the aftermath, Earhart gave him a pause as she processed those strange twists of events.

  “Are you certain it was terrorists from your own time?” Earhart finally asked.

  “Yes.”

  Earhart leaned back in the airline seat and shook her head. “Sometimes I wonder if all of this is just a test by some higher power out there. When will we ever learn?”

  Ivar assumed that was what Eagle would call a rhetorical question, so he didn’t say anything.

  Earhart leaned forward. “When—I” but she paused and canted her head to the side. “There’s a disturbance.”

  Ivar couldn’t stop himself. “In the Force?”

  That one flew by Earhart by about a forty-year gap. “In the Space Between,” she said. “It’s a way station between many worlds. Few tarry here. Some, like us, make our homes here. But there are times when there’s a disturbance . . .”

  “How big is this place?” Ivar asked.

  “That’s the strange thing,” Earhart said, head cocked as if listening, even as she spoke. “We’ve tried to circumnavigate the inner sea, but have never made a complete circuit. We always have to turn back, either because of lack of food or encountering forces, other Outcast groups who aren’t as friendly as we are and others whom we choose not to engage in battle. But it’s very large.” She stood, almost sniffing as she turned about slowly. “After so much time here, I can feel the way it is and I can feel when it becomes disturbed. Something is disturbing it.”

  One of the Japanese samurai came over to Earhart, and she spoke to him quickly in his language.

  “This is Taki,” Earhart said, by way of brief introduction.

  Ivar nodded and Taki nodded back, but he was focused on something else. Earhart said something more in Japanese, and he bowed ever so slightly. Taki ran back to his comrades and they took off at a trot, away from the wall, which was the only way Ivar could determine a sense of direction here.

  “Come,” Earhart said.

  She led him to a makeshift rack on which several dozen silver spears were arrayed. Earhart grabbed one and tossed it to him. Ivar managed to avoid splitting himself on it by batting the haft away and it fell to the ground. He bent over and picked it up. It was surprisingly light.

  “Take a second,” Earhart said.

  “I doubt I’ll be much good with one,” Ivar said.

  “Think beyond yourself,” Earhart said, so Ivar secured a second spear, having no clue what she meant by that other than to take a second spear.

  “What are we doing?” Ivar asked as others came over and grabbed multiple spears.

  “We’re going hunting,” Earhart said.

  “Hunting what?”

  “Monsters.”

  Five Hours

  “What’s out here?” Neeley asked, one hand on the rail around the flying bridge of the catamaran. She was on one side of the boat’s captain, Sin Fen on the other. The crew consisted of a half-dozen men. A mixture of ethnicity and age, they all had one thing in common: lots of tattoos, scars, and weapons, the predominant one being the M203, a combination of the venerable M16 with a 40 mm grenade launcher under the barrel. Near the bow, one man was standing behind a pylon on which an M2 .50 caliber machine gun was mounted. The men also sported a variety of axes, machetes, and knives.

  The surface of the water was strangely calm, not a wave in sight. Neeley could feel a slight swell as the boat cut through the water, but the water seemed thick. The air was thick, almost humid, but different, with the heavy stillness that comes just before a terrible storm.

  “Your answers,” Sin Fen said. She was peering straight ahead as if she could actually see over the horizon.

  Neeley looked in that direction and noted a whitish gray smudge far in the distance. A smudge they were heading directly toward.

  “What is that?”

  “A gate,” Sin Fen said.

  “Is this where Coyne went?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did he know to get here?” Neeley asked.

  Sin Fen nodded as if Neeley had finally asked the right question. “Foreman gave him directions.”

  “Foreman is playing both sides,” Neeley said. “Why?”

  “He has goals,” Sin Fen said vaguely.

  “What?” Neeley said. “Personal enlightenment? Self-actualization?”

  Sin Fen didn’t descend to the sarcasm. “His motives are good, although one might judge his methods differently. He trusts no one, so he often uses deception in his methods.”

  “So he lies,” Neeley said. “Does he trust you?”

  “No. He doesn’t trust anyone.”

  “This gate.” Neeley pointed ahead. “How come we’ve never heard of it? Satellite imagery? Remote sensing?”

  Sin Fen gave a slight smile. “You have heard of it. The Bermuda Triangle. The reason it hasn’t been studied is because it is rarely open.”

  “How did you know it’s open now?”

  Sin Fen glanced at Neeley. “I know. It’s my gift, or perhaps a curse; a part of what I am.” She reached down and picked up an M203. She extended it to Neeley. “You need something more than your pistol. There are rounds in both chambers.”

  Neeley accepted the weapon. Sin Fen also passed over a bandolier of grenades and 5.56 magazines. The strange patch of mist was now about two kilometers away, and they were closing on it quickly.

  Neeley took a moment to check her cell phone.

  “It won’t work,” Sin Fen said. “Gates interfere with electronics.”

  “Contact two o’clock right,” one of the crew yelled, his forehead pressed into a sonar display. “Sixteen hundred meters.”

  “Just one?” Sin Fen asked.

  “Multiple,” the man replied.

  “I don’t see anything out there,” Neeley said, looking off the starboard front.

  “They’re underwater,” Sin Fen said. She put her firearm into a rack and secured it, and then picked up a long axe. “Blade weapons are best for what’s coming.”

  Neeley put the M203 into the rack on the console and grabbed a long-handled axe. “What’s coming?”

  “Kraken,” Sin Fen said. “They live near gates, usually staying deep, only rising when a gate opens. Which is why they’ve so rarely been recorded in history. Ships that encounter them either are destroyed by the kraken or sucked through the gate.”

  “Kraken,” Neeley said. “All right.”

  “You wanted to do this,” Sin Fen reminded her.

  “I’m always open to a new adventure,” Neeley said.

  Sin Fen gave her a hard stare. “There is darkness in you. A certain fatalism.”

  “Perhaps,” Neeley acknowledged.

  “Eight hundred meters,” the man on the scope announced.

  “Quarter us to port,” Sin Fen ordered.

  The boat canted, angling away from the contact, but still toward the mist, although at an angle.

  Neeley could feel the tension and fear coming off the crew. She’d gone into combat numerous times, but she’d never felt a fear quite like the one the crew was emanating. It was primal.

  Sin Fen startled her. “You have some of the sense.”

  “What sense?” Neeley asked.

  “Six hundred meters.”

  “Of knowing things beyond the five senses,” Sin Fen said. “It is an ancient thing. From the first days.”


  “Five hundred meters to contacts. Nine hundred meters to objective.”

  “Back to this kraken thing. What exactly is a kraken?”

  “Unfortunately,” Sin Fen said, “you might shortly see. Aim for the eyes if you can. Beware the end of their tentacles. They have mouths there. Sharp teeth.”

  “Great,” Neeley muttered as she hefted the axe to get its balance.

  “Three hundred meters to contacts. Four hundred to objective.”

  “Although,” Sin Fen said, looking ahead to the mist, “we might make it.”

  The scope man put an end to that optimism by suddenly shouting: “Deep rising! Directly below. Contact!”

  A long red tentacle lashed out of the sea and grabbed him. He slashed away with a machete as Sin Fen and Neeley leapt to his defense. Five more tentacles appeared around the edge of the catamaran, waving about wildly. A six-inch-wide mouth on the tip of the tentacle that was wrapped around the scope man displayed razor-sharp teeth as it opened wide, and then it snapped shut on the man’s shoulder.

  He screamed in agony.

  Neeley and Sin Fen swung in concert, severing the tentacle. The man, the piece still wrapped around him snapping, fell to the deck.

  The .50 caliber machine gun was pounding away, bullets tearing through the tentacles as the gunner did a sweep. Sin Fen grabbed a grenade, pulled the pin, and then tossed it overboard. Neeley went to her knees, grabbing the severed tentacle, keeping the still snapping teeth from taking a second bite out of the man. Prying it loose, she tossed it overboard, just as the grenade went off.

  Water and pieces of kraken showered the deck.

  Through all this, the helmsman was holding them steady on course, full speed for the mist, which was now taking on a darker hue.

  “Protect the con!” Sin Fen yelled as a new set of tentacles reared up into the air on the starboard rear. “We have to make it through the gate!”

  Swinging around, the .50 gunner let loose a long burst, keeping the muzzle suppressed so far that some of the rounds tore pieces from the edge of the deck as they churned into the dark water from which the tentacles came. Neeley could see that kraken now, the body thirty feet long, seven wide, two large saucer eyes, larger than full-sized pizzas staring up.

  That is until the half-inch-diameter slugs from the .50 hit them.

  The creature, and its tentacles, abruptly sank down into the depths.

  “We’ve got five more coming!” Sin Fen yelled in a calm voice.

  And then the bow of the catamaran touched the mist. It slid in, enveloped, as if going into something more tangible than just air and mist. Neeley shivered, not from cold, as the boat was completely engulfed.

  “Follow me,” Moms said, her voice transmitted via a microphone in her mask, and the Nightstalkers did just that. Nada was half a step behind her, on her right shoulder. Each was armed with M203s.

  Behind the team leader and team sergeant came the rest: Eagle driving the ATV, Mac standing behind him, manning the MK19 grenade launcher, Roland on the flank with his MK14 in hand and M60 slung over his shoulder.

  And in the rear was Scout, holding Nada’s venerable MP5 submachine gun and a pistol holstered in the oversized ballistic vest Nada had insisted she wear. After seeing what had happened to Kirk, she wasn’t sure of its practicality, but Nada had made the point that they weren’t sure what they would encounter on the other side of the door.

  If they survived going to the other side of the door was the unsaid issue no one voiced.

  Every member of the team had a mask on and was breathing via a rebreather slung on top of all the other gear they wore. They looked anything but human, they were so encumbered with gear.

  Scout glanced over her shoulder at Foreman, the Keep, Edith, and Frasier, all gathered in a little clump at the base of the ramp.

  “Don’t want to join in the fun?” Scout pulled aside her mask and asked, looking at Foreman, then Frasier.

  In front of her, Moms and Nada snapped out of existence into the door.

  “Not my job,” Frasier said. “I spent my time in the trenches.”

  “I’ll come,” Edith said, taking a step forward, but Foreman put a hand on her forearm, just as the ATV was gone.

  “Not today, dear. Let the experts handle this.”

  “Experts,” Scout muttered, thinking about her limited training. “Right.” She put the mask back in place. She took a deep breath, knowing it was stupid as she did have the rebreather, just before she hit the utter black of the gate.

  Not so stupid as she fell fifteen feet and hit water, going under, the weight of her body armor, weapons, and assorted other gear incumbent upon a Nightstalker taking her down, the mask ripping off.

  Scout fought to jettison the gear, fingers fumbling in the pitch black to unbuckle, unsnap, discard. The water was pressing in on her and she was disoriented, uncertain which way was up even if she got the gear off. As she shed the combat vest of the body armor, she couldn’t keep her breath anymore. She had to breathe.

  She opened her mouth.

  Darkness fell.

  Four Hours

  “They’re gone,” Foreman said. He looked at his watch. “Missed them by about ten minutes.”

  Hannah stared at the old man. “What are you doing?” She was with Golden, standing on the rock floor of the cavern, facing Foreman. Edith and Frasier were flanking the old man, but not with him. The Keep had disappeared back to the elevator the second the team went through.

  “Please be more specific,” Foreman said. “At the moment, I’m standing here, awaiting the return of the Nightstalkers.”

  “The Bermuda Triangle, Devil’s Sea, Angkor Kol Ker, and the other locations outlined on the map in your office,” Hannah said. “What’s special about them?”

  “You went into my office?” Foreman asked.

  “I did,” Doctor Golden said.

  “And you’re here,” Foreman said. “Very good to have survived that.”

  “Is everything a game to you?” Hannah demanded.

  “Wasn’t everything a game to your predecessor, Nero?” Foreman challenged. “Didn’t he put you and Neeley through the ringer, so to speak, in order to determine what you’re made of? He taught me well.” He jerked a thumb at the door hovering at the top of the ramp. “I can assure you, this is no game, Ms. Hannah. The fate of our planet rests on understanding these gates and what lies beyond. We are under assault, both in time and space. It’s only been by the effort of the agents of the Patrol and the members of the Nightstalkers and other organizations that we have survived. I assure you, other timelines have not fared as well.”

  Hannah wasn’t distracted. “Why are you focused on those locations?”

  “Because they’re vulnerable spots in the space-time continuum on our planet,” Foreman answered. “There is a reason locations become the center of myths and legends. Area 51 is a modern myth, is it not?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “But it is real as we all know, and hides things most people couldn’t imagine. Why should we not think the same of the Bermuda Triangle? Or the Devil’s Sea?”

  “Is my agent Neeley in danger being near the Bermuda Triangle?” Hannah asked. “Tracking Carl Coyne’s movements?”

  Foreman smiled. “Neeley is in excellent hands. And she most likely is not in the Bermuda Triangle anymore.”

  “Sin Fen,” Hannah said, finally starting to sort out the moves on this chessboard.

  “Yes.”

  “Where is Neeley?”

  Foreman nodded toward the gate. “Most likely heading to the same place the Nightstalkers just went.”

  “You set Coyne into play,” Hannah said. “Why?”

  “Coyne was racked by guilt for not getting on that rescue helicopter in 2005,” Foreman said. “Survivor’s guilt plays out in different ways. He came back, was abusive to his wife, and became a dangerous man. Such men are also useful men because their guilt can be leveraged. As you know,” he added pointedly to Hannah.

  “You got him
assigned here as security,” Hannah said. “Were you planning on having him give up the location? Why would you do that? You’re threatening the very thing you say you’re protecting.”

  Foreman hesitated. “It’s not that simple.”

  “It never is,” Hannah replied. “The Ratnik. Spetsnaz stationed near Chernobyl. Were they Russian time travelers? Their Patrol? Just as they have their own version of the Nightstalkers?”

  Foreman didn’t hesitate on this question. “Yes.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “They got stupid and careless,” Foreman said.

  Frasier took a step forward, turning toward Foreman. “Ms. Jones. Did she know about the Ratnik?”

  “Not exactly,” Foreman said. “She knew what happened at Chernobyl wasn’t the result of mistakes by the engineers as history has recorded it. The Ratnik were the Soviet Patrol and they, like our Patrol, were battling incursions into our timeline. They experienced, shall we say, a particularly aggressive incursion. In the course of stopping that incursion, Chernobyl went critical.”

  “And the Ratnik?” Hannah pressed.

  Foreman shrugged. “They were lost.”

  “Apparently not,” Hannah said.

  “Apparently not,” Foreman agreed. “But we assumed so at the time.”

  “Where have they been?” Hannah asked.

  “Traveling in time, one assumes,” Foreman said.

  “To what end?” Hannah asked.

  A new voice spoke up. “To heal themselves,” Frasier said. “All the surgeries. The transplants the coroner talked about. It makes sense. That body. The Acme said the surgery on it was beyond our capabilities. And that the man should have been long dead. They’ve been in there”—he pointed at the door—“fighting to stay alive. Traveling to different timelines for help. Different times.”