The 9/11 Machine

by Greg Enslen

  Don nodded.

  “Which was his favorite? Did he say?”

  Sarah nodded. “Yup, the one about Uncle Peter and the rattlesnake hunt.”

  “I don’t remember that one.”

  “Of course you do,” she said, slapping him playfully on the leg. “It was the one with the wagon, and Uncle Pete was driving it into town. They were having a really hot summer, and Uncle Pete was just back from El Paso. They needed supplies…”

  Don sat back and enjoyed the story, which flowed into another and another. He didn’t notice crossing over the bridges or anything else until they arrived at the Ritz-Carlton.

  4.4

  On a Clear Morning

  “I can drive,” Don said quietly as he and Sarah walked out of the house.

  Sarah shook her head.

  “No, let me. It’s gonna be warm soon—I’ll put the top down.” She loved her new convertible and had been offering to drive everywhere they went for the whole summer. Don loved it.

  He nodded and carried the sleeping Tina to the Passat, holding her until Sarah opened the car and pushed the button that folded down the white fabric cover. Don put her down gently in the back and carefully strapped her in, trying to not wake her.

  “I wonder why he wants to meet so early.” Don mused, shaking his head. The sun was just coming up over the eastern horizon. “I feel like we should be leaving for the airport—we never go anywhere this early unless Disney World and Mickey Mouse are involved.”

  Sarah nodded as they climbed in and started off.

  “I want to know why he insisted on meeting me. And Tina,” she said. “Maybe he’s dying and needs to find some heirs!”

  He made a face. “Well, maybe he remembered your stories,” he ribbed her as they climbed in. The legend of her stories had grown over the past three years, and the royalty checks paid to them by MacMillan Enterprises certainly hadn’t hurt. They’d paid for the new convertible, among other things. If they weren’t already living in the best school district around, they would have moved out of Jericho last year. As it was, they were taking more vacations, spending more time together.

  Next year, the extra money would go towards a beach house they’d been eyeing in Costa Rica.

  “Hey, those stories are making us rich,” she said for what had to be the hundredth time. “And I love sending money back to the panhandle—everyone really appreciates it.”

  They got on the Long Island Expressway and headed west—the headquarters for MacMillan Enterprises was out in Montauk, a small town on the eastern end of Long Island. To make the 8:00 a.m. meeting, they had to leave just after 6:00.

  Sarah knew how Don was in the morning, so she swung the Passat through a McDonald’s drive-thru for coffee and an egg sandwich, and then pulled onto 495 and headed east.

  “You were right,” Don said, sipping at his coffee. “This is better. It’s like having a driver everywhere I go.”

  She smiled. “I love this car. I’ve always wanted a convertible.”

  He pulled out the paper and glanced at the front page—there was a primary downtown today, and classes at the university were cancelled.

  “Who do you think will win for mayor?” he asked her.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I like Giuliani—it’s too bad he’s leaving. Crime is really down.”

  They drove on, taking in the sights. It was a Tuesday morning in mid-September, and the weather was absolutely perfect—the sky was a solid blue, with no clouds.

  An hour later, they were passing through the quaint village of Montauk, looking for their turn. Don had only been to the headquarters building a couple of times, but they’d always flown him and the other scientists in and out by helicopter. This was the first time he was arriving by car.

  “Take Montauk Point State Parkway,” he said, reading from the back of the appointment card. Then south on Ranch Road.”

  They turned off of 27 onto a dirt road, which was labeled “Ranch.”

  “Is this right?” Sarah asked, craning her head to look back at the main road. “They can’t be located on a dirt road.”

  Don shrugged, looking down the road, but trees cut off the view a quarter mile away. “I don’t know—this says 495, then Captain Daniel Roe Highway south to 27 east until Lake Montauk, then south on Ranch Road. It’s a half-mile—just drive.”

  She shrugged, and they started down the dirt road. There was a large farm on their left, which advertised itself as the oldest cattle ranch in the United States, and a line of trees to their right. They skirted the farm and continued south. The farm ended, and the trees edged both sides, threatening to close off the way.

  “This can’t be right…” she said again.

  They wound through thick forest for another quarter mile and then came out onto an expansive, manicured lawn. A long, circular drive curled around in front of a large white house that overlooked the ocean beyond. On either side of the circle were more outbuildings, including a large garage and what looked like three smaller homes to the north. In the center of the circular drive was a helicopter pad next to a large fountain.

  “Wow,” Sarah said.

  “Is this a farm?” Tina said sleepily from the back seat—he hadn’t heard her wake up.

  “No, this isn’t a farm. Well, I guess it is, sort of,” Don said, recognizing the residence as Sarah took the curve and stopped in front of it.

  “I wish we lived here,” Tina said. “Do they have horses?”

  “I don’t know, hon,” he said. “They didn’t have horses the last time I was here.” She’d been getting dangerously close lately to being completely obsessed with horses.

  A man stepped from the front door of the home and approached, opening the car door for Don and Tina.

  “Hi, I’m Mr. Stevens—I work for Mr. MacMillan. He’s expecting you both. Just leave your car here, if you please.”

  Don glanced at Sarah, who was making her “wow, now I’m impressed” face, and they followed Mr. Stevens into the foyer of the home. Don called Tina over, who had immediately bolted across the driveway and was dipping her hands in the fountain.

  It was a very large space, done in a simple craftsman style. Don held the door open until Tina came in. There were two large fireplaces on opposite ends of the room—and above the closest fireplace hung a painting that Don recognized. He turned to Mr. Stevens.

  “Is that a Warhol?”

  Stevens looked up at a large, screen-printed painting of Elvis that hung over the fireplace. At the bottom was scrawled the signature of the artist. As Don looked around the room, he saw several more paintings and prints—they all appeared to be signed by the iconic white-haired artist.

  “Yes, it is,” he answered. “Mr. MacMillan became interested in Mr. Warhol a few years ago and began collecting some of his works. In fact, that’s why he bought this estate, which was previously owned by Mr. Warhol. The artist would have friends and acquaintances out here during the summers. That was one feature that drew Mr. MacMillan to the location, and when it became available, he purchased it. There are several other Warhols scattered around the grounds.”

  Don nodded, but Sarah had another question to ask. “Wait, I’ve heard of this place. Is this the Church estate?”

  Mr. Stevens nodded. “Yes, it is—it was owned by a friend of Warhol’s, but it became available. Mr. MacMillan stays here when he’s not in Colorado, and this building and the others serve as the East Coast headquarters for the company.”

  Sarah and Don nodded as the front doors opened, and a young woman, decked from head to toe in garish horseback riding gear, came into the room.

  “Ah, Ms. Jane, there you are,” Stevens said to the young woman.

  He turned to them. “Dr. and Mrs. Ellis, would your daughter be interested in a riding lesson? Ms. Jane is an experienced instructor.”

  Jane smiled at them. “We’ve got a great little pony, just her size. Buttercup.”

  Tina squealed and started jumping up and down.


  “Buttercup, Mommy! Buttercup! Just like the Powerpuff girls!”

  Sarah shushed her. She glanced at Don and nodded.

  “Ah… yes, that will be fine,” Sarah answered. “Tina, be very careful, and listen to Jane, okay?”

  “I will, Mom!” she said.

  “We’ll just do some very basic stuff—don’t worry,” Jane said, flashing a dazzling smile. “She’ll be fine.”

  In a moment, they were gone.

  Mr. Stevens leaned closer. “I’m sorry about surprising you with that, but Mr. MacMillan thought she might enjoy a riding lesson more than staying in the house for your meeting.”

  Don nodded, agreeing.

  “This way, then,” Mr. Stevens said, and they were off, moving through the house. Mr. Stevens pointed out a few things along the way—Teague MacMillan was known for collecting Irish objects of interest, so Don was not surprised to see several suits of armor, large tapestries, and other Celtic items adorning the rooms. The floor was made up of huge old flagstones, giving the interior a very rustic feel. Lastly, they came into an office. One end was taken up with a large desk and a smattering of chairs, and the other half of the room was filled with a massive pool table.

  “This is Mr. MacMillan’s office. Please have a seat—he will be right with you,” Mr. Stevens said, an odd smile on his face as he closed the doors behind him, leaving them alone.

  “OK,” Don said to the closed doors.

  Sarah walked around the room. “This is weird, right? How did they know that Tina likes horses?”

  Don walked over to the pool table and ran his hand over the velvet surface. “I think every six-year-old girl likes horses, right?”

  Sarah nodded at the space above the desk. “Is that another Warhol?” It was a painting he didn’t know, a swirling mass of colors. She walked around the desk and read the plaque below the illuminated painting. “Yup, it’s a Warhol. It’s called Yarn—I don’t remember this one.”

  Behind her, Don racked up the pool balls and got down a cue. “Game, while we wait?”

  She turned and shook her head. “You should leave that alone, Don. I’m sure he’ll be along any moment.”

  Don smiled and lined up the cue ball, striking it firmly. The rack of balls broke apart, and the balls scattered, a few running the length of the smooth table. He sank the 2 ball and another solid on the break.

  “I love pool,” he said to no one in particular. “I haven’t played in a long time, but I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed it. Maybe it’s the physics of the balls,” he said, holding out the cue to her. He remembered enjoying the game immensely in college, but somewhere along the line, he’d given it up. He wondered why.

  Sarah shook her head and glanced at the back of the door.

  “Don’t worry about Mr. MacMillan,” Don said, lining up his next shot. “I’m sure he’ll be along any time now—”

  He was lining up to hit the green 6 ball when he noticed the ball was vibrating. It began to travel on its own, rolling slightly. The other balls also began to shake.

  Don turned to look at his wife and say something and then the room began to change color—the air started to take on a bluish tinge, and he heard a keening, like a distant siren and—

  4.5

  Pyramids

  —Don and Sarah were suddenly somewhere else. The room that they had been standing in was gone.

  “Holy shit,” he heard Sarah say from behind him.

  Don was just trying to get his legs steady—he put his hand out to steady himself and touched a wall, warm to the touch. It looked like stucco, and his hand cast a dark shadow in the daylight. He had been in one place and now he was in another. Don turned slowly to see if Sarah was okay. She was the same distance away as she had been in MacMillan’s office, but now they were outside, and it was sunny and suddenly very warm. They appeared to be standing on a dusty roof.

  Don saw that he was still holding the pool cue.

  Sarah came over to him, unsteady, and put one hand on his shoulder. She was looking into the distance and pointing.

  “Don. Look.”

  He followed her finger. There was a maze of other rooftops, a mishmash of buildings crowded together, baking in the hot sun. And he saw the pyramids beyond, hazy in the warmth of the day.

  They were in Egypt.

  “What?” He dropped the pool cue and looked at Sarah. “How… what happened?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. But I think we’re in Cairo—those are the pyramids. And there’s the Sphinx!”

  Don didn’t know what to think. They stood together for a few minutes on a small Cairo rooftop, taking in the sights and the smells and the heat of the day. He could hear children playing, laughing, and shouting in a language he did not know. There was a smell of cooking meat coming from a nearby home—the food smelled foreign, rich, and hearty, with spices he couldn’t place.

  “This doesn’t make any sense,” Sarah said. “We can’t both be dreaming or hallucinating…”

  He felt a low rumble this time to accompany the slight change in the air.

  “It’s happening. Again,” Sarah said.

  He nodded and looked around, trying to take everything in. Suddenly, he realized that Tina was thousands of miles away. He saw another subtle, bluish glow envelop them, like a ghostly cloud. He took her hand in his and heard the call of a distant siren and—

  4.6

  Rendezvous

  —the world flashed again.

  This time Don knew it was happening and tried to pay more attention. He wanted to get a better sense of what was happening in those few scant seconds during the event. There was a definitive moment of transference, and of the surging of power, as they switched locations. For a moment that seemed both lengthy and instantaneous, he could see the Sarah and the rooftop and the pyramids around him and, at the same time, something else, something green and leafy behind them.

  The desert was suddenly gone; they were on a trail through some woods. Beneath their feet was the crushed gravel that led uphill into some trees.

  “Wow,” Sarah said, leaning on a tree. “OK, that is strange. Are you seeing this, too?”

  Don was starting to get an inkling about what was going on.

  “Yes, we’re in a forest. Come on,” he said, starting unsteadily up the trail. He was glad to hear Sarah following him quietly.

  They crunched up the gravel walkway—the gravel was interspersed with larger, well-worn stones and wound through some trees, coming out into a clearing. Off to his left, there were several large wooden buildings. It was very early morning here, with a low fog clinging to the ground, and the air was crisp and cool. To their right and farther up the hill was a platform and on it, he was surprised to see, there was a small crowd of people. They were tourists, snapping photos of something up and to their right.

  Don and Sarah walked up onto the platform and turned to look.

  Mount Rushmore.

  The sun was just coming up, shining the thin yellow light of early morning on the granite faces. He heard someone gasp as the sunlight broke over the faces.

  It was beautiful.

  “Oh, geez,” Sarah said, finding a wooden bench to sit down on.

  Don turned and looked at Sarah—she had her head in her hands, ignoring the other tourists around her. Quickly, he sat down next to her and leaned in.

  “We’re being teleported,” he said quietly to his wife.

  She turned and looked at him.

  “What?”

  “We’re being teleported to different locations. It’s actually an extension of the work I’ve been doing, the work MacMillan has been funding,” Don continued, his voice low and urgent. “You know the plans in the basement, on the wall? They’re plans for a machine that could, theoretically, transmit objects through time or space.”

  Sarah shook her head.

  “I know, it sounds crazy,” Don said. “But it makes sense. And MacMillan is always asking me for more information, more details, and more
theories about how to do this type of matter transference. Don’t you see?” he asked Sarah, not bothering to keep his voice down. “They’ve invented a teleporter. And they’re showing it off.”

  “I don’t know,” Sarah said, looking up at the carved heads of the presidents. “Wouldn’t people know? Wouldn’t something like that be, like, the biggest discovery ever made?”

  An older gentleman carrying a camera turned and smiled at them. He’d been snapping pictures with the other tourists. At first glance, he looked a lot like Don Ellis.

  “You’re quite right, Sarah,” the old man said, smiling. “We will release it to the public as soon as they’re ready. But for now, we’re keeping it under our hats.”

  Don and Sarah stared at the man, their mouths open. They shared a long moment of silence.

  “Oh, sorry,” the older man said, smiling. He took off his hat and shook Don’s hand. “Teague MacMillan, at your service.”

  They didn’t speak.

  Teague glanced at his watch and the smile vanished from his lined face.

  “Oh, my, is it that late? We have to go,” he said and started down the path, back toward where Don and Sarah had materialized.

  Unsure of what else to do, they followed. As soon as they were out of sight of the tourists, Teague stopped and waited for Don and Sarah. When they stopped, Teague rolled up the left sleeve of his shirt.

  Don saw something there that didn’t make sense.

  The old man’s arm was there, and the skin that covered his arm was there as well. But the arm also looked like it was covered with paint, or some kind of luminous, flickering tattoo. The swirling colors slowed and began to take shape, and Ellis understood intuitively that it was a display of some sort. It resolved into a black keyboard, along with several smaller “windows” that held readouts of their own—displaying information and a clock that read 8:22.