Black Tuesday (Area 51: Time Patrol)

by Mayer, Bob

  “So,” Hammersmith said, “what’s the plan?”

  “The M21,” Eagle said.

  Hammersmith crawled over to one of the men and retrieved the sniper rifle. It was essentially an M14, the precursor to the M16. It fired a larger round, a 7.62x51 mm NATO. Over a thousand match-grade M14s had been modified. A fiberglass stock replaced the traditional wooden one. A 3-9 adjustable ranging scope was mounted on top. And the gun’s twenty-round box magazine was loaded with National Match–grade ammunition.

  Hammersmith handed it to Eagle, taking the binoculars back to be his spotter. “You a trained sniper?”

  “I went through SOTIC,” Eagle said as he put the stock to his shoulder and rested the barrel on his backpack.

  “‘SOTIC’?” Hammersmith asked, peering toward the plane almost two and half miles away at the northern end of the runway.

  Eagle realized this was a few years prior to that school starting up at 10th Special Forces. “Special Operation Target Interdiction Course.”

  “So,” Hammersmith said, “sniper school.”

  “A little bit different emphasis,” Eagle said. “We focused on shooting more than just people. You can do a lot with a well-aimed shot at a complex system.” Looking through the sniper scope, Eagle could see cameras mounted on the far side of the runway inside the marked landing area. There were a couple of fire trucks and ambulances parked over there.

  Just in case.

  “Like a plane.” Hammersmith said.

  “Like a plane,” Eagle echoed. Even though his watch was working, it had lost the hours in the mist, so he wasn’t certain when the final test flight of Credible Sport would take place.

  “Target is moving,” Hammersmith said.

  Eagle was checking for security, but there didn’t appear to be any. He had to remember; this was 1980, pre 9/11, still in the Cold War. The biggest concern they probably had was a Russian satellite high overhead taking imagery. Whether the Russians would warn the Iranians was another story. Eagle knew that when the Delta Force Commandos who’d trained for the original mission carried out rehearsals at Camp Mackall, outside of Fort Bragg, they tore down their training facilities or covered them up every time a Russian spy satellite passed overhead. Just in case.

  Eagle scanned left. The modified C-130 was moving along the taxiway, toward the north end of the long runway.

  The helicopter lifted and took a position to the east at about two hundred feet. The observers filed into the bleachers.

  The C-130 reached the landing strip and turned right, continuing down the long runway. It finally came to a halt at a flag, right where the first camera was filming. Eagle knew that the decision had been made to do the assisted takeoff first, even though on the actual mission, the landing would come first, and then the takeoff from the stadium.

  Engines revving, the rocket pods facing to the rear and down were opened from the fuselage. With a bright flash of light, the rockets were fired as the brakes were released. The C-130 leapt into the air with the assist of the three-second burn of those rockets. It accelerated upward, propellers grabbing air.

  “Far out,” Caruso said.

  “Keep your eyes on your sector,” Hammersmith ordered.

  Eagle pulled his eye back from the scope and watched as the plane roared by.

  The C-130 began a long, clockwise racetrack. It curved around, behind where the squad was, and to the north, banking around to reach the approach to the runway. Eagle put his eye back on the scope and zeroed in on the approaching plane. He was off on a gentle angle to its approach. He could see that the pods for the descent and retrorockets were open.

  Eagle brought up the specs for the rocket-assist system from the download, even though he’d already run this through in his head many times. While a computer was technically in charge of firing the rockets, the test pilots had insisted that safety switches be installed in the cockpit to prevent accidental premature firing. The navigator had one for the vertical, descent-arresting rockets. Both pilots had a switch for the retrorockets.

  The C-130 dropped down to three hundred feet of altitude, the height needed to clear the stands of the stadium. At the designated point, the plane rapidly slowed and descended.

  Eagle could clearly see the pilots in the cockpit.

  He shifted the reticles from the cockpit to a set of rockets on the right side of the plane. The pilots had the plane slowed to a hair above stall speed at eighty-five knots.

  The navigator had control of the lifting rockets, because he also had a laser altimeter that could give him the most accurate reading of height above ground. Eagle knew the way it was supposed to play out. As the aircraft hit seventy-five feet, Eagle fired a single shot.

  Seconds later at fifty feet, the navigator flipped his switch.

  The lifting rockets didn’t fire.

  The plane was at full flaps, going very slow. Not enough speed to pull out of the landing.

  Eagle fired again and the retrorockets fired prematurely, slowing the plane to almost a halt and blinding the pilots as they flared around the cockpit.

  From twenty feet it dropped like a stone onto the runway. Eagle gave the test pilots credit in that they brought the plane down level.

  It hit hard, the right wing breaking between the two engines. Flames were still flickering out of the retrorockets as a fire blossomed in the shattered wing, which was spewing fuel. The broken plane skidded, left wing now dragging into the tarmac as the weight shifted.

  “Geez!” Caruso muttered. “What the hell did you do?”

  More fuel was pouring out of the broken wing as the plane came to a halt. Four crewmen ran out of the back of the plane, but the three men in the cockpit were trapped.

  Fire trucks were on the scene spraying foam, and a path was opened so the rest of the crew could escape.

  “They’re all okay,” Eagle said, glad that his improvisation of history had produced the same result.

  “What exactly did you shoot?” Hammersmith asked.

  “It’s complicated,” Eagle said. “Suffice to say I cut one control and initiated another.”

  “So there won’t be another rescue mission.” Hammersmith said. Not a question, but Eagle responded.

  “Things will turn out all right for the hostages.” That was all he could say of the future. He thought of all that would happen between 1980 and his own time and realized it was both overwhelming and incredible. Who, today, would believe the Wall would come down in just nine years, ending decades of Cold War, without a shot being fired? Or the Gulf Wars? 9/11? The War on Terror?

  It would make for a novel people would dismiss now as being too farfetched. But it was history in Eagle’s time. He looked over at Hammersmith. “We’re done.”

  “What now?” Hammersmith asked.

  “I go back to my time,” Eagle said.

  Hammersmith nodded toward the other three survivors. “And them? Don’t they know too much?”

  “Who would believe them?” Eagle said. “Fighting monsters in the swamp?”

  Eagle also knew that if any of those men talked about this, they’d probably get a visit from the Cellar, although he knew it was more likely they wouldn’t be believed. They had their freedom; they’d protect that with their silence.

  Hammersmith nodded. “I been thinking. I think I was told to pick these guys because they were expendable, right?”

  Eagle shrugged. “I imagine so.”

  “But that means I’m expendable too,” Hammersmith said. “And you,” he added.

  Eagle had been expendable so long it hadn’t even crossed his mind.

  “And,” Hammersmith continued, “it means none of us mean anything for our future. Our future here, and your future in your time. I find that a bit . . .” He searched for the word.

  “Disheartening?” Eagle offered.

  “Yeah. I guess.” Hammersmith got to his feet. “But I figured that out from my first tour in Nam. No one gave a crap. We were meat to be fed into the grinder. I suppo
se most wars require that meat. Including this one we’re in.”

  Down at the airstrip, the firefighters were still battling the blaze.

  “Hey,” Caruso said as he came over. He stuck his hand out. “Thanks, Top.”

  Eagle automatically shook his hand, but had to ask. “For what?”

  “For leading us.”

  “Got most of you killed,” Eagle said.

  “You didn’t kill anyone,” Caruso said. “You saved our lives.” He nodded at the other two men. “You led us into the darkness and out again.” He looked past Eagle. “And whatever that was about, you did it right. No one got killed down there. I gotta assume there’s a higher purpose to all this.”

  “It was my job,” Eagle began. “I had—”

  “We should all be dead,” Caruso said. “I ain’t stupid. And I heard every word you and hardass here said. I don’t know half of what you’re talking about, and I know half of what I wish I knew but I know I’m alive. Because of you. Thank you.”

  And then the other two survivors came up and shook Eagle’s hand.

  Hammersmith watched this without comment.

  “Let’s go, guys,” he ordered the other three men. Hammersmith indicated a direction. “We need to police up the bodies. Close that out. Leave no trace.”

  Eagle stood. He handed the M21 to Hammersmith. “Thank you.”

  Hammersmith took the rifle. “Your job is screwed. So is mine.” He gave the ghost of a smile. “Good luck and good hunting, wherever and whenever you end up.” He paused. “But thank you. I’d have followed you into the gates of hell and we got a glimpse of that, didn’t we?”

  And then they moved out. They were out of view in a minute and Eagle was alone. He sat down and waited.

  Manhattan, New York, 1929. 29 October

  Ivar was startled into alertness. He had no clue what time it was. It had been hours at least since Lansky had left with the money and the list. He was thirsty, tired, and scared. He hadn’t been asleep as much as passed out from utter exhaustion.

  He was very much regretting spilling the beans, so to speak, to Lansky, but what else could he have done? This mission had screwed the pooch from the start.

  He also stunk. He’d been forced to piss in his pants.

  Could it be near midnight? Would he get a reprieve?

  The door creaked open and Ivar twisted his head, trying to get a view of whoever had entered. He could hear footsteps. Someone was right behind him.

  Ivar braced for the bullet to the back of his head that would bring the blackness of death. He gasped as a piece of cloth was jammed in his open mouth. Another piece of cloth looped over and the gag was cinched into place.

  Ivar tried to yell, to beg, but all that came was a muffled noise.

  The person walked around. Lansky looked down at him. “The deals are done. You’ll be happy to know your Mister Kennedy will be left alone. I will be a rich man, if your piece of paper is correct. And my partners are happy they got their money back. They do wonder where the rest went, but they trust me when I said we had to return it to the proper owners. They understand that I understand the way money works.”

  Ivar was trying to plead.

  “Save it,” Lansky said. He nodded toward the door and another man walked up next to him. A short, barrel-chested man with a scarred face. “This is Vincent. He has a particular talent that is useful in this case. He can’t hear anything. Result of being too close to a bomb he planted. Unfortunate for him, useful for my purposes. So even if you somehow convince him to take your gag off, he won’t understand anything you say. Not that he will take your gag off. He’s very loyal. Like a dog.” Lansky smiled, as he was one step ahead of Ivar’s thoughts. “He also can’t read. And he won’t untie your hands anyway. So. It was very nice to meet you. Thank you for the positive prognosis for my future.”

  And then Meyer Lansky walked out of sight.

  A hood was thrown over Ivar’s face, and he was carried out of the room and into the trunk of a waiting car.

  He was going for ride.

  And it took a while. He knew they went over a bridge, so they were out of Manhattan. He was beginning to get hopeful that midnight would come and he would disappear out of this trunk.

  But he’d been taken out of the car. Vincent had carried him on his broad shoulder down some steps, across something that creaked, and then onto what was obviously a boat, given the swell.

  Then it got worse.

  How long does it take concrete to set? Ivar wondered.

  He’d worked in the lab enough, knew the compounds of the mixture around his feet, but there were variables. How much water versus mixture? The temperature was also a variable.

  The rocking of the boat was making him sick. So was his impending death and the method. He’d thought they would use a steel tub, as in Billy Bathgate, but this was much more efficient and lower class. Each of his feet was stuck in a hole in a cinder block. Vincent had poured concrete in the holes a little while ago and was now sitting on the railing, staring blankly at Ivar. Once the concrete hardened, Ivar wouldn’t be able to get his feet out, and the cinder block plus concrete was more than enough to take him down, down, down into the depths.

  Really. He was going to sleep with the fishes.

  Ivar tried with a mixture of grunts and jerking of his head toward his watch to get an idea what time it was. Vincent either didn’t understand, didn’t care, or didn’t own a watch. Most likely all three.

  Ivar had been loaded onto the boat in the dark, so that was good. But it was the end of October, so it got dark kind of early. The ride out into the middle of Long Island Sound had taken a while. Probably an hour.

  Ivar had spent that eternity struggling against his bonds with no success, kicking at the lid of the trunk with similar results. Then he pushed against the front of the trunk, trying to push through into the back seat. No luck. Meanwhile, his mind tried to calculate time with a desperation greater than he’d ever put into any of his physics problems.

  Seriously. This was ludicrous.

  Vincent stood up and came over. He knelt down and poked a finger at the concrete.

  Ivar was wiggling his toes inside the cinder block and he still had some movement so he figured he still had some time. But Vincent flicked his finger. The outside was solid. It was hardening from the outside in.

  Ivar remembered being told, most likely by Eagle who loved telling such things, that the concrete deep inside Hoover Dam was still hardening.

  His feet weren’t Hoover Dam.

  Vincent stood up and folded his arms, looking down at Ivar. Ivar gave the best let me live look he could conjure up with his eyes.

  Something Vincent had probably seen many times.

  Vincent turned and walked over to the railing. He unzipped his pants and took a long piss.

  Really? Ivar thought. He couldn’t catch a break. Of course there were worse things in that dark water than Vincent’s piss.

  Maybe Vincent needed to take a dump? Maybe he’d go inside and take a long, satisfying dump? One could hope.

  Vincent opened up a section of railing.

  Ivar struggled against the tight ropes, pleading incoherently into the gag, body spasming.

  Vincent didn’t bother to pick Ivar up. Or untie him from the chair.

  It obviously wasn’t a near and dear piece of furniture to Meyer Lansky.

  Vincent scooted the chair toward the opening in the railing.

  Ivar’s body was rigid, his screams muted. He was wiggling his feet in the cold concrete mix, feeling it squeeze in between his toes.

  The front legs of the chair were now at the edge of the boat. Ivar felt the rope fall away as Vincent cut it.

  Ivar was shaking his head: no, no, no, no, no.

  And then he was tipped forward toward the roiling, black water. He took a gulp of air around the gag just before hitting head first, almost regretting doing that, because it would make it that much longer until death took him; and he was stunned from
the shock of the cold water, and all was darkness, the concrete and cinder block pulling his feet; and he was plummeting down, the pressure increasing on his ears, on his chest. He couldn’t move, he was going to—

  Foreman was splayed out, facedown, on one of the tables that the Ratnik had used to harvest organs, flesh, muscle, bone, and pretty much whatever they needed from the people they “reaped” via gates.

  A Valkyrie hovered over him and Neeley went to draw her pistol, but Earhart stopped her. “My doctor is in that suit.”

  “Who is Foreman?” Neeley asked as they walked up to the table. Earhart’s samurai took defensive positions.

  “He’s the man in each timeline that serves through World War Two and who links the Time Patrol with the present,” Earhart said.

  “Is that Foreman”—Neeley indicated the man on the table, whose flesh was being cut by the Valkyrie—“the one from my timeline?”

  “Does it matter?” Earhart said. “I’m not from your timeline. My understanding is that the version of myself from your timeline simply disappeared in flight. Never heard from again. But, yes, he is from your timeline.”

  The Valkyrie’s claws were slicing, cutting, pulling, all very delicately.

  “So they can save life as well as take it,” Neeley said.

  “They’re sophisticated machines,” Earhart said. “We captured several suits. They’re preprogrammed with surgical capabilities. My doctor is removing Foreman’s tumor, something a surgeon couldn’t do without causing extensive brain damage and most likely killing him.”

  “He played us,” Neeley said. “And he’s still playing us. He hasn’t told us the truth.”

  Earhart, surprisingly, laughed. “Of course not. He hasn’t told me the truth. He’s different. He sensed the Shadow when he was a young man in World War Two. Then he sensed it again with Flight Nineteen. I think he has a male version of the Sight. Because of that, he doesn’t know whether what he sees is real or not. Unless he sees something that can fix the date for him, he doesn’t know if he’s seeing the past or the future. Or just possibilities. The Sight can be a blessing but also a curse. You have a bit of it yourself. That young girl with you, Scout, she has the most powerful I’ve felt, other than Sin Fen. And speaking of her—” Earhart pointed.