by Bob Avey
The tunnel or hallway widened slightly near a set of large, metallic doors, and the guards halted the procession.
It was an elevator, and since there was only one button it would take them down. Martin didn’t like the idea of being trapped, and he certainly didn’t care for the idea of being held captive several hundred feet below an abandoned Air Force base.
The leader spoke into his radio and stabbed the button. Seconds later, the doors swished open, revealing an elevator car large enough to drive a small automobile into. “Please get into the lift, carefully but quickly.”
A mixture of anxiety and fear formed in Martin’s stomach and spread through him like a tidal wave. The urgency to move quickly only added to the tension.
“Where are you taking us?” Duncan Cameron asked.
It was the first time anyone other than Martin and the guards had spoken since they had been apprehended. He waited for a reply, though it did not surprise him when none came.
The doors closed, and they started downward with a jolt. The elevator dropped quickly, picking up speed as it descended.
Martin’s instincts were to brace himself against the wall for stability, but with guards surrounding him he could not. He was reminded of a carnival ride Susan had once talked him into, which consisted of a large pole with passenger seats going around it in a ring shape that had dropped like a rock once released.
Finally, the elevator slowed and then stopped. The doors opened to an area much like the one on ground level, and the guards ushered everyone off the car and into the expanded hallway space where tunnels led off in two different directions.
Al and Duncan were forced down one of the tunnels.
“Where are they taking them?” Martin asked, though he knew the question would go unanswered. “What’s up with all the silence and secrecy? It’s not like we’re criminals, you know.”
A shove from behind caused Martin to stumble forward, a not so subtle nonverbal command for him to walk down the other tunnel away from where Al and Duncan had been taken.
At a distance Martin guessed to be about fifty feet, his two escorts stopped in front of a dark gray door which was set back about two feet into the concrete of the tunnel. One guard unlocked the door. As soon as it opened, the other guard shoved Martin through the doorway and closed the door.
Acting on instinct more than any real hope of success, Martin immediately tried to open the door.
It wouldn’t budge but was sealed tight.
He turned toward the interior of his prison, and with his back leaning against the door, he studied the room, ten by fifteen feet if he had to guess, sparsely furnished with a twin-sized bed in one corner and a small desk and chair in the other. Of course, there were no windows. What would be the point of looking at dirt—or whatever was out there—beyond the thick walls of concrete?
Martin had never considered himself overly claustrophobic, but that type of anxiety now worked its way through his senses. Not knowing what else to do, he walked over to the desk, pulled out the chair, and sat down.
Made of heavy gauge metal, the desk had only one long, but shallow drawer just beneath the desktop. Inside, Martin found a pencil and a writing pad but nothing else.
With a near reflex action, he retrieved the pad and pencil and jotted down, February 23, 2014, the date John Rainbow had given him while he was in the time tunnel. As a student in school when he was young, he had learned that the simple act of writing something down helped to secure it in his memory. He rarely had to refer to the notes, but he kept them just in case.
However, he had just written the date when the desk and chair quivered. The movement or vibration had been slight and might have gone unnoticed by the average person, but Martin had always been keen on noticing that sort of thing. Even with his heightened sensitivity, though, he wondered if he had only imagined the shaking.
And then it happened again.
While he was still caught up in wondering what might cause such a disturbance, something far more unnerving unfolded. A voice came over an intercom system, breaking the silence in the room with the words, Welcome to Camp Hero.
It was the same distinctive salutation Martin had heard in his dream of Luke’s appointment with Doctor Stewart, and Martin now recognized it as the voice of Doctor von Neumann.
In the closet near the bathroom facilities in your room, you will find a fresh change of clothing. Before putting them on, please refresh yourself with the shower facilities. The escorts who guided you to your quarters will return in thirty minutes, and then they will bring you to an area where we will meet and discuss matters.
Von Neumann and whoever else was behind Martin’s capture were moving ahead with whatever they had planned for the prisoners, and they were not wasting any time. Whatever they were planning to do, they felt the implementation was urgent. But why was his taking a shower and changing clothes important?
Martin immediately thought of his belongings, the small number of items he’d had on him when Doctor Stewart had shoved him into the time machine. Perhaps the guards were waiting outside the door, and while Martin was in the shower they would come in and search his clothes. But that made little sense. They could have searched him when first apprehended. Even upon considering that, however, Martin didn’t think it would be a good idea for them to see his cell phone. Things like that hadn’t even been invented yet.
He reached into his front pants pocket, where he always kept the phone, but it was not there. A quick search of the other pockets revealed he had nothing on him, not even any spare change. He could have lost the items during the swim to shore, but it did not seem feasible that everything would have fallen out. And no one had searched him that he knew of unless it had happened while aboard the Eldridge. His personal items most likely had not made the jump with him.
A chill ran through him, and it wasn’t all because of his concern over the unusual time jump. He glanced toward the bathroom area, which was separated from the main room by a wall with an arched doorway. His clothes were still wet, and he was cold and dirty. Taking a hot shower, if indeed it would be hot, and putting on dry clothes would feel good.
He pushed away from the desk and then went into the bathroom and found the shower. It was small, reminding him of the ones he’d seen on-board cruise ships. But when he twisted the knob, a good stream of water came out, and seconds later it became hot.
He stripped down and stepped into the streaming water.
A few minutes later, he turned off the water and toweled off. In the closet area, he found a jumpsuit hanging from a rack, and just below that, in a small cabinet, one pair of white socks and a pair of boxer shorts, also colorless.
Martin put the clothes on, surprised and a little relieved that everything fit well enough, and then went back to the desk and sat back down.
An unusual thought drifted through his mind. Luxuries like eating and sleeping became so routine some people hardly noticed them. However, there was nothing like having that pattern suddenly disrupted to bring these comforts back to the forefront. He had eaten and slept in various times and places, but how long had it been since he’d experienced any kind of routine in real time? Did real time even exist for someone like him?
Again, he wondered if he had perished in the crash with Doctor Stewart. And what about Stewart? Had he survived, or had they both passed on and were now experiencing their own brand of hell, fated for a never-ending string of time jumps, eternally pitted against each other in a game with no winners?
Another question came to mind. If Stewart was dead, did he realize it? And would a dead man continue to stalk the living souls of those whom he had perceived as a threat to thwarting his grand scheme of purifying the human race?
W
hat if Stewart wasn’t dead but had survived the crash? He had planned what was to look like an accident. He surely would have thought it through, making provisions to put himself in a position of relative safety.
Whatever Stewart was in real time, dead or alive, he was very much alive in the past, as were Luke, Susan, and Martin. If there was one thing of which Martin was certain regarding Stewart, it was his obsession to eliminate Luke along with anyone who stood in the way. Martin also understood he was the only one who could set things right, and he had been chosen to do so.
Stewart had purposely sent Martin to Montauk Island in 1983 because he understood this time and place, coupled with the way Martin had come here, would present the greatest obstacles to Martin’s return. And with Martin out of the way, Stewart would be free to follow whatever path his demented obsession led him down.
A loud knocking reverberated through the room, and then the door swung open.
Martin got to his feet and walked toward the open doorway, peacefully allowing the guards to escort him from the room. It would do no good to resist and going along with them might end up being to his benefit. He needed to get back and find Doctor Stewart, and the best way to do that would be through the time machine purportedly in use at Camp Hero.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MARTIN
In an underground facility at Camp Hero
Friday, August 12, 1983, 10:30 PM
Even with the lack of light in this portion of the underground compound, Martin recognized the man. He had aged considerably, but that was to be expected. A forty-year gap existed between the times they had met. It was Doctor von Neumann, the scientist from the Eldridge.
Von Neumann studied Martin and the other captives for a moment and then signaled the guards, who summarily pulled Al Bielek and Duncan Cameron aside, leaving Martin to stand alone.
“I’ve waited a long time for this moment,” Von Neumann said. “And I’ve been expecting Mr. Bielek and Mr. Cameron. But you, Martin Taylor are a different story.”
A tremor, like an earthquake, shook the compound with enough force to gain everyone’s attention. Martin had felt the tremors earlier when he was alone in his room, but they were mild compared to what had just happened. The disturbances were getting worse.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But I didn’t ask to be here. I was sent against my will.”
“Where, exactly, do you belong?” Von Neumann asked.
Martin struggled to calm the jumbled thoughts running through his mind. It wasn’t like he hadn’t expected the question. It was the logical thing to ask. He just didn’t think anyone, even someone with Von Neumann’s experience, would believe him. He was still having trouble accepting it himself.
“Broken Arrow, Oklahoma,” he said, “in the year 2020.”
A smattering of snickers mixed with some laughter spread through the room. Even Al Bielek and Duncan Cameron, who had just experienced a time jump of their own, joined in.
“Doctor Von Neumann.”
The man whose voice had echoed through the expanse had come from one of the tunnels, and he now stood a few feet from Martin and the doctor. He was tall, towering over most everyone in the room by at least six inches. He also wore a DARPA jumpsuit, but unlike the other guards, his suit had the rank of Captain displayed on the collar.
“I’m surprised everyone is so jovial, given the circumstances. The tremors are getting worse. What do you intend to do about it?”
Von Neumann dipped his head. “I’m working on it, Captain Conley, but thank you for reminding me that I need to get on with it. We have little time. I trust you will help me escort our guests to the lower level?”
Von Neumann’s words to the captain had carried a palpable edge to them, which indicated there was friction between them.
“Of course,” the captain said, “but first I need to have a little talk with your new friends.”
“At this point, that luxury would be highly inappropriate.”
“Have you forgotten that it’s my job to interrogate all prisoners?”
“They’re not prisoners, Captain. They are guests. And we have little time.”
“So you keep saying, like a broken record. Maybe you should explain it to me in a little more detail. The captain rested his hand on the butt of a .45 caliber holstered on his side. “I’m getting a little tired of asking.”
Even in the face of the subtle threat, Von Neumann rolled his eyes. He had, no doubt, had trouble with Captain Conley before.
“When our time-travel experiments here at Camp Hero interlocked in hyperspace with the Eldridge, it created a hyperspace disturbance, a potentially catastrophic rift in the continuum that must be closed. The only way to do that is to send Bielek and Cameron back to 1943 to destroy the generators. Now, if you will kindly assist me in getting our guests to the lower level, we will get on with it.”
There were no tremors at the moment, so Martin could only attribute the weakening of his knees to the fact that Von Neumann’s words had caused everything to fall into place in his mind.
Whether Von Neumann realized it, he had already sent Al Bielek and Duncan Cameron back to 1943 once before. They had succeeded in shutting down the generators and collapsing the original time tunnel, but the tunnel reopened when Doctor Stewart sent Martin to 1943. Now, not only did Von Neumann need to resend Bielek and Cameron to 1943, but he also had to send Martin back to the right time—the date given to him in the time tunnel, February 23, 2014.
Martin didn’t know the significance of the date, but he suspected it had something to do with Doctor Stewart’s time machine. That was why Grandpa Frank had said only Martin could take care of the problem because, inadvertently or not, Martin had caused the second reopening of the original Philadelphia Experiment time tunnel.
In what seemed like one fluid movement, Captain Conley unholstered the .45, took a defensive posture, and aimed the weapon in the general direction of Von Neumann and the others, including Martin. “I’ve got a better idea, Von Neumann. I say we get rid of the prisoners right now.”
Von Neumann rubbed his forehead. “All of this nonsense is only wasting precious time.”
“And as soon as you send them back,” Captain Conley said, “We’re all goners. Isn’t that right, Doc, what you’re not telling us?” He paused and waved the .45 around the room. “All of this, and all of us, will cease to exist. That’s what people are saying. I like my life here. I have a lovely wife and two promising kids. You want to end all of that? Well, I’m not going for it.”
Martin felt a wave of nausea crawl through his stomach. He’d seen enough to know Conley wasn’t completely off his rocker.
“The only way that could happen,” Von Neumann continued, “is if your entire existence directly resulted from this aberration, time rift, or whatever it is we have created here. That is so highly unlikely it’s not even worth consideration.”
Captain Conley shook his head. “I’m sorry, Doc, but that’s just not good enough.” He swung the .45 around and aimed it directly at Martin. “If the prisoners are the problem, I say we eliminate them, take them out of the equation.”
Thoughts of himself and the other two travelers dying here in the wrong time and place along with the implications of what that might cause exploded through Martin’s mind. “That won’t work,” he said.
Everyone turned in his direction, as if he weren’t on their level and therefore out of line with his interruption.
“And why won’t it?” Conley asked. “Get rid of you, and we get rid of the problem. It sounds logical to me.”
Captain Conley was ready to act. His wild-eyed stare, his finger poised on the trigger said it all.
“All right,” Martin said, “but killing us won’t solve the problem because we will still be here. Dead or alive, we will still present the same problem. We don’t belong here; therefore, our being here is disrupting everything. The only solution is to send us back.”
Conley relaxed his aim and lowered the weapon, but only slightly. He considered what Martin had said for a moment, thinking through the logic of it all.
And then someone else spoke. “Don’t listen to him, Captain. He’s just like the rest of them, always feeding us a pack of lies.”
It was the DARPA agent who had appeared to be in charge when Martin, along with Bielek and Cameron, had been discovered and brought here to the compound.
When Captain Conley removed his attention from Martin to speak to the other agent, it occurred to Martin that a window of opportunity had been opened. If he acted within the split-second interval, he could catch the Captain off guard and blindside him.
Martin’s plan made absolutely no sense. Captain Conley outweighed him by at least fifty pounds, and Conley had already shown he was in no mood for negotiations. If by some twist of fate, Martin knocked Conley from his feet, even to lose his grip on the .45, what would he do after that? The other guards or agents would quickly come to the captain’s aide, not that he would need it. If he landed a punch with one of those massive hands, Martin would crumple like a broken mannequin.
But none of that logic stopped Martin from following through on his half-baked idea, though it almost seemed as if he were watching a character on television. And much like one might watch a cheap horror film and feel compelled by the sheer stupidity of the character to yell at the screen, Martin watched himself ignore his internal warnings and charge like a crazed linebacker toward Conley.
The initial contact came quickly, and though Martin could not recall feeling anything, he saw the events unfold before him in slow motion.
The force generated by the collision dropped the big man to his knees, and the .45 went skidding across the floor.