Island of the Star Lords

by James L. Ferrell

  "After I leave and you have a chance to examine the documents, it will become apparent what you must do. If you need further assistance after you transport back to the modern world, go to a public phone and call me on my cellphone. Also, please allow at least two days after I leave before doing anything. That should be ample time to avoid any suspicion of my involvement." He gave A215 his phone number, which the prisoner committed to memory. After a few seconds, Voyles continued. "One piece of information you will need that is not in the passport is the whereabouts of Matt Leahy."

  A215 leaned forward. His eyes bulged and seemed to glow with an inner fire. "Leahy is not at Apache Point?" he asked, his voice low, almost inaudible.

  Voyles gave him a puzzled look. He stared into his face, as though really seeing his friend for the first time. Shaken by what he saw, he hesitated for several seconds then said, "Yes. At this moment he is at the facility. That is, as far as I know. But he is scheduled for a transport to Ireland, 3,302 BC, tomorrow morning. The exact coordinates are 2107.03302. The target point for the transport beam is approximately fifteen miles north of Galway City, along Highway N 84."

  A215 knew that those coordinates meant July 21, 3,302 BC, with the target being the point where the stellarite beam would strike the ground. When it did, whoever was within a fifteen-foot radius of the strike point would be transported into the past. His mind was already racing ahead, laying plans on how he would proceed. Deep in thought, he had not realized that Voyles was speaking again.

  "Are you listening to me?" Voyles asked in a sharp tone.

  "Yes, yes, of course. But why is Leahy going to that particular year and place?" He sounded as if the news had shocked him.

  As a senior engineer, Voyles had been present when the tests had been performed on the mysterious wand and was aware of where it had come from. In his discussions with the other engineers and technicians, he had learned that a three man team headed by Matt Leahy was being assembled to investigate its origins in Ireland's distant past. He gave the other man a summary of the things he knew for certain then offered speculation on the rest.

  "The wand materialized in the Chronocom receiving area on July tenth, attached to Michael DeLong's utility belt. It appears to be a weapon of unknown origin. In addition, we have a missing, possibly dead, time agent. It's almost a one hundred percent certainty that Leahy's team has been commissioned to investigate those events. With that in mind, I extracted the precise location of DeLong's transport point in Ireland from our computer records. I've written the GPS coordinates on a piece of paper inside the passport. I believe Mr. Leahy will use the same location for his team's transport."

  A215 nodded agreement. It was almost as though fate had decreed that he would have another opportunity to kill Matt Leahy. Only this time there would be no mistakes.

  "I suggest that you transport into that time period at least a week prior to the arrival of Leahy's team," Voyles advised. "That will give you sufficient time to arrange whatever it is that you intend to do." He paused momentarily, looked the other man in the eyes and said in a tone of complete sincerity, "By the way, just what are you planning to do?"

  Before A215 could answer, the door gave a loud buzz and two guards entered the room. "Time's up, sir," one of them said.

  "Yes, of course. Thank you, Corporal." He placed the loose papers back in the file folder and returned it to the briefcase. He stuck his hand out to A215. "Thank you for your cooperation, sir. I hope everything goes well for you." With that, he was ushered out of the room and logged out of the prison area.

  Back in his quarters, A215 went into the bathroom and removed the secreted items from his socks. He examined the mini-pager in detail. Arthur Voyles was one of the most talented engineers he had ever known, as evidenced by the fine workmanship of the pager. The top of the device was protected by a narrow cover that could be slid to one side, exposing a row of tiny buttons used for setting times and dates. He pushed the cover aside with his thumb. In response, red LEDs above each button lit up. At present, all the numerals were set to zeroes. A215 smiled and closed the cover. Next he opened the envelope and checked the documents inside.

  The passport had been expertly done. Except for his photograph and the fictitious entries stamped in the visas section, the personal information was identical to his real passport. He recognized the photograph as being one taken on a visit to the Voyles' home several summers ago. The only difference was that it had been changed to black and white, appropriate for documents of the 1950's.

  Though he had never seen one, the military ID card looked authentic. The same photo as on the passport had been used on it. He smiled in appreciation when he saw that he had been given the rank of captain. It was a navy rank equivalent to a full colonel in the army and carried enough clout to open most doors without question.

  Voyles had asked him to avoid activating the pager for two days, but he had no intention of delaying his escape for any reason. His friend would just have to take his chances on becoming a person of interest to the authorities if they became suspicious of his visit.

  He put the items back into his socks and exited the bathroom. It was three thirty-five p.m. It would be dark in three hours, but he would have to wait until after midnight before using the pager. Even though the stellarite beam was invisible to the naked eye, it did cause a bright flash of green light when it struck the target. Because of that, he would have to wait until the wee morning hours before using it. He hated waiting but knew that it was necessary to reduce the chances of anyone observing the blaze of light. Ordinarily it would make no difference, but there was bound to be an instant outcry when the guards found him missing. If they, or anyone else who chanced to be in the area, saw the flash and reported it to investigators, it would become immediately clear how he had escaped. It would only take the Apache Point technicians a few minutes to check the Chronocom computer log and learn where he had gone. If that happened before he made it to Ireland and transported into the past again, they would deactivate the pager and ruin his plans.

  Having never seen the area outside his prison, it remained an unknown variable; however, he surmised that it must be located in an isolated place. In all the times he had walked in the little courtyard, he had never heard human sounds coming from beyond the walls. There was no traffic noise, no shouts, no music; only sounds of aircraft takeoffs and landings, which seemed to come from nearby. The only other sounds were from wildlife: the squawking of large birds and croaking of frogs. From the information that Voyles had provided, he concluded that there would be some walking to do in order to reach the air terminal. He had never been a patient man, so waiting for nearly eight hours to transport out of the prison would be difficult. Since there was nothing else to do, he retrieved a book from the shelf and sat down in his chair.

  Instead of reading, his thoughts returned to Arthur Voyles, the only person who really cared what had happened to him. Possibly there might be someway to repay him for his efforts after he had taken care of Matt Leahy and escaped into Iran, his native country. Going back to Apache Point, or anyplace else in the western world was out of the question. Iran would be the only place where he could find sanctuary and receive the help needed to put an end to Apache Point forever. Moreover, he was well aware that the NSA would spare no resource in recapturing him. And this time, there would be no imprisonment: They would kill him on sight.

  Voyles had come straight out and asked him what he was planning to do once he was out of the prison, but they were interrupted before he could think of a convincing lie. He had already committed four murders and had attempted a fifth. Voyles knew about the death of the Wilson girl but not the others. Had he known about them, he might have been reluctant to help him escape. His friend had no idea of the extent to which he was prepared to go in order to achieve his goals. Nor was he aware that his friend, prisoner A215, Dr. John Kasdan, had become fixated on the death of Matt Leahy. The seeds of insanity had been sown long ago. He had reached the pinnacle of ment
al imbalance and had become a raging psychopath.

  It was 6:15 p.m. before Voyles had been able to obtain a flight from Gitmo back to the Naval Air Station at Key West. He had spent the time waiting in the officers' dayroom at the airfield, drinking coffee and talking with Marine and Navy personnel. He had even engaged some of them in a game of pool to pass the hours, tactfully giving misleading answers to their questions about the NSA. By the time he boarded the C-130 cargo plane his nerves were on edge. The short flight was uneventful, so he had spent it dozing on one of the web benches running along the fuselage. By the time he deplaned at Key West and reached his rental car, it was full dark. His eyes burned from lack of sleep, and he rubbed them with his fingertips.

  Something that he could not explain had been bothering him for the last few hours. As he drove north along Highway A1A, he began to consider what he had done in a new light. When he had looked into Kasdan's eyes after asking his intentions, he had seen something that had not been apparent before. Those eyes had burned with a fanatical fire that had shaken him. Until now he had believed Kasdan innocent of whatever charges had been placed against him, and that if he could be freed from his confinement, the two of them could work to prove them false and possibly reinstate him to his previous position at Apache Point. However, his personal knowledge of the events that had placed him in the Gitmo prison was superficial at best and reflected only one side of the issue.

  His engineer's mind was beginning to pragmatically dissect the subject, leading him toward a more logical viewpoint. In retrospect, his faith in John Kasdan's innocence may have been misplaced. During the days in which he had been occupied with constructing the pager and obtaining the false documents necessary to effect his escape, he had had little time to fully investigate the situation. Now, he was not convinced that he had done the right thing. But there may be a solution, he thought. It may be possible to intercept John at the Miami airport before he departs for Ireland. If I can do that, perhaps he can explain the events that led to his arrest in more detail. Then, if he can't convince me of his innocence, there will still be time to take remedial measures. Satisfied with this solution, he began to relax.

  The highway at his present location, Spanish Harbor, was only two lanes wide, with one bridge after another connecting the Keys. In the distance, he could see amber caution lights flashing near the railing, indicating that some kind of highway work was in progress. He had not noticed any construction on his trip south, so was unfamiliar with traffic conditions ahead. His eyes continued to burn. He squeezed them shut a couple of times in an attempt to relieve the irritation. Car headlights from southbound traffic were making it worse. He slipped across the centerline a few times because of the glare but managed to bring his vehicle back in time to avoid collisions.

  As he approached the warning lights, he began to reduce speed. Suddenly he realized that he was driving almost on the yellow centerline. He pulled the car back to safety just as another southbound vehicle passed. He was almost on the warning lights now. He strained his eyes into the distance to check oncoming traffic. Seeing nothing, he slipped into the opposite lane to go around the barricades. At that exact second, a set of oncoming headlights flashed into view. Panicked, he hit the brakes and cut the wheel hard to the right, smashing through the plastic barrels and into the guardrail. His head snapped back as the driver's airbag inflated with a violent boom. Blinded, and knocked almost senseless by the impact of the airbag, he took his foot off the brake and careened into the southbound lane, striking another vehicle in the rear passenger door. His car flipped onto its right side, slid across the concrete in a shower of bright sparks and slammed into the opposing guardrail.

  He felt a sharp pain in his left temple as a piece of hard plastic trim ripped off the driver's window frame and cut into his skull like a spear. A metal bumper support from the rear axle twisted loose from the impact and punctured the fuel tank. Barely conscious, he smelled gasoline gushing onto the highway. A second later it ignited, sending a huge fireball into the night sky.

  Nearby workers rushed to the overturned car and managed to pull Voyles out bare seconds before the vehicle erupted into a blazing inferno. They carried him to a safe distance and laid him on his back. "Are you bad hurt, mister?" he heard one of them ask.

  He turned his eyes upward to the man's face, his expression tortured. "I…, I…, please…," he managed to croak. His fingers grasped the worker's forearm as he tried to raise his head.

  "Take it easy, sir," the worker said to him. "Just be still. We've got an ambulance on the way."

  Voyles felt something soft being pressed against the side of his head. "I need…tell…," he said in a whisper. Again, he struggled to speak but could not find the strength to form the words. Somewhere in the distance he thought he could hear a soft rustling sound, like a woman's petticoats beneath an antebellum dress. One of his eyes slowly closed, but he could still see vague images through the other one. From a distance, he saw a soft white light approaching. As it drew near, he felt the pain in his head begin to subside. There was something in the light, but though he strained his one eye, he could not discern what it was. The pain was gone now, and his body began to relax. The voices around him were growing faint. He felt himself floating on a pillow of warm air as death took him.

  Chapter 6

  Escape

  Kasdan lay in his bunk staring at the ceiling. The time projection from the clock on the nightstand read 1:45 a.m. The lights in his apartment had been turned off since 11 p.m. He had been fully dressed and ready to go since then. A leather carry-on suitcase sat inside a small closet a few feet away, packed with spare clothing, shaving articles, a few personal items and extra shoes. The suitcase was the only thing he had been allowed to bring with him from his apartment at Apache Point. He checked the time on his watch against the clock and noted that they were in agreement. Sliding from his bunk, he slipped on his shoes and went into the living room. Only one Marine would be on duty at this hour. He crept to the door and peered through the edge of the small window. The Marine was sitting at his desk working at a computer terminal, his back to the door.

  He smiled and walked softly to the bathroom. Fearful that the items Voyles had delivered to him might be discovered in a surprise inspection, he had slipped the papers behind the sink mirror. The pager was inside the flapper valve of the toilet, wrapped in plastic wrap. He held his breath as he lifted the ceramic top off the tank and placed it on the floor. Kneeling, he turned off the water supply so there would be no water pressure noise when he raised the valve. He lifted the edge of the flapper just enough to let the water slowly drain into the bowl then took out the pager. When he unwrapped it, he noted that it was still relatively dry. In actual practice, the instrument was waterproof and would not have suffered any damage even if it had been completely submerged for fifty years. It was just one of the quirks in his personality that required him not to take unnecessary chances. After setting the date to 04111950, he peeled off the plastic sheeting covering the Lexan screen, closed the top and stuck the pager in his pocket.

  After retrieving the documents from behind the mirror, he slipped them into his back pocket, retrieved the suitcase from the closet and went into the living room. He stood still for a long moment, staring through the window into the guardroom. Satisfied that nothing was going on, he walked over and stood at the courtyard door.

  The only light in the room was the glow from a nightlight near the bookshelves. During his first days of confinement at Gitmo he had examined the door in minute detail and had figured out how the lock mechanism operated. Until now, there had been no reason to attempt defeating the lock, as the Marines had not been overly strict concerning his movements. They had given him access to the courtyard almost anytime he wished.

  He reached into his pocket and removed a small sheet-metal screw that he had laboriously worked out of a hinge on the bathroom door earlier in the evening. It had taken over two hours to put a sharp edge on the screw head by scrubbing
it against the rough underside of the ceramic commode lid. A metal cover the size of an electrical wall plate had been installed beneath the door handle with only four slot-headed screws holding it in place. He had long ago guessed that the wiring for the lock was concealed behind the plate.

  He inserted the makeshift screwdriver into the slot of one of the screws and began working it loose. Twenty minutes later, he had removed the plate and exposed the wiring. He looked at his fingers in the dim light. There was blood on the pad of his thumb and the edge of his forefinger. He wiped it off on the wall and began studying the wiring. It was a simple lock, not intended for maximum security, as there was no place to go except the courtyard. Holding his breath against the click he knew was coming when the bolt disengaged from the jamb, he jerked the wiring loose. The noise was less than he anticipated, but to his ragged nerves it sounded like a hammer blow. He checked the window on the guardroom door, but no one appeared. He opened the heavy door and stepped out into the humid night.

  After easing the door shut, he looked at the sky. Overhead the stars were glittering crystals, promising a clear day at Gitmo. "A fine day is coming, my old friends," he said to them, "but I won't be here to see it." He took the pager out and opened the cover. The tiny LED's lit up in response, bright red in the darkness. When he pressed the SEND button, the Apache Point computers would allocate the exact amount of power to the Chronocom to make the transfer to the date on the LEDs, November 4, 1950.

  He chuckled to himself as he thought of how perplexed the guards would be to find him gone. However, he did not delude himself: In a matter of hours NSA investigators would be on the case. The guards would immediately identify Arthur Voyles as his last visitor, categorizing him as a suspect in the escape. That would lead them directly back to Apache Point. After that, it would not be rocket-science thinking to reason out how the escape had been accomplished. He took one last look around the complex, picked up the suitcase and pressed the SEND button. Ten seconds later, John Kasdan vanished in a burst of green light.