There was a reply Kerrigan could hear but couldn't make out. As the woman put the phone down, she muttered, "I wish someone would tell him not to talk so loud over the phone." She rubbed her ear and worked her jaw much the way Kerrigan had done when awakening from the bomb blast.
She looked up at Kerrigan and said, "The Doctor will be here in a moment."
It occurred to Kerrigan that her words sounded way too much like what he had heard on so many previous trips to Abilene. He knew things were different—and that this was a different kind of doctor—but he still didn't like the association. The truth was, he reluctantly admitted to himself, he didn't like anything about Abilene—and it was all based on his past association with the town. He really had no good reason for the animosity he held toward the town itself and he knew he would be better off trying to get over it. Such thoughts—obsessions, really—could be nothing but counterproductive to his assignment here, whatever that was.
Kerrigan looked around at the concrete walls of the office and saw what one expected to see in Texas government-related offices. There was a portrait of Sam Houston next to a Texas flag. On another wall hung the Texas constitution and a photo of Admiral Nimitz.
A couple minutes later, a short man with a large, balding head rushed into the front door as if the outdoors were on fire and asked the receptionist frantically, "Vere is Captain Kerrigan?" in a thick German accent.
As the receptionist pointed, Kerrigan rose to his feet with a salute and said, "That's me, sir. I'm Captain Kerrigan."
The German, who could have been no more than five feet tall, turned and returned Kerrigan's salute with precision. He was wearing a white smock over a boiled cotton shirt and military dungarees. On his feet he wore clean white canvas shoes like those a doctor might wear. He then extended his hand and said, "I am Gustav Schulz. It is a pleasure to meet you, Captain. I trust your trip here was enjoyable."
"It was nighttime on a train, sir," Kerrigan replied, trying to inject a laugh into his voice and not succeeding very well.
"I comprehend," the little man nodded, though it was somewhat unclear whether he had actually paid attention to the response. "Now, won't you come with me?"
Kerrigan nodded and picked up his bag. As he followed the little German outside, he noticed that the receptionist didn't seem to think much of the little man. The little man, for his part, didn't seem like he cared.
They hopped into a small electric vehicle and were soon traveling down one of the gravel paths that led deeper into the complex. The German, who seemed very intent on driving, nevertheless said (pronouncing all his Ws as Vs), "I would like to get a few things straight, Captain. First, all that you see from this moment on is the most top secret and is covered under the Official Secrets Act. Divulgence of what you see from this point on can and will be punished as treason. Do you understand?"
"Yessir," Kerrigan replied, surreptitiously holding on tighter to his seat as the German took a corner at a rate of speed that didn't seem wise given the fact that they were riding out in the open and the vehicle didn't seem like it would be all that steady under any conditions.
"Secondly," the man continued, "I am a naturalized citizen of the Republic of Texas and a Colonel in the Republic of Texas Army Air Corps." This drew a surprised look from Kerrigan, but the little man seemed to take no notice. Or maybe he was just used to such looks. "Me, I take no interest in titles, but for the work we do here it was deemed that I would be well to have one. Zat is fine."
He pulled up outside Building 7 and said to Kerrigan before they got out of the vehicle, "With all that being said, let me explain something to you. You will be working very closely with myself and Doctor Hermisillo, who is inside. He, too, has received a commission. Technically, he is Major Antonio Garcia Hermisillo. Outside this building—or when we have visitors, we will call each other by these titles." He shrugged, "It is politic, no? But inside this building, when it is the three of us, I am Gustav, he is Tony and you will be . . . "
It took Kerrigan a moment to realize he was supposed to fill in the blank before he finally added, "Jason. My name is Jason."
"Ah, yes. I read that. I thought it best to check first as some people go by a middle name or—how do you say—a nickname?. So, Jason, come inside to our little laboratory."
She ran her hand over the new panel where once had been a scar that—it had had been surmised—came from when she clipped another plane in the air. She had almost asked for the old panel as a souvenir, but she knew metal was precious during war time and it would probably be reshaped and attached to another plane—or used for something else useful. Even shell casings were being saved when they were found.
Try as she might, Bronwyn never could remember how she had come to get that scar on her '38.
But then, there was a lot of that battle she didn't really remember very well. It had been her first battle. In a big picture sense, it had been over before it had started. From Bronwyn's standpoint it had gone on for just under five minutes and of that she estimated that she could clearly remember about forty-five seconds of it. The rest of it were either a blur or a complete blank.
So at what point in the blank moments had she actually collided with another airplane? Was it possible she had done it at some other time? Maybe as some other plane had exploded she had just been hit by shrapnel. The mechanic swore up and down she had somehow collided with another plane—something about the angle of impact and the apparent force—but she just had a real hard time believing it.
Why was she still alive? It was no longer just that nine out of her fellow eleven pilots had been killed in a span of about two minutes. It was that she had somehow beaten death in spite of the collision and the bullet hits.
Bronwyn had never been much of a church-goer. Her grandmother had been a devout Catholic and Bronwyn had attended with her every now and then, but her grandfather had been a Baptist who only went to church three or four times a year. She had gone with him whenever he went, and had attended mass a few times with her grandmother. Beyond that, her experience with church had been pretty sparse.
She had always assumed there was a God—though she wasn't sure how personal he was. But now she was beginning to wonder. What if there really were a personal God like her grandmother had believed in? And what if He had saved her life because He had something He really wanted her to do? How would she go about finding out what that was?
Her hand went to the sheriff's badge in her pocket. Though her grandfather hadn't spent much time in church, he had always been a godly man, she thought. He knew the Bible backwards and forwards and was always telling her stories from the Bible. He had always prayed before meals. Maybe he had known something about God and hadn't passed it on.
No, that couldn't be right. Her grandfather had probably tried to pass it on to her and she had just missed it, for he never left her out of anything important to him. So she stood there with one hand on the airplane and one hand holding the badge and trying her best to remember everything he might have told her about God and why He might have saved her life.
As she thought about it—not sure if she were praying because she wasn't really sure how to pray—it began to occur to her that it wasn't just that day over Crockett. Almost colliding and taking six hits were pretty spectacular—miraculous—but since then she had been in three other sorties. Nothing had been all that close, but she knew that any day you went up against a live enemy and came back alive yourself, you were doing well.
Maybe, she thought, she ought to go over to the chapel and see if she could talk to one of the chaplains. She looked at her watch. There was a briefing she had to be at in about fifteen minutes, then some other duties after that. She ought to be able to make it over to the chapel at lunchtime, then.
Jason was taken into a building that was essentially an empty airplane hanger. There were a few scientific instruments on a few tables along the edges, but mainly the building consisted of space. Surprisingly well-lit space for the size of the build
ing, but space nonetheless. Jason looked up to see that the architect had made use of numerous skylights, a smart move he appreciated not just from his engineering background but as a lifelong resident of the sunlit plains.
"You may hang up a coat over here should you need to wear one on a cold day," Schulz told him, pointing to a series of lockers near the door. "Me, I am from the Volga river and have yet to find it cold in Texas—even when my esteemed colleagues were shivering in their cowboy boots. You may keep anything else you like in those lockers."
"Um, I don't mean to interrupt, si—Gustav. But do you have any idea where I will be billeted?"
Gustav nodded and said, "I forgot you just got here. Probably stayed in the Drake last night, no? It is, how you say, a dive?"
Kerrigan laughed, "It wasn't too bad. I've seen much worse. But, um, I'm not going to be living there, am I?"
"Oh no," Gustav shook his head. "We have a place for you with the other officers. It's not far. I will take you there, later."
"Thanks. And, um, I lost pretty much everything when Crockett went down. I need to get some civies and things like that."
"We'll make sure you have time for that. First, though, let me introduce you to Tony and show you around the lab."
"Captain?" Bronwyn asked as she stepped into the chaplain's office. "Are you the Chaplain?"
"Yes, Lieutenant. Can I help you?" He stood up and offered his hand. She was coming in out of the sun and it wasn't until the door began to shut behind her that he finally got a good look at her. "You're one of the Crockett pilots, aren't you?"
"Yessir," she nodded.
"How can I help you?"
"Do you think God ever helps people—rescues them, even—because He's got something he wants them to do later?"
The chaplain said with a smile, "Seeing as how we've apparently dispensed with the pleasantries and moved directly into the meat of the discussion, why don't you have a seat?"
"Should we baptize him all at once, Gustav?" Tony asked with a smile. Tony Hermisillo was a jovial, slightly overweight, dark-complected man of almost Kerrigan's height. If he spoke with an accent at all, it was more of someone from around Houston rather than of someone with Spanish origins.
"Why certainly." Gustav started to walk away from where they stood, then stopped and said, "I think—no, you are right. Let's baptize, then we convert."
Tony put a hand on Jason's back and directed him to follow Gustav as he said, "Funny thing about us, Kerrigan. Gustav once studied to be a Lutheran minister before going into the sciences. Myself, I began to study for the priesthood until I met the woman who is now my wife. So we use a lot of phrases from our earlier callings. I hope you won't find us offensive."
"I don't believe so," Kerrigan replied. He laughed, "Unless either of you got anything against us Cambellites."
Tony gasped in horror, then—at Jason's look of terror—broke out laughing. Tony slapped him on the back and said, "Same Bible, same God, same savior. That's enough for me."
They caught up with Gustav, who was pulling some sort of nylon-like covering off what looked to be a missile of some sort. It was sleek and silver and bullet-shaped (at both ends) and, Kerrigan estimated, about three feet long. It's surface was extremely smooth and, while Jason thought he saw a line in it's surface if he cocked his head just the right way, he could see no other seams. Whatever it is, he thought, it looks like it just dropped out of the sky like that.
"What is it?" Jason asked.
"This," Gustav said with emphasis, "Is why we are here."
Whatever it was, it was anchored to a rolling cart, which Gustav with Kerrigan's help rolled over to a white line marked on the floor. Lining up the wheels with four marks that had been placed on either side of the line on the floor, they stepped back. Tony went over to a console of some sort and began flipping switches. It seemed to Kerrigan as if Tony were turning something on, but he could not for the life of him figure out what. He remembered hearing in college of the theories of a computer and wondered if this might be one.
After a few moments, Tony announced, "Ready, Doctor."
Gustav handed Jason a pair of goggles while putting some on himself and said, "We've never found them necessary, but it seems best to be prudent."
As Kerrigan put his on, he asked, "What am I going to see?"
"Just watch," Gustav said softly, almost reverently.
Kerrigan wasn't sure what to watch, but he figured the silver thing was the center of attention. Gustav Schulz was staring at it with the kind of rapturous attention a child gives a circus performer who is just about to perform a really spectacular trick. Kerrigan saw this out of the corner of his eye and so concentrated on the object even more if it could produce that kind of attention in men who supposedly knew what it was going to do.
Tony announced, "Five seconds. Four. Three. Two. One. Now."
The object was suddenly thirty feet away, near a similar line on the other side of the room.
Kerrigan took off his goggles and said, with a dry mouth that was barely able to form words and an equally dry brain, "Geez. What the hell just happened?" He couldn't remember ever swearing in front of an officer—or much of anyone, for that matter—but the superiors present didn't seem to notice.
Gustav directed him over to the object and said, "Touch it. Feel it. Assure yourself it is not an illusion—a conjurer's trick. Touch the cart as well. Stand where you helped me place it moments ago. Make sure there is nothing there."
As if in a daze, Kerrigan did just as the German suggested. He walked between the two marks half a dozen times, counting the paces. He touched the cart and the object and jumped up and down to make sure there was not a trap door beneath what appeared to be a smooth concrete floor. All his investigations proved that he had no idea what had just happened—except that it seemed like a miracle.
"You broach an interesting question, Bronwyn," the chaplain nodded. They had already decided that, at least within this session, they would dispense with all titles. He was a tall, overly-thin man with a mane of dark hair around a bald head. He spoke without an accent that Bronwyn could detect, which meant he was probably from the northern area of the state. "And it's not the first time I have heard it. Before the war, I was in a church up near Stillwater. We had a man there who underwent heart surgery. Technically, they say he died on the table for almost a minute. He always said he thought that God had brought him back to do something special."
"Did he? I mean, did he ever do anything special?"
"Who is to say?" the chaplain, Jim, shrugged. "Maybe he did, but it was nothing 'big.' Perhaps he helped some student find their way by a chance comment. Maybe he donated blood that saved someone's life. Or, maybe, it was just the thousands of little things he did every day that in some way helped another person. Maybe it was never supposed to be one big thing. You and I cannot see the world as God does. When was the last time you rode in an automobile, Bronwyn?"
"Huh?" she was taken aback by the question. "Um, two days ago. Rode in a jeep. Why?"
"Let me say that I like driving in autos. Have one myself back home that I hope to return to some day. But every time we go out on the road in one of those things, just imagine the possibilities for disaster. You pull up to a four-way stop and trust that everyone else will stop, too. But what if your brakes suddenly went out, or you got a flat tire, or someone coming from the other direction suddenly had a heart attack? What I am saying is that every day—almost every moment of our lives—we have the potential for death. I don't say that to be morbid, but to point out that God may be saving our lives every moment of the day."
"Are you trying to say that surviving a mid-air collision was just something that happens every day?" Bronwyn asked, trying her best not to sound as offended as she was.
"Not at all. What I am trying to say, I guess, is that to find out what it is that God wants you to do with your life is not usually something you find out in an afternoon. Just like He protects us all the time, He also wants us
to get to know Him all the time. It's a long, in depth, process. I have been studying the Bible for years and praying yet I still ask Him every day what it is He wants me to do with my life.
"I think you have been given a gift, though, Bronwyn. Like my friend with the heart problem, you have been given a—a wake-up call."
"So how do I find out what it is God wants me to do?"
Jim thought a moment. He knew the answer he wanted to give, but wanted to put it in the best possible way. He finally said, "You look all the time. You read the Bible regularly and pray about what you've read. You talk to other believers and ask what they've learned recently."
"And I'll find out what He wants me to do—to be?"
"Yes." Before she could assume the conversation was over, he quickly injected, "But let me add a caveat or two. First, don't expect an answer right away. Some people get one, but other people don't. Perhaps he has to prepare us for the answer, first. Second, don't expect the answer to necessarily be big."
"What do you mean?" she asked, settling back down into the chair for she had been about to leave.
"God called the Apostle Paul to change the known world. To travel and preach. I believe he called Abraham Lincoln to be a politician and president. He calls others to be great leaders and scientists. He may be calling you to that. But don't ignore the fact that He may just be calling you to show His love to someone next door. Or maybe He does have something big planned for you for ten years from now. But until then, He may have a lot of little things planned that will prepare you for that moment."
Bronwyn went ahead and stood up, somewhat uncomfortable with all this, though she wasn't sure why. She told him, "You realize you haven't really told me much."
"You mean I didn't tell you to sell your possessions and become a missionary or go blow up some specific bridge? You're right, I didn't. The Bible says we work out our faith with fear and trembling. I take that to mean that, as much as we need other people and they need us, at some point it's going to come down to just you and God and you'll have to work out your place in the kingdom just between the two of you."
The Legend of Garison Fitch (Book 3): Lost Time Page 10