Black Tuesday (Area 51: Time Patrol)

by Mayer, Bob

  But Caruso was on target with the M60, firing a sustained burst at the Valkyrie on the right, splintering the red bulbs. The creature let out a howl and halted its assault, hovering.

  On the left, Hammersmith dove, rolling under a slashing hand and grabbing the M203 off a body. He fired a sustained burst, emptying the 5.56 rounds in the rifle magazine into the creature’s back while quickly backpedaling.

  He wasn’t running away. He was gaining separation distance so that the 40 mm grenade in the launcher below the gun barrel would have arming distance.

  Eagle ran forward as Caruso desperately reloaded another belt of ammunition into the M60. Aiming carefully, on semiautomatic, Eagle fired his M16, sending 5.56 mm rounds into the cavities that had once been covered by the red bulbs.

  Hammersmith yelled a warning to one of the squad he passed as he backed up, but the man didn’t understand and there wasn’t time. Hammersmith fired. The 40 mm grenade spun out of the tube and armed a millisecond before striking the Valkyrie. It exploded at the neck, blowing the thing’s head off. Caught in the blast, the man Hammersmith had warned was knocked to the ground, bleeding profusely.

  Eagle reached the motionless Valkyrie. He tore a grenade off his web gear, pulled the pin, and then jammed it in the hole where the right red orb had been. It barely fit in, but it fit.

  Eagle stepped back.

  There was a muffled explosion.

  And then the suit was rapidly pulled back into the mist as if on a bungee cord, disappearing.

  Eagle wheeled. The other Valkyrie was also floating motionless. Then it too zoomed backward, out of sight. But the head remained on the ground.

  Hammersmith was attempting to stop the bleeding on the wounded man. Eagle checked the severed head. He could see the stump of a spine sticking out of the bottom. From where, from when, Eagle had no idea, although he had to assume they were from the Shadow.

  But even as he watched, the head and armor also crumbled inward just like the chimera. This would be a puzzle for Doc to work on when Eagle got back and gave his after-action review.

  If he got back.

  Hammersmith cursed and sat back on his heels. His hands were covered with blood, but the soldier he’d been working on was obviously dead.

  They were down to five.

  “Hey!” Caruso called out. “The fog is clearing.”

  And it was. As if it had lost all its power, the mist was dissolving.

  Eagle looked at his watch. It was running once more. “The gate is closed.”

  “The what?” Caruso asked.

  “Let’s move out,” Eagle ordered.

  Manhattan, New York, 1929. 29 October

  “So?” Lansky asked.

  Frakking Dane, Ivar thought. Frakking support personnel.

  “Tell me friend,” Lansky continued, “how do you have a bank note that wasn’t printed until next year?” Lansky asked. He tossed the bill onto the table, next to the stack and the note.

  The answer to this wasn’t in the download.

  There was no answer other than the truth, and Ivar knew he couldn’t tell the truth.

  Lansky began to shake his hand. “Yes, you must keep your secrets. But here is the conundrum for you. The fact is we will torture you, and you will most likely give up your secrets. I have never seen a man who does not eventually speak, who will not eventually giving up everything he loves and holds dear when enough pain is inflicted. So what you are trying to do is futile.”

  Ivar thought that was a lie: history recorded numerous people who had died rather than give up what they knew or believed. Of course, he’d never actually seen someone do that and he had a feeling Lansky had seen quite a few people tied to this chair do the opposite.

  And even if such people existed, Ivar strongly doubted that he was one of them.

  Lansky continued. “But your real problem is this. Your friend, the courier, is dead. You will be dead, unless you talk. And that money, and that list, is mine. I do not have to buy the stocks indicated. Or I could buy them but I most certainly do not have to tie those stocks to that account. I assure you that Bugsy, Frank, and certainly ‘Lucky’ would be most upset with me if I did so.

  “At the very least, I will use our money as I see fit.” He smiled. “And some of these stocks sound quite attractive today. But the rest? Eh. Why should I care? Unless you tell me why I should care. So who are you? Where are you from? And most importantly, Mister Ivar, when are you from?”

  Ivar’s mouth dropped open in shock.

  Lansky was surprised he was surprised. “I am a man who has lived a hard life, Mister Ivar. I grew up on the streets. Luciano saved my life five times before we were eighteen. I’ve survived these past years among very tough people. As a Jew, it has not been easy. These Italians are hotheaded. The Irish mob, not much better. I live in a very dangerous world, which makes me a realist. I deal with the facts as they are presented to me, not as I wish them to be.”

  He reached over and picked up the bill. “This could be a forgery, in which case, the forger is stupid. But it is not. I’ve seen the work of the best forgers. This is real. Ergo, this is a note from a Treasury Department printing a year from now. When are you from?”

  Ivar kept his mouth shut tight.

  There was a thud at the door. “Excuse me,” Lansky said. “Don’t go anywhere.” He went over. Ivar could hear the door creak open and then shut. Lansky came back and resumed his seat.

  “My friend. I control your fate. Unless we have a frank conversation, not only will the most unfortunate fate I have promised befall you, your mission with this money will fail. And, since it seems of some import to you, Bugsy will kill Joseph Kennedy.” Lansky cocked his head. “In fact, I think we should wipe out the entire Kennedy family.” He pulled a note out of his pocket. “Ah yes. Mister Kennedy and his loved ones live up in Bronxville. Not a very far car ride away—294 Pondfield Road. Those roads up there can get confusing, but I believe Mister Siegel can find it.”

  “You can’t do that,” Ivar said.

  “Ah. It speaks. And why can’t I?”

  “Kennedy is important.”

  “He’s a crook,” Lansky said. “Just like us. Except he hides it behind being a lawyer, going to the right country clubs, and rubbing elbows with the big shots. Why is he so important?”

  “He isn’t,” Ivar said. “His sons are.”

  Lansky glanced down at the paper, and then back up. “He’s got three sons. Which one is important?”

  Ivar knew he was on the razor’s edge and he was going to lose a ball either way. “Can I trust you?”

  Lansky didn’t laugh or point out the foolishness of Ivar’s asking that while bleeding and tied to a chair. “Yes. What you tell me stays in here,” he pointed at his head, “the rest of my life.”

  “Joe Kennedy will have four sons,” Ivar said. “One will die in a war.”

  “What war?”

  “Not important right now.”

  “All right,” Lansky ceded.

  “The other three will enter politics. Two will be assassinated.”

  “Bad luck family,” Lansky said.

  “But not until after one is elected a senator and the other becomes president.”

  The room was silent for a while.

  Lansky finally nodded. “All right. Let’s say I believe you. It’s crazy, but you know, it doesn’t hurt me if you’re making this up. It will hurt you. So. What are you? Some guy from the future, you know all this?”

  “Yes.”

  Lansky laughed. “This gets better and better. All right, mister future man. You know what happens to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do I get whacked? By who?”

  “You don’t,” Ivar said. “You die a natural death, an old man.”

  “Now you’re lying,” Lansky said, but there was a hint of uncertainty, more hope, in his voice. “I die in prison?”

  “No. You never go to prison. You get arrested, you get tried, but you never get con
victed.”

  “You got a good story,” Lansky said. “I bet you tell it to all the guys who tie you up and threaten to kill you. You wouldn’t tell me if I did get whacked, would you?”

  “I’m telling the truth.”

  “Lucky? How does he do?”

  “He gets killed.”

  That didn’t surprise Lansky. “Figures. Benny?”

  “Killed.”

  “Frank?”

  “Dies at home, a natural death.”

  “Interesting,” Lansky said. He checked his watch. “I’m taking our money out of this pot.”

  Ivar waited.

  “This son of Kennedy, who becomes president. Is he a good president?”

  “He saves the world from”—Ivar was about to say nuclear war—“having a very, very bad war that might wipe out just about everyone on the planet.” Of course, Ivar realized, he got the United States in a smaller war that killed a bunch of people too, but he figured that wasn’t relevant right now.

  Lansky laughed. “This is a great story. Great. All right. Here’s what I’m gonna do. I don’t like gambling. Think people who do are schmucks. I’m going to play the odds. I’m gonna send this money to my broker. Have him invest the balance, minus a two million finder’s fee, as indicated and linked to that account. And I’m going to have him invest the finder’s fee in the same stocks, but linked to my account. And I’m going to give Lucky and Benny and Frank back our money. That way, everyone’s happy.”

  “What about me?”

  Lansky headed for the door. “Two can keep a secret if one is dead. And that one ain’t gonna be me.”

  Underneath the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City

  “This is most unusual,” Edith Frobish complained as she passed the DNA scanner leading into the cavern underneath the Met.

  “You think?” Neeley replied. “There’s no trace of Foreman since he left the President.”

  “Why would you think I know where he is?” Edith said as the steel door slid open.

  “I don’t think you do,” Neeley said. “I think you can get me to where I think he is.”

  “Really,” Edith protested. “I was doing important research for—”

  “You were staring at a painting like you’d never seen one before.”

  “Ah!” Edith wagged a long finger at Neeley as they walked into the cavern. The HUB stood by itself, a spotlight on it. It was dormant, no gate open. “You have to understand the painting. And I was staring at the painting to see if it changed.”

  “How could it change?” Neeley asked.

  “If history changed,” Edith said. “If, perhaps, Sir Walter Raleigh was not executed on the 29th of October, 1618. It would stand to reason, his portrait might change also. Or even disappear. The replica I was looking at was one purchased for Thomas Jefferson by John Adams. Jefferson had a fascination with Raleigh, mostly based on his explorations of the Carolina coast. And, of course, the famous lost Colony of Roanoke. Jefferson owned copies of both Sir Walter Raleigh’s Essays and Raleigh’s History of the World.”

  “Right,” Neeley said. She pointed at the HUB. “Can you get me to the Space Between?”

  “Why do you want to go there?” Edith asked. “It’s very dangerous.”

  “Because,” Neeley said, “surveillance footage picked up Mister Foreman entering the museum above about eight hours ago. The guard out there,” she indicated the last human defense in the hallway, “told me Foreman passed through and never came back out.”

  “Maybe he went back to the Possibility Palace,” Edith suggested.

  “I think he has other plans,” Neeley said. “Get me to the Space Between.”

  Edith sighed and then walked over to the HUB. Its surface was covered with hieroglyphics. She ran her hands over the object, pushing here and there.

  There was a noticeable surge of power in the room and then a gate appeared at the top of the ramp: a black rectangle, so dark it seemed to suck light into it.

  “Keep it open until I get back,” Neeley ordered. And then she walked up the ramp and into the gate.

  The smell was familiar to Neeley, having been here before, via a gate in the Bermuda Triangle. Oily. Thick air. She was on a “beach” that ringed an inner sea. Black columns of varying diameters rose out of the dark water to a gray, misty haze overhead. More “gates.” The one she’d come out of was just a few feet from the shore. Her feet were wet, but otherwise all was good.

  Light came from above, not a single point, but diffused.

  Neeley recognized the derelict and abandoned ships from her last visit. The five TBM Avengers from Flight Nineteen were parked wingtip to wingtip not far away. A piece of Foreman’s history next to a Spanish galleon.

  This was the spot where each member of the Nightstalkers had been given their “choice” by Dane. There was no time to explore. Neeley headed inland. Before she even crested the first dune of black sand, four samurai appeared, swords at the ready.

  Neeley held her hands up.

  One of them gestured for her to follow. Their quick appearance and acceptance of her presence indicated to Neeley that she was expected. Whether that was a good or bad thing remained to be seen.

  They led her through draws, avoiding cresting ridges, moving tactically. They passed a gully with a trickle of water in it. Patches of brown soil with plants struggled to grow.

  And then they reached a stone wall that rose up, slightly curving inward. The wall was pitted with shallow caves. There were dozens of people in and around the caverns, their garments indicating a spread across thousands of years of history.

  A woman separated from the group and came toward Neeley. She wore a flight suit and had short curly brown hair.

  “Neeley,” she said, sticking her hand out.

  “Amelia.” Neeley shook the hand of the famed aviatrix. “Where’s Foreman?”

  Earhart frowned. “He came through several hours ago. He wanted to go to the Ratnik camp. I gave him an escort of a couple of warriors.”

  “Who else did you send with him?”

  “My doctor,” Earhart said.

  “What does he want at the Ratnik camp?” Neeley asked.

  Earhart cocked her head. “Come now. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t know that. He wants to live.”

  The East Coast of England, 999 AD. 29 October

  A dozen swords pointed at Roland, high odds against him, especially since he wasn’t particularly trained on the use of his own sword. The men wielding those weapons were dressed in a mixture of pelts and hides or nothing at all. Some were painted, or it could be they were simply horrendously dirty.

  They really smelled bad.

  Roland missed his M240 machine gun, his M4, his pistol . . . a grenade perhaps?

  “I will kill as many as possible.” Roland spoke in a low voice to Tam Nok, his sword at the ready. “You make a break for it. Get to the chapel. Hide the girl.”

  “I can hear you,” one of the berserkers said. “You will die quickly and so will she if you resist.” He stepped forward. “You are our prisoners.”

  “I don’t think so,” Roland said. He lifted his sword, but Tam Nok put a hand on his forearm.

  “We go with them,” she said.

  For Roland to give up his sword was like parting with one of his limbs, but he realized she was right. He might kill some, but not all, and then this mission ended here, now, and the vision he’d glimpsed would bring the deaths of many more. As long as they were alive, they had a chance.

  He dropped the sword. One of the berserkers picked it up. Another grabbed Roland’s arms and tied his wrists behind his back. The rope was tight and dug into his skin, but Roland barely noticed it.

  “Come,” the leader said.

  Led like animals, Roland and Tam Nok were pulled forward through the mist.

  They came over a low rise, and in a gully were thirty more berserkers. Roland could smell them before he saw them. One of the group, a tall, thin man with a naked torso and a wol
f skin covering his waist and below, turned to them. His body was crisscrossed with innumerable scars. He was missing one eye, a gaping socket surrounded by scar tissue.

  The other eye peered at the two of them, as if deciding how to slice a prime piece of meat. “I am Halverd One-Eye.” He grinned, as if his obvious name were a joke.

  Screams echoed out of the mist from somewhere ahead. Women, children crying out. Men pleading. Vikings yelling in exultation. The primal agonized cries of the mortally wounded.

  “Bring them,” Halverd ordered.

  Roland realized they were getting closer to their objective, the chapel inside the monastery, although the mode of that approach needed some improvement given he was weaponless and his hands were tied.

  The guide ropes were pulled. Roland and Tam Nok stumbled forward as the berserkers strode over the edge of the gully. Below them, flames flickered from straw roofs set on fire. Bodies littered the ground in front of the monastery. The gates were wide open, indicating either poor security or a vain attempt by the inhabitants to throw themselves on the mercy of the Vikings.

  The sounds of the assault came from inside those gates, behind the three-meter-high wall surrounding a large building.

  Roland was a bit surprised at the action of the berserkers. They were spreading out, no yelling, no running, just long purposeful strides. Halverd was in the middle, in the lead, and Roland and Tam Nok were prodded along right behind him.

  They passed the first bodies. Men, women, and children. The slaughter was indiscriminate. Halverd reached the open gates and paused. He then signaled, left and right. A contingent of a half dozen berserkers disappeared into the growing darkness in either direction.

  This was not some unorganized melee as the ambush had been.

  Then Halverd gestured with his sword at the gate and the remaining berserkers rushed through. He looked over his shoulder and smiled once more at Roland and Tam Nok, and then led them through into the courtyard.

  The Vikings were caught in midpillage, so the initial assault was heavily in favor of the berserkers. Vikings were cut down from behind even as they were killing monks and villagers.