Written in Time

by Jerry Ahern

David started toward the Suburban. He had topped off its tank just before parking it for the night, lest a sudden quick getaway be required.

  Looking at the situation from a strictly business perspective, David could see why Lakewood Industries would not achieve quite the future prominence of Horizon Enterprises. Lakewood was making a mistake, its sales technique clearly faulty. Each of the three potential buyers for future technology would know what all the others knew. Greed manifested in the desire to up the ante to the highest possible level the first time out was sheer stupidity in the current context. Germany, according to both his father and Mr. Roosevelt, would almost certainly be the end-result purchaser. So why let the French and the Russians have intimate knowledge of what Germany would possess? Drive up the price at the expense of future sales? Madness. And what if Kaminsky set up dummy front companies, so that, after selling to the Germans, the dummy companies could sell to anyone and everyone else? More money and power, but what if these technologically naive military powers destroyed the whole world eventually, and Kaminsky and Lakewood Industries somehow wound up being obliterated along with all the rest of the future?

  David didn’t understand time-travel theory, so maybe what he posited could never happen. But theory was one thing, reality another.

  Kaminsky was, in effect, a suicidal viper, a dangerous, deadly, egotistical asshole.

  And her choice of locations proved it. She was probably one of those idiots who believed in little green men and thought that staging a firepower anachronism at this exact spot would be cutesy. David’s telegraph message, which would be relayed to his father, would simply read “Area 51 STOP,” because brevity was, so the expression went, the soul of wit.

  Their shadows and those of their mounts stretched for yards ahead of them along the sandy stagecoach road over which they traveled, the sun low still and directly behind them. They had risen in darkness, and were mounted and moving before dawn. The stagecoach road had turned due west only a mile or so back.

  Elizabeth Naile rode at the head of the column, to the immediate left of Major Clark Davis, Army Ordnance. The air was fresh and still cool, no noticeable dust rising yet. There was a slight breeze, and they advanced against it.

  Elizabeth, despite a rocky sleep in a small tent on a cot pitched on rough ground and no proper bathing facilities, was having the time of her life, an experience unlike any other. She’d convinced Mr. Roosevelt to give orders that she could accompany the forces being sent against Lakewood’s firepower demonstration, promising him she’d stay well to the rear if the unit she’d accompany saw action. Mr. Roosevelt probably hadn’t believed her, but gave the orders anyway. “I have a very pretty daughter named Alice, who has a rather adventurous spirit as well. You remind me of her. Be careful.”

  In a flat-crowned, wide-brimmed, fudge brown hat with a stampede string snuggled under her chin, white silk blouse with full sleeves, ankle-length brown-suede split skirt and lace-up-the-front brown high-heeled boots, she felt she was dressed for the part of the daring girl on her way to adventure.

  Lizzie glanced at the major. He was extraordinarily tall in the saddle, so long-legged that his stirrups were adjusted well below those of any of the others of their party. Whereas she would have to take a little hop to get her left foot into her stirrup in order to mount into the saddle, Major Davis stepped onto his mount as effortlessly as an ordinary person might merely ascend a stair tread.

  And she loved it when, low-whiskey-voiced, he’d order his sergeant to “Mount the men.” If she hadn’t found herself falling in love with Bobby Lorkin, and if Major Davis hadn’t been about the same age as her father, Lizzie could have had a crush.

  The pace at which the column moved was a rapid canter rather than a gallop, miles more remaining certainly before there would be a chance to rest. The pace was also determined by the rolling stock. There were three field-artillery pieces, each positioned behind a caisson of ammunition. Two men were seated on each of the boxlike affairs, one of the men driving the four-horse team pulling each of the units. There were three wagons, one of these the cook’s wagon, a second wagon that would serve as a field hospital and a third carrying additional supplies and ammunition for the troops.

  “Ho!” Major Davis raised his right hand and reined back, signaling the column to halt.

  Lizzie looked up at him as she brought her roan mare alongside. “What is it, Major?”

  “There, Miss Naile. Just coming over the rise. The telegraphy party is returning.” The major looked over his shoulder and ordered his sergeant, “Tucker, get a report from the man in charge of that detail and on the double.”

  “Yes, sir!” The sergeant called out, “corporal Redding, on the double!”

  A moment later, the corporal was riding off at best speed to intercept the telegraphy party, which was still almost a half mile distant.

  Unbidden, Major Davis volunteered to her, “Lieutenant Matthews and the two scouts should be getting back soon, too. If we bump into these Lakewood people and their ordnance is half as capable as you say, we’d be outgunned at the least. We’re going to need all the tactical advantage we can muster to counteract their firepower.”

  Corporal Redding’s mount, a cloud of dust around it and behind it, skidded on its haunches and stopped alongside the telegraphy party. There was a moment’s discussion, and Corporal Redding’s horse wheeled under him and raced back toward the column.

  “Tucker, have the corporal report to me directly. You stay and listen,” Major Davis ordered.

  “Yes, sir!”

  As Corporal Redding neared, Lizzie heard Sergeant Tucker bellow, “Report directly to the major, Corporal.”

  Corporal Redding made no acknowledgment except to wheel his horse a few degrees left and skid to a halt about six feet in front of Major Davis, reining in and saluting in one fluid motion. “Sir!”

  “Relay your report, Corporal.”

  “Sir, we are to rendezvous with Miss Naile’s parents and some elements of the Seventh north of a large dry lake bed in the Nellis Range about a hundred or so miles north of a little town called Las Vegas. There’s also been independent confirmation from the other side of the enemy position by Miss Naile’s brother. We are to make the best speed possible, sir.”

  “Back in the column, Corporal.” Major Davis ordered, already taking a map from a leather case on his saddle. “Miss Naile, we’re here,” he gestured, “and we’ve got to get to here. We’ve got about two hours of hard riding, if you’re up for it.” Major Davis smiled, a nice smile.

  “I can handle it, Major.”

  “I never doubted that, ma’am. Good show, Miss Naile!”

  Standing up in his stirrups, he looked back along the length of his column. “Men, we’ve got a rendezvous with the future of the United States and maybe the world. It’s two hours hard ride from here to aid the Seventh.” And he said to Sergeant Tucker, “Bill, move ‘em out.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Major Davis started his tall black gelding ahead. Lizzie drew back on her mount’s right rein, falling in alongside. There was a brace of Colt Single Action Army revolvers in her saddlebags. Lizzie promised herself that, when the column stopped to rest and water the horses, she’d take them out of those saddlebags, along with the holster rig.

  Of course, whatever was going to happen in 1900 at what would someday be known as Area 51 had already happened ninety-six years in the past, but Jack and Ellen had only returned to 1900 less than a day ago, and time had seemed to move the same there/then as it did in 1996. Alan felt compelled to think that—however it could be explained or might remain forever inexplicable—the same number of hours had passed for Jack and Ellen as had passed for him.

  Kaminsky’s firepower demonstration of modern weapons to a small crowd of early 1900s would-be despots should be getting started at almost any time, even though— by one way of thinking—it had already happened.

  It was going on mid-morning in 1900, almost dawn in 1996.

  If Kaminsk
y survived in 1900, she would attempt to escape to 1996. Alan watched carefully as the cement mixers bearing the Horizon Enterprises name and logo turned off the ranch road leading from Nevada 375 and drew up around the small time-transfer capsule.

  Alan turned his back and walked away. The cement mixers began disgorging their contents into the capsule and would continue to do so until the time-transfer capsule was completely filled. Alan had decided on that as being the most certain way.

  Initially, the source of the chamber music had fascinated the assembled diplomats and military personnel. Merely a CD player with perfectly placed speakers, it had seemed magical to sophisticated, worldly men of 1900.

  And Bethany’s assessment of the commercial possibilities for her time-transfer enterprise was suddenly and irrevocably altered. What would the rich and powerful of 1900 pay for the ordinary luxuries of 1996? What would the traffic truly bear? Finding out would be half the fun.

  It was pleasantly cool and oh so civilized under the tent. Bethany’s champagne glass was barely sipped from, but she placed the tulip-shaped crystal on a passing waiter’s tray, then turned her attention back to the tall, very fit looking man in military uniform, the special emissary of the Kaiser.

  “Whatever it is that you would wish, Fraulein Kaminsky, Imperial Germany can and will provide. The only marginally worthy opponent the Fatherland might have is Great Britain, and, of course, your United States. Upstart that it is, Fraulein—but, I mean no offense.

  “No, Fraulein, the French are a deceptive lot. You have a marvelous English word: bluster. The French are masters of this bluster, but not of warfare. As to the Russians, they can afford nothing, comparatively, and their country is beset with the political and social unrest which so often plagues a nation led by the maladroit, the inept.

  “So, Fraulein, the only meaningful bargain which can be struck here—and we both know that—is between Imperial Germany and your firm. No other arrangement is either possible or practical.

  “Who else can you sell to? The British? They would never purchase the weaponry because it would not be ‘cricket’ to use it. The Americans? Much the same, I am afraid. Should either of them make an initial purchase, to what end? Great Britain is more or less content with the empire it has and the Americans have never had the stomach for empire. And a one-time sale is almost as bad as no sale at all, Fraulein. Yes? You will wish to continually upgrade the weaponry which you provide for a continually rising price. That price can only be met through conquest—therefore, war. Imperial Germany is the only choice, Fraulein, for Lakewood Industries. It is your only choice, Fraulein.”

  “You’re so forthright in your thinking and your speech, Baron von Staudenmaier! Are you as forthcoming with funds?”

  “You are an incredibly lovely woman, Fraulein. That means, of course, that I should doubly distrust you.” His voice was low, musical, flowed like honey.

  After a moment’s pause, Bethany asked, “And shouldn’t I distrust you, Baron?”

  “We have a commonality, then, lovely lady. Our relationship is based on mutual distrust.”

  “Do we have a relationship, Baron?”

  Von Staudenmaier smiled, the action lighting his face, it seemed, accentuating the aquiline nose and strong jawline. He bowed slightly, the twinkle in his dark eyes ever-so-slightly masked beneath the shadow from the bill of his officer’s cap. “I would hope that we might have a relationship.”

  “Field gray becomes you, Baron,” Bethany said, glancing at him and then turning her eyes away when she realized that she was being unintentionally coy.

  “Your gown—maroon, is it not?—is quite fetching, Fraulein, quite fetching indeed, but, somehow I think you would look your very best in flesh tones.” Von Staudenmaier took a step back from her, looked her up and down, then said, “You will have to forgive me, Fraulein, but I was indulging my imagination for a moment. And, indeed, flesh tones—that’s how I would love to see you.”

  “Perhaps that can be arranged, Baron. Tell me. Are you truly an expert in artillery, or are you a spy?”

  “I am only expert at certain types of artillery, of the more personal kind,” he responded, smiling again. “I am not a spy, but rather concerned with military intelligence. I have indulged that interest ever since my arrival in America, more than eighteen months ago. And you, Fraulein. Are you someone only interested in vast sums of money, or more in the power that such funds afford?”

  “Both—of the more personal kind.”

  Von Staudenmaier laughed softly.

  Bethany glanced at her anachronistic wristwatch.

  “I noticed that before. What a fascinating way to carry a watch,” Von Staudenmaier remarked.

  “We do lots of fascinating things in the future. I could show you some of them if you were truly interested.”

  He cocked an eyebrow. “You are forward for a woman of culture and position—and, by Heaven, I like that.”

  “We’re about to begin . . . the demonstration.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  In the next instant, a half-dozen men in surplus Soviet battle gear, most with AK-47s in their hands, rose up out of the sand and raced forward. Von Staudenmaier reached for the flap-holstered weapon at his hip, starting to draw a long-barreled, strange-looking automatic pistol from its confines. “That won’t be necessary, Baron; trust me.” She thought that she heard him chuckle softly as she raised her voice so that all around could hear her. “Please! This is just the beginning of the demonstration.”

  The six armed men, as if they weren’t being watched at all, ran to a cluster of rocks some twenty yards away. As each man settled into position, suppressive fire was begun against orange painted reactive target panels that were popping up at ranges from fifty to one hundred to one hundred fifty yards distant. The leader of the squad of six men spoke into a radio handset, but a microphone amplified his voice, making it easily heard over the gunfire through the same speakers that a moment earlier had carried the strains played by a string quartet.

  “Fire team Alpha to Command Post, come-in!”

  The answering voice boomed back. “Sit-rep, Alpha. Over.”

  “Encountering heavy enemy resistance.” And the “commercial,” as Bethany liked to think of it, began. “Our Lakewood Industries AK-47 fully automatic thirty caliber assault rifles are working just great, but we need more firepower. We’re unlimbering the Squad Automatic Weapon now, Command Post. Over.”

  Two of the men, one an operator and the other a helper, manned a machine gun. Bethany didn’t know what kind and didn’t care. She pressed the cupped palms of her hands over her ears as her eyes flickered over the crowd of onlookers. One of the uniformed Frenchmen actually drooled; all of the men, regardless of national allegiance, were enraptured—except for Baron von Staudenmaier, who seemed certainly interested, but equally amused. “Good theater!” Von Staudenmaier remarked as their eyes met for an instant.

  “I thought so when I planned it.”

  The voice of the fire team leader could be heard again. “Requesting airpower to knock out last of enemy resistance, Command Post. Over.”

  “Stay on your Lakewood Industries two-way radio battlefield communication system, Alpha, so you can precisely direct the helicopter air strike. Over.”

  “Affirmative, Command Post. Over.”

  The only airpower she had left in 1900 rose from beyond the western horizon, streaking across the desert toward them. A few of the male secretaries started to break and run. Several of the onlookers all but collapsed into their chairs. Von Staudenmaier remarked, “Name what you want, Fraulein. I doubt there is enough gold in the Imperial Treasury to satisfy the price, but perhaps a little country of your very own?”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “Deadly so, yes, Fraulein.”

  The helicopter completed hovering over the six-man fire team and, nosing downward, roared off in the direction of the “enemy” targets, a (hastily) nose-mounted machine gun strafing the enemy posi
tion. “Fire Team Alpha to Command Post. Over.”

  “Reading you loud and clear, Alpha. Over.”

  “We need armor in here, Command Post. And more troops. How close are the Lakewood Industries heavily armored battle tanks and armored personnel carriers? Over.”

  While the answer was being announced, Von Staudenmaier leaned down, his lips millimeters from her left ear as he whispered, “Never abandon your present career for that of a playwright, Fraulein. But, on the other hand, good theater does not always have to be ‘good theater,’ does it?”

  “I like you, Baron.”

  “Without sounding conceited, I hope, I must confess that most women do. However, I find you equally fascinating. What shall we do about the situation, Fraulein? That is the question of the moment, hmm?”

  The first two tanks—she had three in 1900—with about a dozen personnel garbed as infantrymen huddled behind them, were moving up. Earlier, Morton Hardesty had suggested, “Don’t you think you should have more guys, to make the firepower demo look more authentic?”

  “Who do I look like to you?” Bethany had asked rhetorically. “See? Tits, a clit, pretty hair. But you think I look like Cecil B. DeMille?”

  The APCs—two of them—were immediately behind the tanks. It galled her that her two jump jets had been destroyed, but she’d bring in jump jets for the next round of sales.

  Bethany glanced at the marvelous-looking man beside her. Germany really did have the inside track on the war materiel and might even position itself for a little something extra.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FIVE

  David swung down out of the saddle, tightly gripping the reins of his stolen mount as his father rode into sight. The noise from the automatic weapons was deafening, and the horses expropriated from the picket line were spooked by the cacophony more than David would have supposed. It was what his father would call “a miracle” that the helicopter—Lakewood’s only surviving airpower— apparently had not spotted the forces of good and truth and justice observing them from opposing sides of the lake bed, let alone stealing the best horses.