by Roger Ley
Riley wanted to warn them again about making alterations but he worried that they were getting fed up with his prophecies of doom. They might dismiss him or demote him. Anyway, on this occasion he felt more comfortable, an intervention would save tens of thousands of lives.
After the meeting, he booked the day of the incident as part of a holiday. He decided he would take Hank and Estella to visit his mother in Liverpool. Their house was in Ipswich after all.
Two weeks later, as the Zodiac craft crunched onto the pebble beach at Sizewell, and its occupants gathered their weapons and equipment ready to disembark, a squadron of six paratroopers rose from the ground nearby. The light covering of pebbles that had hidden them fell from their uniforms as, without hesitation or challenge, they shot the mercenaries dead with brief bursts of automatic fire. They bundled the bodies back into the boat and dragged it up the beach to their lorry and trailer, parked behind a dune. They loaded it onto the trailer, covered it with a tarpaulin, roped it down, climbed aboard the lorry, and drove away. The operation was over in minutes.
Small waves broke on the shingle. The breeze blew through the coarse grasses and sea cabbage plants, as it had blown long before men arrived on this shore, and would continue to blow long after they had gone.
The soldiers sat in a row on the bench seat; they rocked companionably to the movement of the vehicle as it drove along the back lanes.
“Is it all right to smoke, Sarge?” asked one of the younger troopers. The whites of his eyes contrasted strangely with the green and black camouflage paint darkening his face. A fly moved unheeded across his forehead. He was trying to unscrew the silencer from his light machine gun, but in his excitement, he had forgotten that it had a left-hand thread.
“It certainly is, Son,” said the sergeant as the lorry took them back towards their base in Colchester; he leaned forward and extracted a cigarette from the proffered pack, nodding his thanks. He reached into a tunic pocket for a light. “Left-hand thread remember.” The trooper reversed his action and continued to strip his weapon. He’d spent hours practicing this blindfolded.
“Sorry Sarge,” he muttered.
The sergeant ignored the trooper’s gaff. It’s always nice when things go to plan, he thought, as he lit up and took a grateful pull. He still wondered how the two spooks that had accompanied them had known exactly where and when the mercenaries” boat would hit the beach. He and the spooks had used snow shovels to cover the troops lightly with shingle, half an hour before the boat arrived. The agents had moved back to the safety of their four by four, parked some distance away in the dunes. The sergeant had taken cover behind a beached fishing boat, ready to intervene if necessary. As soon as the action was over, and after handshakes all round, the spooks had left at speed, probably for London he thought.
The sergeant had liked to read the Greek myths when he was a boy. There was one about dragon’s teeth being scattered on the ground and turning into armed warriors. He took another pull on his cigarette and looked affectionately at his troops and remembered them rising from the gravel, his dragon’s teeth. He smiled contentedly to himself. They had all done well.
He knew there would be no press coverage, the incident hadn’t happened. They would probably be decorated, but at a private ceremony. You never know, it might even be Prince Charles, the Colonel in Chief, who made the presentation. The Royals loved to associate themselves with successful operations, and he didn’t seem to be a bad sort of bloke, he’d just married the wrong girl.
Chapter Ten
England the 1990s
Oakwood called at Martlesham a few weeks after the Sizewell B incident. He and Riley stood together in the laboratory watching, as Riley’s team of technicians and scientists sat at their work stations, keeping the equipment focused on the wormholes leading into the past. Riley was proud of his facility. He looked across at the two, large, white painted Cyclotrons, the surrounding accessories had long been wired in professionally. The original carbonara of trailing leads and flexible pipes surrounding them was gone. Everything was neat, clean and professional.
Riley was still allowed to see the newspaper stories as they arrived from “downstream” although he worried that Burnley would eventually cut him out of the loop. He was, after all, just the “chief techie, and still not a member of TASC” he thought bitterly. Now that the operation was running smoothly, and they didn’t need him as much, he fretted that they might hire a more malleable replacement. Fortunately, there was no one on the team who fully understood the theory. Not yet.
A Rolling Stones number from his teenage years played in his head, “Who wants yesterday’s paper?” wailed Mick.
Riley noticed that Oakwood had been unusually quiet, and seemed not to be interested in the new arrangements. Eventually they adjourned to his office.
“I have some news,” Oakwood said suddenly. “I decided it best to tell you in person, Martin. I am afraid that the whole facility is moving to Langley. You’re being taken over.”
The news shocked Riley, he was momentarily speechless. “What do you mean, we’re moving to Langley?” he had half risen from his seat and was staring at the other man, his expression bewildered. “Langley, Virginia? In America?”
“Now calm yourself Martin,” said the Government’s senior scientist. “I’m afraid that it was pretty much inevitable that our American allies would get involved with Temporal Messaging in the end. We’ve been in no hurry to inform them of our activities, but somehow their National Security Agency has found out about us, and the US Government has put pressure on the Prime Minister. To all intents and purposes, they will be taking charge. As with so many things, it comes down to funding and they will be doing most of that. We will still have representation on their new Oversight Committee. You will, of course, still be the senior scientist, but the operations manager in day-to-day charge will be a US Army Colonel. Actually, I’ve managed to persuade the Americans to send him over, so that we can introduce him to the team, before you all move to Virginia. It might be less daunting for you if you’ve met your new boss before you go. He’s in the reception area, I’ll get him.”
Oakwood left the office and returned a few moments later with a companion. “This is Colonel Wilson,” he said. Wilson wore a grey suit, a white shirt and bootlace tie, with a turquoise and silver bolo clasp. He reminded Riley of Clint Eastwood, the same chiseled features and cold grey eyes. Slimmer than Riley, he was almost skinny, about the same height, just less than six feet, and tanned with greying hair. Riley’s first impression was that he seemed slightly detached, as if he might not be an easy man to get to know. Riley hadn’t liked Oakwood’s use of the word ‘boss.’ Neither did he relish working under a military management style, where the officers keep their distance from the people under their command, in case they have to order them to do something unpleasant or, more likely, drop them in the shit to save themselves. He’d briefly joined the Army Cadets in his early teens but had only lasted two meetings. The experience had given him a jaundiced view of all things military.
They shook hands. “I’m looking forward to working with you Dr Riley,” said the Colonel, in a soft, east coast, American accent. His body language showed that nothing could be further from the truth. His handshake had been weak and dry; Riley noticed that he’d leaned backwards slightly as he gave it.
“Who will be funding us?” asked Riley, taking a direct approach. Start as you mean to go on, he thought.
“The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency,” said the Colonel. “But we’ll report to an Oversight Committee in Langley and through them, to the Executive Office of the President of the United States.”
The Colonel stiffened as he said this, Riley imagined that he wanted to stand to attention or salute or pledge allegiance, possibly all three at the same time. Fucking flag waver, he thought.
“And of course, to TASC and the British Prime Minister,” prompted Oakwood.
“Of course,” said the Colonel hastily.
“Dr Oakwood has briefed me on our mission, but I find the concept strange and difficult to believe,” drawled the Colonel. “I’d just like to be sure I understand. So, we will receive reports about important events, two weeks before they happen.” He looked at Riley for confirmation. He nodded, and the Colonel continued. “We’ll pass the information on. Other agencies can then take measures to change these events if they do not suit our purposes. By which I mean the purposes of the United States Government,” he paused cleared his throat and then continued “and their allies, the British Government.” Oakwood nodded energetically. “What happens to the people two weeks in the future if we change their reality?” asked the Colonel.
“That’s a good question,” said Riley, the Colonel’s immediate grasp of the ramifications of Temporal Adjustments had impressed him. “It depends on what our masters decide to do. Small changes will have little effect while others might be catastrophic for them.”
“It is always our intention to change things for the better though,” said Oakwood, smiling encouragingly.
Yes, thought Riley, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, and for the first time, he fully understood the adage.
“Well working behind the lines always brings added risks,” said the Colonel.
Chapter Eleven
USA the 2000s
Riley was surprised at how quickly the move to Langley was accomplished, and how lavish the new facilities were, it must have taken the Americans months to prepare them. As he stood in his new laboratory, looking at the six Cyclotrons, the rows of computer terminals and equipment benches, he wondered how long that slippery bastard Oakwood had known about the impending move. The same Oakwood who, after his new appointment would now be sliming all over a red leather bench in the House of Lords, Riley could only wish him a painful death. At least he was one irritation gone, but how bad the replacement was going to be?
Soon after their arrival in the USA, as new personnel were coming on board and the project began to bed into its new surroundings, Riley’s attention was diverted by the birth of Cliff, he and Estella’s second child. He didn’t find the experience as much of an emotional jolt as Hank’s birth, but he was still off balance when the Colonel walked into his office, without knocking, a few days later.
“Martin, I’ve decided that we should put on a demonstration for the powers that be. I want to show our new Oversight Committee the potential of Temporal Messaging. They report to the National Security Advisor among others and we should convince them we are an important resource, not just another irrelevant science project. Have a look at this.” Riley bridled as the Colonel passed him a folder.
He opened the file and read a newspaper story, about a bank robbery that would take place in New York in ten days” time. A well-organized gang would steal an impressive amount of money and kill several security guards, before making their escape.
“What about it?” he asked, attempting to hand the folder back.
The Colonel ignored the folder. “We can prevent this robbery, catch the gang of criminals and show our potential in one hit. Everybody wins except the bad guys.” He looked across at Riley to gauge his reaction.
“We can’t just intervene willy-nilly,” he said. “Interfering with the Timestream is a serious business”
“We need to do this. We need to prove ourselves. Anyway, I’ve already told the Oversight Committee that we will prevent this robbery.”
“I hope the Oversight Committee isn’t ‘leaky’. If the rest of the world gets to hear about our tamperings, there’ll be Hell to pay.”
“Our security protocols over here are second to none Martin. Don’t worry, I’ll be discreet when I warn the NYPD about the raid, I’ll use an informer as a cut-out.”
The Colonel had taken the decision out of his hands; once again he realized that he was only the hired help.
Later he sat with Estella in the cafeteria. “These fuckers have no idea; they want to play cops and robbers now,” he whispered. “They see TM as another resource they can squander, and never mind the consequences. If somebody blabs and their famously free press gets hold of this, we’ll all be in the shit. We could find ourselves in court, or worse.”
Estella smiled and patted his hand.
“Don’t worry Martin, I’ll visit you, and bring you a cake with a file in it.”
He leaned forward, “You’ll probably be in the next fucking cell,” he hissed as he stood and walked towards the exit. Once again, he wondered why he was the only one aware of the dangers. He paused as he pushed through the doors. Looking back, he saw the Colonel standing talking to Estella, with a cup in his hand. Estella smiled and gestured at his empty chair. The Colonel sat down. As Riley stood watching them from a distance, he saw Estella touch her hair several times and smile with her head on one side, as they talked. He walked back to his office. Why could nobody see that every time they made a change it must have a knock-on effect on the Timestream? They were bending it, splitting it into alternatives, or distorting it, he had no way of knowing which, but he knew they were always changing the future. They should be careful, gather more data, only intervene if it was necessary. The Colonel was perverting the project to further his career and in the meantime Riley was getting no credit, again.
He sat at his desk and felt a furious urge to smash something, but instead he sat smoldering and had his usual fantasies about going to the press and blowing the whole project wide open. He imagined the fame, the honors, the interviews, the committees he would be invited to sit on. He sighed and pulled up a spreadsheet of the latest calibration results and began to go through them.
Ten days later Riley was at home with Estella, watching the news while they ate dinner. A tanned and toothy newsreader appeared on screen.
“And finally, ladies and gentlemen, just in from the security cameras of the First National Bank in New York. Exciting footage of a gang of thieves, who got a surprise they will have plenty of time to contemplate, from their prison cells.”
The screen showed the quiet, Art Déco interior of a large bank. Customers were writing at desks in the public area, while others stood at the counters conferring with the tellers. The calm was disturbed by the noisy entrance of a group of men pushing a green plastic dumpster through the main doors. Dressed as refuse collectors, they wore overalls, hats, and dust masks. As they entered the foyer, a member of the gang hiding inside the dumpster threw back the lid, and began handing out machine pistols and sawn-off shotguns, before climbing out himself. The leader stepped into the main hall and fired a short and shocking burst of automatic fire into the ceiling.
“Get down on the floor, get down on the floor and nobody gets hurt,” he shouted.
One of the gang moved up to the grill, and gestured at the staff on the other side with his weapon, “Nobody fuckin’ touch nothin’. Get on the floor,” he shouted and began to climb up onto the counter.
The rest of the gang pushed customers down and menaced them with their weapons.
“Where’s the manager?” shouted the leader. He was holding a frightened young black woman by the shoulder as he held a gun against her temple. “Where’s the manager?” he shouted even louder. “Get him out here now.”
“Drop your weapons,” said a loud, calm voice, over the bank’s public-address system.
Behind the main counter a SWAT team of a dozen officers in black helmets, overalls, body armor and gas masks appeared. They crouched threateningly, with automatic weapons jutting through the grillwork. One of them reached through and grabbed the ankles of the masked criminal who was standing on the counter and jerked them from under him. Screaming, he crashed backwards to the marble floor, and lay still. Everything stopped. Nobody spoke. The intruders were exposed. They were the only
ones standing, and they had no cover. Their masks hid the looks of surprise on their faces.
“Take hostages,” the leader shouted, but the hoped-for hostages were not willing to cooperate. The “customers,” who had dropped to the floor pulled out handguns and pointed them up at their assailants.
There was a moment of stillness as the newly reversed situation coalesced in the minds of the criminals. They realized that they were out gunned and their position was hopeless. The leader’s “hostage” slowly stood up, stepped back, looked at the leader and, unsmiling, extended her hand. There was another pause, before he gave up his weapon, raised his hands above his head and knelt on the floor.
The other members of the gang hesitated, then knelt, laid down their weapons, and raised their hands. A group of uniformed police crashed through the bank’s main doors and began handcuffing the prisoners and leading them away.
The “customers” stood and began to congratulate each other.
The scene shifted back to the TV studio, the newsreader smiled into the camera and shuffled his script.
“Well,” he said, “and once again folks, we see that crime doesn’t pay. And here’s Mike with the weather. Mike.”
Riley stood, switched off the television and topped up his wine glass.
“Now we’re really cookin with gas,” he said in a fake American accent. He walked out onto the deck and stared moodily up at the sky. Estella came out and stood beside him.