by Mayer, Bob
Dane explained. “ARPANET was the first data transmission project. A way to get computers to talk to each other.”
“The Internet,” Eagle clarified. “It started with ARPANET.”
“And on the 29th of October, 1969,” Dane said, “the very first Internet message was sent from a computer at UCLA to one at Stanford.”
“I don’t know much about computers,” Scout warned, already dreading this.
“You will soon,” Dane said. “The Internet was initially funded by the Department of Defense. Some say it was because they wanted a way to communicate in case of nuclear war, but that’s not correct, at least not initially. The focus was on getting computers, often very different from each other, to communicate with each other. That night, the first message was sent. It wasn’t exactly mind-boggling, like Morse tapping out ‘What hath God wrought’ or Bell saying ‘Come here Watson, I need you.’ The man at UCLA, Charley Kline, was typing in ‘LOGIN.’ He got to the G and the system on the other end, at Stanford, crashed.”
“Exciting,” Scout said. “So what would be the problem? The thing didn’t even really work.”
“It worked,” Dane said. “And from it, we’ve got the Internet we know today. Do you realize how much of our infrastructure relies on the Internet?”
“So the Shadow wants to stop this message from getting through?” Scout asked. “That stops the Internet? Wouldn’t they try the next day?”
“Again,” Dane said, with a bit of exasperation, about as much as the team was feeling, “we don’t know what the Shadow is trying to do. But who knows what even just a day delay in the development of the Internet would do? And maybe the Shadow has its sights set on something bigger than just stopping that message?”
“Okeydokey,” Scout said. “Why do I get the nerd mission?” She nodded at Doc. “Seems he should be dealing with the computer eggheads.”
“It’s yours,” Dane said with a finality that silenced Scout. He turned back to the board and wrote:
999 AD—ENGLAND
Dane pointed at Roland. “That’s you. It’s also the vaguest mission.”
“Given to the vaguest guy,” Mac said.
Dane ignored that. “You’ll infiltrate onto a Viking ship that’s just off the coast of England.”
“Cool,” Roland said.
“Beyond that, we really haven’t a clue what your mission is,” Dane said.
“That’s okay,” Mac said. “Roland doesn’t either.”
Roland was still focused on the Viking aspect so he barely heard Mac.
“Nothing significant historically on that day?” Moms asked.
“Not that we’ve been able to uncover,” Dane said. “October is late in the season for a Viking raid. We’re hoping there’s an agent on that ship who can brief Roland.”
“You better—” Mac began, but a sharp glance from Moms shut him down.
“I’ll make it work,” Roland said, having no clue what the it was.
Dane nodded, realizing Frasier had been right in the choice. “Good. The next step is for all of you to get downloaded.”
“Is that all that’s going to happen?” Moms asked. “Are you going to block certain memories also? Is that why it doesn’t matter that we know what each other’s mission is?”
“Perceptive,” Dane said. “We will block certain information about this place and the Patrol. And our timeline. The less information the Shadow gets, the better.”
“‘Gets’?” Ivar repeated. “How would it get information from us?”
“If we’re captured,” Moms said. “Remember what the Ratnik were doing to those people in the Space Between?”
“Oh,” Ivar said.
“Let’s move out,” Dane said, indicating a door.
The Cellar
Hannah looked across her desk at Neeley. “Why didn’t you go with the Nightstalkers?”
“My place is here,” Neeley replied. “And my time is now.”
They were in Hannah’s office deep underneath the National Security Agency headquarters at Fort Meade, Maryland. Hannah ran the Cellar, a unique organization tasked with policing the world of secret organizations and the spies and operatives who dwelled there, in the shadows and the darkness.
But the realization that a Time Patrol existed, that there was time travel, that our world was under threat from other timelines and other times, had caught Hannah off guard.
“Besides,” Neeley added, “you need me.”
Hannah smiled an acknowledgment. She was in her late forties, her brown hair well styled, her skin smooth, her eyes dark and bewitching. If this conversation had been taking place at a country club, one might think her either a well-maintained housewife, or, more likely, a powerful woman capable of holding her own. She’d been the former, and now she was one of the most powerful people in the government, capable of ordering Sanctions where her operatives, such as Neeley, were judge, jury, and executioner.
Officially, no one had oversight over Hannah and the Cellar. Unofficially, the President’s recent phone call was a reality that had to be dealt with.
Neeley fit the role of judge, jury, and executioner as Hannah needed. Statuesque and slender, she was dressed in black slacks and a black turtleneck. Her hair was cut short and there was more gray each time she came back to see her boss and friend.
Such is the price of being in reality.
Hannah leaned back in her chair and let out a deep breath. “I suppose I do need you, except—for once—I don’t know what for.”
“Foreman,” Neeley said, referring to the old spook who’d been aware of the Time Patrol, controlled its funding, and tricked the Nightstalkers into becoming involved in stopping the Ratnik.
“What about him?” Hannah asked. “I’ve run a background on him since this started. His story is what he claims it is. We at least have records of that.”
“But is he what he appears to be?” Neeley asked. She didn’t wait for an answer. “He lied to us. He knew more than he told us. He played us into thinking the fate of the world was at stake simply to test the team. Taking down the Ratnik was surprisingly easy after the huge buildup. And he’s been keeping the Time Patrol secret for decades.”
Hannah shrugged. “We keep secrets too, Neeley. And we play people.”
“It doesn’t feel right,” Neeley said.
That got Hannah’s attention. The two of them had survived in the covert world for a long time, often trusting to instinct over knowledge.
“And there’s another factor,” Neeley said. “Foreman’s dying. Being aware of that, a clock ticking on one’s life, can change anyone.”
Hannah considered that, but her next question was about something completely different. “And Roland?”
Neeley’s left eyebrow went up, the only indication of her surprise. “What about Roland?”
“Do you miss him?”
Neeley sighed. “Yes. I do.”
“That’s good,” Hannah said. “It’s better to miss someone than have no one to miss.”
The room was silent for a few moments. “Check into Foreman,” Hannah finally said. “I agree with you. He played all of us and players always play.”
Off the East Coast of England, 999 AD. 29 October
Roland wasn’t there, and then he was there, but he’d sort of always been there. It was the best way to explain how he arrived, becoming part of his current time and place without fanfare or excitement among those around him. He was in the bubble of this day, not before, and hopefully he wouldn’t be here afterward.
Roland was holding onto a wooden pole and it took him a second to realize it was an oar. That moment of confusion was enough for him to get out of rhythm with the others and earned him an earful of curses that, despite being in a foreign tongue, he could understand. The usual: things to do with bowel movements, his mother, his masculinity or lack thereof, and various sexual acts, most of them anatomically impossible but quite imaginative.
Some things never change among warrior
s.
Roland caught the beat quickly and lowered his heavy oar into the water in sync with the others. Satisfied he could perform this mindless task—even for him—he took a look about. He was cold and wet, but that didn’t bother him. The human body is waterproof. The Ranger Instructors at Fort Benning, then in the mountains of Dahlonega, and finally the swamps of Eglin Air Force Base, had shouted it at him enough times that it was now a part of him. His attire of dirty leather trousers and tunic was completely inappropriate for the damp and cold, but quite right for manly Vikings.
Roland could almost hear Eagle: Manly men doing manly things with each other and the goats running scared.
He missed his team, but being with real Vikings, well . . .
A wooden shield hung over the side of the boat next to Roland. At his feet lay his sword, a very long and heavy sword with something inscribed on it. An Ulfberht sword, made from fine steel imported from Central Asia via the Volga trade route, a long and dangerous journey that made it quite valuable.
Roland blinked. This download stuff was cool.
Still, his head hurt from the download, but he liked the sword. Even more, he liked the idea of wielding the weapon in battle. It was a different form of combat from that of bullets and air strikes and artillery. More personal. Close range. Mano a mano.
Roland looked up from the sword. It was night, but there was a cloudless sky and the stars were out and the moon was half, giving plenty of light. The Viking longship was a skeid, with thirty benches for rowers. It was over eighty feet long by fifteen feet at its widest. Open to the elements, the emphasis was on functionality, not comfort.
Roland smiled at the information his brain was supplying. The team would be pretty damn impressed, even Eagle. The ship was narrow and double-ended, which meant the rowers could simply swing in the opposite way and the boat was just as quick in that direction, although the rudder was only at the stern, so maneuvering would be a little difficult. Still, Roland knew tactics, and usually if one had to beat feet, or in this case, row a retreat, a straight line was always the quickest.
In Viking fashion, the keel was hewn from a single large oak tree and curved. It was carved in a T shape, the narrow side projecting down into the water to aid in steering a true course. The ribs of the ship were made of solid oak and the hull built with overlapping strakes. It was a strong and flexible vessel designed to handle the pounding and waves of the open ocean while also able to navigate shallow waters and be drawn up on a beach as needed.
Necessity breeds innovation.
Roland vaguely remembered watching some History Channel show about Vikings in the team room back at the Ranch near Area 51 (definitely one Eagle had tuned in to as Roland preferred wrestling, mixed martial arts, or those puppy shows). He knew this information wasn’t coming from memory, though, but from the data downloaded into his brain prior to infiltration on this mission.
Roland looked up. The mast was twenty-five feet high. The wide sail hung limp, the air still.
Too still, Roland knew. They were in the midst of an unnatural calm. Never good. Roland’s warrior instincts were tingling.
In the scant light, he could make out that a large hand silhouette had been imprinted into the sail’s cloth with some red dye.
A man came down the center of the ship. He was very large, two inches taller than Roland’s six foot four inches, which made him a true giant in this day and age, a year before the turn of the first millennium. He was carrying a Danish axe with a haft over four feet long. The base of the haft had a metal point so it could be used on that end if needed, but the true working axe end was broad, consisting of a finely honed edge for cutting on one side and a thick blunt end made for crushing on the other.
Roland felt a pang of envy as he eyed the weapon. The sword at his feet looked pretty cool, but that axe was awe inspiring.
Mental note, Roland made, focusing hard, because sometimes he had a hard time remembering mental notes: Next Viking trip, get a big axe.
Long dirty, dark hair tumbled over the man’s shoulders. He had a square face with a thick, poorly healed scar running down the left side, from temple to jaw. Unlike most of the crew, he sported no beard, just a few days’ growth of stubble. He knelt on one knee next to Roland and looked at him with surprisingly blue eyes.
He spoke in a whisper only Roland could hear. “I am Ragnarok Bloodhand.”
“Roland.” Roland considered adding something cool to his name, like Roland the Slayer or Roland the Badass, but it just didn’t fit.
“Roland is a good name,” Ragnarok acknowledged, which made Roland feel better. Ragnarok looked Roland over, noting the scars. “You are a warrior.”
It was not a question.
“That is good,” Ragnarok continued. He nodded toward the bow of the ship. “We are only a few hours from England. The sea has been strange along with the winds. We are trusting to the gods that our course is true.” Ragnarok smiled. “And to Hrolf the Slayer who steers the ship. He has never let me down.”
Roland was still marveling he could understand the man, the words falling on his ears in Norse but processed automatically into English. He looked to the rear of the ship and saw a much shorter man but very broad in the chest with a large belly. He had a hand on the tiller and was peering ahead, as if he could see through to their destination.
Roland the Slayer, Roland thought, glad he hadn’t tried it out on Ragnarok. They already had one. Figured. Frakking Vikings. Acted like they had a monopoly on the crazy warrior thing.
Roland looked at the hard men around him and had to admit: Maybe they did?
Ragnarok put a hand out and tapped Roland on the shoulder. “Do you know what you are to do?”
Roland shook his head and decided to try his tongue. “No. I am supposed to watch and see. But it will be done today.”
Ragnarok nodded. “We’re heading toward a monastery near a village. There shouldn’t be any Saxon troops.” He paused as a slight figure wrapped in a black cloak came down the center of the ship. The other Vikings shifted uncomfortably as the figure passed, as if it were a dangerous spirit.
“The Disir desires to speak to you,” Ragnarok said in a low voice. “She’s been waiting for you. She met us before we sailed. She claims to have traveled half the world, from beyond the steppes of Russia to be here. I am not certain whether to believe her.” He said the last hurriedly and in a whisper as the figure arrived.
Roland processed that with a tumble of information that overwhelmed him until he simply focused on the keys: A Disir was a spirit or seer in Norse mythology. A cousin to the Valkyrie in some ways, which caused Roland his own unease.
The figure knelt next to Ragnarok and pulled back the hood. Roland was surprised to see a woman obviously from Southeast Asia. Her hair was shocked pure white and Roland knew that whatever had caused that change was something very terrifying indeed.
“I am Tam Nok. I am here to help you in whatever way I can. I have been waiting all my life for this day. It is my calling.”
For some reason, her eyes reminded him of Neeley, and he felt a pang of distance and longing.
“Do you know what it is I am to do?” Roland asked. His brain did a double backflip as it translated what he’d just said, and he realized he sounded more sophisticated speaking in Norse than he did in his native English.
Too bad no one else on the team back in his time spoke Norse.
Tam Nok shook her head. “Not yet. I have not been given the vision with my Sight.” She nodded toward the bow. “But I know where we are to land. Mighty Ragnarok Bloodhand, wielder of Skullcrusher, has graciously consented to take us there.”
Roland glanced at the Viking leader.
“You have paid us well,” Ragnarok said, indicating the extent of his graciousness.
“You said it was a monastery,” Roland said to Ragnarok.
The Viking nodded. “Yes. I’ve been along this coast before. Eight years ago I was with Olaf Tryggvason and his fleet. We killed many
Saxons. Three years ago I sailed up the Thames with Svein Forkbeard and we forced a ransom from London. But the Saxons have little left to pillage.”
“It is not about pillaging,” Tam Nok said.
Ragnarok sighed, somewhere between disgust and frustration. “When you know what it is about, let me know. You’ve paid well but once my men smell blood, I will not be able to hold them back. We take what we take. For now—” He suddenly paused and turned his head, sniffing like a dog. He sprung to his feet. “Half force to arms! Fast beat rowers!”
Every other rower locked down his oar and grabbed shield and weapon. Those still on the oars increased their cadence.
Roland hefted the sword, adjusting to the weight of it and the shield combined. He peered about but couldn’t see what had caused Ragnarok’s alarm. But he could sense it. He’d felt this before: danger close.
Ragnarok glanced over at Roland. “Stay with me.” He smiled. “I sense the opportunity for glory.” He pointed at Tam Nok. “Stay behind us.”
And here be the monster as a thick, ropy tentacle lunged up out of the water. At the tip was a mouth fringed with sharp teeth, snapping, searching for flesh. It hit one of the Vikings directly into the chest, the teeth boring deep. The man slashed at the creature with his sword even as he died.
The Viking leader was fast to the defense with Roland at his side, almost as fast. They battled desperately as more tentacles came out of the water. Roland sliced through one, stomping down with his leather boot on the snapping end, crushing the teeth. To his right, another Viking was lifted into the air, tentacle wrapped around his chest. The unfortunate warrior was pulled down into the black water, disappearing. The man never cried out in terror or for help, swinging his sword even as he was taken into darkness. It was the way a Viking should be taken, weapon in hand, guaranteeing a place in the hall of Valhalla.
If such a place exists.
But warriors need to believe in something beyond themselves, whether it be country, flag, unit, comrades, or Valhalla.
Neeley had told Roland of these creatures, the kraken.