by Steve Hertig
Chapter 3
8 Aug 2053
William Lutzger, leader of the Order- one of the largest organized-crime syndicates in the US, watched the old F150 approach the A-frame nestled amidst tall, old-growth pines. The cabin's large windows and deck overlooked a small lake; its smooth surface mirrored the surrounding peaks in the distance. Solar panels provided the only power. There was no net.
"Welcome to the boonies gentlemen," Lutzger said holding up a cigar. "Max, any trouble?" he asked as three men climbed out of the pickup. The youngest, Max, after only several years in the organization was one of Lutzger's personal flunkies and main driver
"Nope," Max reported with disinterest.
"Good. Get some lunch." Lutzger pointed at a pile of sandwiches on a redwood picnic table in the middle of the deck. "Then hang out until we're through or go check out the lake. There is a fishing pole on the dock."
"Yes, sir," Max said taking a ham and cheese and then heading toward the dock.
Lutzger and the remaining two men sat down around the deck's picnic table to wait for Jeb Gurman, a commander in the Utah ultra, right-wing supremacist group, The Sword of God.
"Well, Richards how has business been?" Lutzger asked the biggest man with indifference.
"Good," Richards replied. "Since the Feds put the pressure on the west and east coast gangs not to mention our Mexican friends, we've had increased profits in all areas, especially drugs. The war chest has grown 12 percent since our report last quarter. And Cliff has made an important recruit in the local FBI branch in Denver."
"We always need somebody inside," Lutzger said as he retrieved a Bud tallboy from a cooler under the end of the table, "Eh, Cliff?" He popped the beer's top, spraying his main gopher, Cliff Henrys, in the process.
"Sure," Cliff said nervously, taking a bite from his soggy sandwich.
All three turned to look up the driveway past the old pickup as they heard the high-pitched hum of a protesting EV motor.
Cliff checked his watch.
Lutzger got up and opened the cabin's sliding door to expose a vintage AK-47 leaning against an overstuffed leather chair just inside. "Can't be too sure these days," he said taking a long draw on his cigar and picking up the weapon. He had told all of them to come unarmed to the meeting.
An old Chinese Chery EV pulled up next to the pickup. Jeb Gurman opened a squeaky driver's door and climbed stiffly out of the car.
"When you going to get rid of that piece of foreign shit?" Lutzger said in contempt as he worked the weapon's bolt to clear its breach.
"It keeps the Feds on their toes. They don't expect it," Gurman replied with a smile and then slammed the squeaky door in subtle defiance.
"Let's get inside," Lutzger said tossing the AK on the picnic table and into the remaining sandwiches to the obvious disappointment of Gurman. He watched them take seats around the cabin's table; a small cardboard box sat in its center. Still holding the Bud tallboy, he stuffed the stubby remains of his cigar into the side of his mouth. There was an uneasy silence at the table as the others waited for him to say something.
Lutzger finally sensing he had their full attention, smiled and began the short speech he had practiced earlier. "Our Alliance over the years has been profitable. We have waited for an opportunity to use all of our combined resources in an operation of sufficient magnitude that would effect the changes for which we have made war on our own country."
Cliff and Bob listened in silence, and Gurman just stared at his water bottle, gently swinging it by its top threads.
Lutzger noticed Gurman's apparent disinterest but continued, "We now are part of something big and there is big money backing us."
Gurman looked up and asked, "Backing us?"
Cliff winced at Gurman's audacity to disrupt Lutzger's speech.
Ignoring the interruption, Lutzger continued, "There is an opportunity for us to get exactly what we want and to make the Feds pay for all their bullshit. It revolves around the contents of this box." He opened the intertwined top flaps on the box and dumped out a white bag. "This," he said, "is what it's all about," tipping the contents out of the bag, an off-white tube about ten centimeters long fell on the table. The yellow tag on the side of the bag read 'Piquet 13-C'.
Pushing the brim up on his cap, Cliff asked, "What is it?"
Lutzger looked across the table at each one and then replied, "This is the TIA."
Dropping his bottle, but catching it in mid-air between his knees Gurman asked, "The thing on the net?"
Picking it up and looking down the muzzle, Cliff asked again, "What is it?"
"It's supposed to be from the future, some kind of ray-gun." Gurman explained sarcastically and shaking his head.
"How'd it get here…I mean, now?" Cliff asked.
"It proves time travel is possible," Lutzger said ignoring both Henrys and Gurman. "And that means: who controls time travel, controls the future. I intend we do just that."
"You are serious, aren't you?" Gurman asked in disbelief and then took a long drink from his water bottle.
Lutzger stood up and said, "We are not alone in this plan. How can we risk not being in the game when to succeed would mean everything?"
"Who's going to back us? And, why us?" Gurman persisted.
Looking at Gurman, Lutzger blew cigar smoke in his direction then hissed, "Their identity will stay unknown."
Gurman shook his head skeptically. "How do we know they can be trusted?"
Lutzger pointed to 13-C as if it was concrete proof.
"Okay, how do they know they can trust us?" Gurman said.
Lutzger continued, "We have a mission—"
"I won't take fuckin' orders from somebody I don't know!" Gurman shouted while squeezing his water bottle until it overflowed on the table.
Lutzger scowled and took a deep breath. He pulled from his belt in the small of his back a snub-nosed, Smith and Wesson 340 revolver. Pointing it at Gurman's forehead, he hesitated only long enough to let what was about to happen sink in and then pulled the trigger. Stretching across the table, he stuffed what was left of his cigar in the wound, stopping a small trickle of blood before it could run down the dead man's face. Gurman's bottle emptied itself on the floor where it fell; its water swirling with blood dripping from the 357's exit wound.
Cliff and Bob instinctively pushed back from the table as Jeb Gurman and cigar sagged backward in his chair.
Lutzger continued, looking at Henrys, "Keep looking for Watkins. We still need him unharmed."
"We'll find him," Cliff promised.
"Richards," Lutzger said, "money is no object. Understand?"
Richards, looking pale, just nodded.
Lutzger, looking Gurman's body over, said, "We're done."
Squeezing by Richards and Cliff on their way out, Max ran into the cabin as Lutzger was repacking the cardboard box. Gun smoke still hung over the room as he examined Gurman's body and the end of Lutzger's chewed cigar butt.
"Max, clean up here then get ready to go." Lutzger made an obvious glance at the lake, "And there's bleach under the kitchen sink," he added.
From the deck, Lutzger watched Richards leave in Gurman's old Chery. He was satisfied how things had gone. Gurman had been a real bastard, and that problem was gone for good; he reckoned he could deal with the rest of the swords of God.
However, Lutzger's new alliance created a significant increase in activity and that brought increasing pressure from the Feds on all fronts. They had not yet made a move against them, but he knew it was only a matter of time.
And as a result, their new allies' contact was cautious. Lutzger knew him only as Zaman. Lutzger didn't have any respect for his new benefactors much less his contact. He knew they were too tolerant; he had promised to give them Watkins months ago but so far, Henrys had failed. They had to find Watkins and achieve his rightful place in the new world. That was the deal.
He would then exterminate the men that stood in his way, making a world
where these problems never had to occur in the first place. He was absolutely convinced time travel would accomplish that.
Walking down to the dock, Lutzger told his pad to call the private number he recited from memory. The high-pitched whine told him it would be a secure call. As the call connected, he knew he would soon have what he wanted most: the destruction of the government of the United States of America.
"Hello," the voice on the other end said flatly.
"Tell your boss that we have a deal," he told Zaman. "I'll leave the TIA at our prearranged drop, and we'll have Watkins for him as soon as possible."
"Inshallah," Zaman said sarcastically. "Watkins still at large is very disappointing. However, I had assumed as much, or you'd have left word at the drop, but I have a lead for you. It seems facial recognition picked him up at a convenience store two days ago near Beaver Creek, Colorado. You can thank your new man in Denver for the information. For your sake, let's hope Watkins is still in the area."
Lutzger grimaced at the insinuated threat as well as the worthless, outdated intel. He hated the way Zaman talked down to him and consequently, could never admit to the humiliation that one of Cliff's best men was missing in Montana.
"Brother," Zaman continued, "you and I can be kings after the cleansing. We should trust each other. We need each other now and will need each other even more in the future. Trust me."
Lutzger's frustration was growing. "Easier said than done," he scowled.
"We're considering some help in that respect," Zaman said, "someone we both can trust to work for you."
"I bet," Lutzger added mockingly.
"He's committed at the moment, so it might be a while," Zaman said. "I'll keep you informed," he added and then terminated the communication.
With their conversation finished, Lutzger thoughtfully surveyed the serene lake. Having to admit again that Watkins was still at large to Zaman put Lutzger in a terrible mood as he turned to walk back to the cabin.
"Watkins needed to be found," he snarled at Henrys, picking up the AK-47. "You couldn't find your own ass with both hands," he snarled.
"The Rockys are a big place," Cliff said flinching at Lutzger's tirade as well as the weapon.
"I gather our friends are already organizing a replacement for you," Lutzger said, his knuckles going pale gripping the old AK.
"I understand," Cliff said meekly.
They had combed the Rockys, both in the United States and Canada, for almost a year searching for Watkins and Henrys had staked out Watkins' professor in Michigan for months.
Lutzger knew Watkins was long gone, back into his hole in the mountains; they could forget about Beaver Creek.
The apartment block in the south Chicago slum was rife with decay. The blackened and dented apartment door on the sixteenth floor did not betray the man and woman seated in the clean and well-furnished safe room within. From a small, dingy window, Johnston observed people scurrying quickly in and out of the complex to the nearby tram station, it was four o'clock in the afternoon, and the building was fairly quiet.
"How much longer do we keep managing Lutzger and his organization?" the cell's second in command, Aaron Limpkin, asked his commander.
"He's still useful and provides a level of insulation from the FBI," Johnston replied. "His group has significant funds we can manipulate. Lutzger is hooked. He wants his racist world. It's as simple as that. We risk nothing and Zaman is the only access point to us," she said. "You disagree, Aashif?" she asked using his current cover identity.
"It's just another ball in the air," he said. "They are weak. I wouldn't be surprised if the FBI busted them any day now."
As the region's commander, she knew the ordained strategy. They were supposed to use these right-wing extremists, but now they seemed a growing liability.
"We know the Feds are keeping Lutzger under tight surveillance," he said. "Maybe they are using him to look for Watkins, too?"
Ignoring him, she said. "At any rate, it's amusing to watch them chase their tails. Zaman has told Lutzger about Watkins being in Colorado. We'll see what happens, if anything."
"Don't you think that after all this time, Watkins would be of use?" he asked.
Johnston spent costly time providing the Michigan professor rough coordinates from a vague citation she uncovered hidden deep in a collection of war protocols and technology they called the Prophesy.
She knew many others in the Leadership also continuously mined the collection for anything of value. Such activity was not without risk as shown by the very location of the citation she had uncovered. She hoped the dangerous location also indicated a high-potential reward and was the very reason she had chosen that part of the Prophesy to explore. Besides, the citation was also anonymous, a serious breach in protocol.
The citation concerned a possible alien artifact in Martinique, and it had been several supporting documents attached to it that appeared authentic. She knew any alien tech of value would give her an vast advantage with her superiors. With few resources, she had manipulated several university and USGS scientists in an attempt to locate the artifact, and the Michigan professor stumbled across it last year in Martinique. Unfortunately, it had turned out to be only a damaged phased pistol, but it was not without value.
"Watkins was only a means to an end," she said. "But his highly unusual discovery of the weapon puts him in a curious position in this timeline. For now, I still want to know what he knows about the TIA."
"Our manipulation of the net surrounding his fortunate discovery has helped our cause with recruitments increasing significantly," he acknowledged.
"Was there any doubt?" she said flatly, knowing the Prophesy dictated they needed scores of recruits for an extensive training period that would span years to come. And the fact that she had been able to turn the wasted time looking for the alien artifact, as well as Watkins, into a productive recruiting tool, pleased her.
"The NSA and their puppets, the NGA, have made too much progress," Aashif said. "They could have made major breakthroughs we don't even know about."
"Fuck, you worry too much. If they had any breakthroughs," she said confidently, "we would know. And without the actual weapon as proof, the enemy will never get the funds it needs to do real temporal research. What's the tech update?" she asked impatiently, changing the subject and resumed looking out of the apartment's dingy window.
"The new Iranian physicists are working diligently under the sand on the programmer design," he reported. "As you know, it is a tedious task, and production will take years."
"So the Prophesy says." She sighed. "No matter, we'll still be ahead of schedule."
"It's being ahead of schedule that has put us at a disadvantage as utilizing available technology is proving time consuming," Aashif pointed out. "And there's still a need for more quantum physicists," he said to Johnston's back as she stood at the window.
"Fermi has dried up," she said, not moving her gaze from the scene below of two men fighting on the tram platform. "I was working on a lead from UCLA, but she's quit her quantum dissertation topic in favor of more phenomena-based research. It's become a closed community in the last couple years, and most good physicists have already disappeared into the fucking NGA."
"I agree; it's not a good situation. Perhaps, you should try the rounds again in Europe. France is nice at the moment."
"That kind of recruiting takes time." She glared at him before returning to look out the window. "It's not just a summer on the Med. The personnel we have will suffice."
One of the men upon the platform below fell into a heap. The other ran. She turned to Aashif. "I have been ordered to return to the Navis to discuss the quantity and placement of the new portal sites. You're in command."