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As the minutes passed, Peter focused on his footsteps. His new shoes were completely coated with the gelatinous slime that coated the bottom of the storm drain. He wondered how he'd clean them so Julie wouldn’t find out in the morning but decided to handle one obstacle at a time.
As he explored the dark underbelly of San Francisco, he wondered if he should have bought a gun first. But, he argued with himself, it’s a practice maneuver; why the hell would I need a gun? However, the noise—whatever it was—sounded like it was getting closer.
Turn by turn, Peter noted adjustments on his map. He was able to circumvent the various discrepancies and make it to the mint in a little more than thirty minutes. He would have made it much faster if he hadn't brought everything and the kitchen sink with him. But he knew that preparation was the pivot point for the success or failure of his mission, so he had brought something for every foreseeable complication: extra batteries for the flashlight; dry clothes, in case the waste of the world decided to find him attractive; and a small arsenal of tools for any eventuality.
Finally he arrived at his destination—a large, open vault directly below the courtyard. From his estimation, it could hold several thousand gallons of water. As he surveyed the room, he quickly realized that there was only one exit—the way in which he had entered. He prayed the weather cooperated.
Peter opened his duffle, removed the tool pouch, and stashed the bag into a small niche in one of the walls five feet from the basin floor.
Two steel ladders were mounted on opposite walls, each leading up to cast iron grates at the top of the sewer vault. Peter recalled that the courtyard was situated so that in the event of fire or other catastrophe, the employees could escape into the center of the facility for safety. Because of the enormity, the courtyard required multiple storm drains.
Peter chose the ladder on his right for its proximity to the egress pipeline. Peter knew the height of the grate was seventy feet above the floor. He had never had an issue with heights before, but now his mind began to play tricks. The ceiling of the vault itself was only fifteen or twenty feet high, but the ladder continued up and split into two separate shafts. Each shaft led to grates on opposite sides of the courtyard.
"Here goes nothing," Peter murmured as he grasped the highest wrung within reach. As he pulled himself up to the first crosspiece, his weight was too much for the rusted steel rung, and he dropped to the ground as a dull twang reverberated inside the vault.
Concerned but determined, Peter tried again. He reached up and grunted his way to the second step before gaining purchase with his feet. Step by step, he scaled the ladder to the waiting cover. He concentrated on not looking down.
He moved methodically, not placing too much weight on any one rung. As he reached the top, the shaft tapered in, and Peter was able to lean his back against the wall as he stood with both feet on a single step. It was chancy, exerting so much weight on one rung, but he had no choice. He needed his hands free.
Looking up at the storm cover, he found that the grate was bolted from below, just as the city blueprints had indicated during his research. He untied the tool pouch and fished out a pipe wrench. After making a few minor adjustments, he fit the wrench snugly around the bolt and applied pressure. At first it didn't budge. Peter repositioned himself to get better leverage and tried again. On his second attempt, the rusty bolt budged slightly and then broke free. The wrench slammed into the concrete wall with a metallic clang.
Peter quickly returned the wrench to the pouch and rubbed his stinging fingers. He stood on the metal step, waiting. He heard nothing for several minutes. With a firm grip, Peter pushed up on the storm cover. The grate didn’t budge. He didn’t see any more bolts.
"Shit."
Peter stepped higher and leveraged his back against the grate before exerting pressure. After a strenuous moment, he felt movement. Unfortunately, it wasn't the grate breaking free, but the rusted rung pulling away from the concrete.
As it dislodged from the wall, gravity took over, yanking Peter downward. In a panic, he lashed out with both hands, trying to grasp anything, but the steel rungs were spaced a foot apart and his hands scrabbled at smooth concrete more often than the rungs. Finally, a few feet above the vault floor, he grabbed a rung and held on. His body stopped violently, slapping against the concrete wall. He quickly grabbed another rung with his free hand and placed both feet on the crosspieces below.
Discouraged , he dropped down the ladder and crossed to the opposite wall. With determination, he climbed straight up the concrete shaft, stopping just below the second storm cover. He smiled internally, as his second attempt went much smoother than the first. After the second bolt came free in his hand, he stashed the tools and attempted to dislodge the grate. To his surprise, the grate lifted freely, without any resistance.
Peter briefly popped his head above the ground level of the courtyard, and all was clear. Security lights shone throughout the plaza. As he peered through the slivered opening, he glanced at his watch. It was 2:58 a.m., and he was out of time. He lowered the grate and deftly climbed back down the ladder. Deciding to leave the tools with his duffle, he quickly re-secured his bag and began his trip back to the sewer entrance.
The trip out took half the time as it did coming in. Having kept a hold of the map, he only had to look at it twice the entire journey. The only disturbing issue was the continued howl of whatever wild animal was wandering the tunnels with him. He made a mental note to acquire a pistol before his full run at the mint.
Satisfied, Peter needed to get back to the hotel and rest. With the ID badges coming tomorrow, he knew the day would be packed. The team would re-enter the base for the first time since coming through the time machine.
Peter retraced his steps to the Packard and drove quickly back to the hotel. There wasn’t a soul in sight when he stepped into the rear lobby. Moments later, he was undressed and back in bed. Delighted with the evening’s accomplishments, he drifted off to sleep.
CHAPTER 9
The following morning came far too early for Peter. After his highly eventful late-night escapade in the dank sewer systems of San Francisco, he had only gotten a few hours’ sleep before being rousted by Julie.
"Wake up, you bum. Everyone is going to be here within the hour," Julie said as she opened the drapes, allowing the morning sunlight to fill the room.
Peter rolled over and looked at the clock. It was 7:13 and Julie was far too bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for his liking that day. He rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling. His mind began to review everything from the past twelve hours. From his trip to the hardware store to the depths of the vile sewer lines. He was thoroughly exhausted.
"Up! You really need to get cleaned up before they arrive. You smell like . . . well, let's just say it's not at all pleasant."
Peter glanced at Julie, who was clearing off their small dining table. He exhaled completely before drawing in a slow breath through his nose. Yes, he stank like the sewer.
"I'm up. I'm up," Peter said as he willed himself out of bed and into the bath. One of his great disappointments of 1942 was the fact that he had yet to take a long shower. Although they existed in the timeline, not many hotels had them installed. Not with the war efforts and all. So, he was compelled to take baths instead. He honestly didn't mind taking a bath, but nothing beats hot water pounding a sore body after a strenuous activity.
Twenty minutes later, Peter stepped out of the bathroom, having bathed and dressed in clean clothes. Julie had already stowed the hide-a-bed back into the sofa and straightened the living area when she looked up.
"Much better, dear husband. Now, go across the hall and fetch the docs."
Peter nodded and followed her command. He was still a little too drowsy to protest her early morning bossiness. As he opened the door to walk across the hall, he was greeted by Dr. Epson and his apprentice.
"Good morning, Peter. We were just about to knock," Epson said, startled.
"H
ey there. I was just going to go get the docs from across the hall. Come in and take a seat. I'll be right—"
Before Peter could finish talking, the door across the hall opened and Drs. Lamb and Larsson stepped out.
"Well, never mind, then. Let's all come in and get on with this," Peter said, stepping aside to clear the way for their guests. He hoped his tiredness wouldn't affect his mood too much.
As Lamb stepped into the room fully, he asked, "Wow. What is that smell?"
Shit, Peter thought. He didn't think that his shoes would still smell after last night; he’d made sure to rinse them off completely in the water from the bay before driving back to the hotel.
"That, my friend, is the smell of heaven," replied Epson. "I took the liberty of stopping by my favorite bakery on the way over. I picked up coffee and pastries for everyone this morning."
"Smells wonderful, Doctor," Julie said, taking the box filled with breakfast fare from him and setting it on the table.
As she began to empty out the morning treats from Epson, Peter’s senses began to hone in on the wonderful aroma of freshly brewed coffee and of something yeasty. "Is that fresh bread?" Peter asked.
"Yes, Peter. That's the sourdough you smell. It's their specialty. I highly encourage you all to stop in for a bite before you, um, leave town?" Epson said.
"Yeah, I suppose our situation is a bit of quandary. We're not really going to be leaving town when we leave here, but . . ." Larsson added.
Peter sat at the table, poured himself a cup of coffee, and swallowed a quarter of the cup in one gulp, despite the intense heat on his mouth. He cleared his throat.
“Well then,” said Epson. “I was able to secure civilian ID badges for you all, but I had to exaggerate a bit regarding your individual backgrounds. My reputation is on the line, so please, do be mindful while on base.” Epson handed out the plastic-covered badges. “As you can see, it lists your contrived profession on the line below your name.”
Peter took his and read his aloud.
“War department
The adjunct general’s office
Washington, DC
Peter G. Cooper
Civilian TEC 4 MD”
Peter glanced at Julie’s badge. Like his, it included her photo and signature.
“These are outstanding, Doctor. What does the ‘TEC 4 MD’ mean?” Peter asked.
“Well, that’s where I had to fabricate. I had to tell them that you all were medical doctors assisting me in my research.”
“If it’s any consolation, Doctor, you only had to lie for those two,” Larsson said, referring to Peter and Julie. “Dr. Lamb and I both have PhDs.”
“I suspected as much. Unfortunately, to get these rushed, I had to tell the base commander that your transcripts would arrive in the mail within the month,” Epson pursed his lips. “If you four plan on staying beyond that . . .”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there,” Peter said, not wanting to broach the subject just yet. “But, medical doctors? Couldn’t you have picked another profession? Like photographer or propaganda specialist?”
“Yes, yes. I certainly could have set a few of you up as photographers, but I was worried that once you were given the credentials, the base commander might reassign you to other activities.”
“And you don’t think he’ll do the same with medical doctors?” Peter asked, concerned.
Epson laughed out loud.
“Am I missing something, Doctor? I’m having a hard time finding the humor,” Peter said dropping the badge on the table.
“Relax, Mr. Cooper. That will not happen,” Epson said, trying to suppress another giggle. “You see, in Britain, where I specified your education origin, an MD means something completely different.”
Peter listened to the doctor intently.
“Here in the United States, MD is the designation for doctor of medicine. In Britain, an MD, or DO as it is sometimes called, is the classification for research physician. Since there was no way to specify ‘research’ on the form, I left it as MD and added the specific information later in the application. It’s really one of my more genius moments.”
Peter relaxed, picking up the ID from the table and looking at it once again. “So, I’m a doctor?” he joked.
“Only in title. As I said, these will only be used to gain access to the base.”
Peter looked at his team, and they were all smiling at him. “What? I was worried that we’d be asked to remove somebody’s spleen or something.”
It was Julie’s turn to laugh now, and as she did, she caressed Peter’s shoulder. Turning her attention to Epson, she asked, “So, are we to act British, then?”
“Not specifically. Americans travel abroad frequently for medical degrees when they don’t have what it takes to get into a US institution,” Epson explained.
“Ouch,” added Larsson.
“It’s ok, buddy,” Peter said to Larsson. “We all know you are the smartest man at the table. Except for Dr. Epson, of course.”
Larsson nodded and continued to examine his ID.
With Larsson’s ego repaired, Epson continued.
“Now, then. The next order of business comes from Mr. Gallagher. Michael? Would you like to speak?” Epson said, nodding to his apprentice.
“Um, yes. I . . . I would first like to apologize for my actions last week. It was Friday, and . . . and my emotions got the better of me after a long week in the lab. There is no excuse for my outburst, and I can only ask for your forgiveness. I am very excited to be part of this momentous occasion.”
Peter stared at Gallagher questioningly. He knew the only way to find the saboteur was to keep everyone close. He adjusted his glare to friendly acceptance. “Hey. No problem. I suppose I’d have reacted the same if I were in your shoes. It’s water under the bridge. Doctors? Do you all agree?”
Peter looked around the table and received nods from everyone, including Julie.
“See? Nothing to worry about,” Peter said.
“Right then,” Epson boomed. “How have you found life in 1942? I would imagine it is quite different from what you are used to.”
“A little. I like the traffic here compared to our time,” Peter said. “You can drive across town in half the time, even in rush hour.”
“I, personally, love the shopping. I love the styles and I’m tickled with the prices,” Julie added with an embarrassed grin.
“I am certain that you and Miss Stewart will become fast friends, because Lord knows she likes to shop.”
“I think we’re quite compatible, as she’s taken me shopping numerous times since we’ve arrived.”
Epson smiled and nodded. “How are your amenities? Is there anything we can arrange to make your stay here more pleasant?”
“Nice of you to offer, Doctor, but we’ll be fine. The only obstacle we foresee right now is the use of a bigger car.”
“Can you elaborate?” Epson asked.
“We’ve purchased an old Packard from a gentleman in San Jose, and although it was affordable, it is a coupe. To get to and from the base all together . . .”
“Ah, yes. I see your predicament,” Epson said, staring up at the ceiling as he deliberated. “I have a larger sedan that I would be willing to exchange with you while you are here, if that helps.”
“We could never impose on you like that, Doctor. Besides, Lamb and Larsson will be heading onto base daily, whereas Julie and I will only be in on occasion. One of us can drive the doctors back and forth—”
“I can do it,” Gallagher interrupted.
“Excuse me?”
“I can do it. I can pick up the doctors in the morning and drop them off at night. It’s on my way into the base anyway,” Gallagher added.
“Mr. Gallagher, are you sure?” Epson asked. “It’s not very convenient for you.”
“Yes, I’d love to. It’ll give us a chance to talk about the modifications and such.”
Peter looked at Dr. Lamb, who’d been silent a
ll morning, and Dr. Larsson for their opinions on the matter. “Doctors? Thoughts?”
“I think that is the best option, aside from buying another vehicle,” Larsson said.
“Good. Because we’re not buying another one. The Packard is quite a piece as it is,” Peter joked.
“Then it’s settled. Mr. Gallagher will pick up the doctors from your hotel.” Epson paused before turning to Peter and Julie. “I’m curious. I understand the doctors’ reason for coming back through the device, but what about you two? Historical research? Would you care to expound on that?”
Peter knew Epson would press the matter at some point, and he was hesitant to let the good doctor in on their entire plan . . . just yet.
“Yes, we do plan on visiting a number of venues around the area to examine the various historical differences in time that perhaps our textbooks might have gotten wrong. But to be completely truthful, we’re mainly here as damage control. It’s all about the contamination we leave here in 1942.”
Epson’s facial expression changed from curiosity to acceptance. “Ah yes. You cannot leave a single trace of your existence here or . . .” he paused, as he returned his gaze to the ceiling in thought.
Peter looked up to where the doctor was staring and saw nothing.
“Don’t mind him,” Gallagher said. “He looks into the ether when he is trying to solve a problem or is thinking intently.”
“Yes, yes. The effects of you presence here could be catastrophic,” Epson said with a worried look.
“I wouldn’t go so far as saying catastrophic, but you’re correct; we can’t leave a trace. Julie and I are here to make sure everything is as it was when we leave.” Peter hoped his story would squash any further inquiries.