D-Day

by Bob Mayer

  “Pakistan is obvious.”

  Frasier shook his head. “Doc’s Indian. Wrong side.”

  “He’ll understand the stakes,” Dane said. “It’ll be personal for him.”

  “That’s the other problem,” Frasier said. “Let me show you.” He held out his hand, and Dane handed over the file. Frasier opened it then began flipping through until he found what he was looking for. “Here.” He turned the file around, his finger marking a spot on the page. “He’s got family ties there. He might not even be aware of them.”

  Dane read it, then shrugged. “Not a factor.” He wrote Doc’s name on the folder and evened the two piles.

  “Roland or Mac for D-Day,” Frasier said. “Got to be military.”

  “How is Mac?” Dane asked. “You were concerned about him after Black Tuesday.”

  “He seems much more stable since he came back from Ides,” Frasier said. “Calmer.”

  “Is that a good thing?” Dane asked. “Where did he go on his leave?”

  “To visit his family,” Frasier said. “Surveillance indicates he confronted his father at his brother’s grave.”

  “Any violence?”

  “No.”

  Dane drummed his fingers on the three remaining files. “The other two missions require military also. A warrior on one.” He wrote Roland’s name on a file. “He gets Denmark. Which means Mac gets D-Day. And that leaves Ivar to West Point.”

  “That’s not going to go well for Ivar,” Frasier said.

  “He’ll adapt,” Dane said. He had all six folders in one stack. “Tell support to get them geared up.”

  The Mission Briefing

  EAGLE HAD REFUSED PAIN MEDS, leery of anything that might muddle his thinking since his brain was his anchor to the world. He’d been chosen for the Nightstalkers, what the team had been before being recruited into the Time Patrol, because of his tremendous memory—a font of useless information, Nada had often called it, until it suddenly became useful.

  Eagle sat in the empty team room, and he realized he’d already let the team down, because it was just a room. The off-white, drab walls, the chalkboard, and the long, white table, combined for zero personality. It could be any room off any of the many doors lining the top spiral of the Possibility Palace.

  A team needed personality.

  Speaking of which, Roland entered, dressed pretty much they way he’d been for the Black Tuesday mission with the Vikings. He wore a leather tunic, pants, and boots, but instead of a sword, he was carrying a Naga staff, a weapon that could cut through just about any material, especially the armor the Valkyries wore. As far as they knew, the Naga’s dated from the time of Atlantis. It was a spear with a pointed, broad blade on one end, and a seven-headed snake on the hilt.

  “Back in the game,” Eagle said, trying to discern any differences in the attire from the 999 A.D. mission. “I think you’re traveling to an earlier time period than Black Tuesday. But taking the staff—that means they expect you might run into a Valkyrie.”

  Roland didn’t really care. He was playing with the staff, getting the feel of the weapon. He was a man easily pleased. “How’s the shoulder?”

  “Healing,” Eagle said. “The prognosis is good as new, which is optimistic for a shoulder injury. It’s the most complex joint in the body, while the knee is the largest and—” He paused in his dissertation on joints as one of the four doors opened, and Scout came in.

  “Looks like we’re both going back to a time we’ve been in before,” Roland said, noting that Scout was dressed just as she had been for her Ides mission. She had on a long, white robe with a red cloak. Leather sandals. Since she hadn’t changed the color of her hair after Ides, it was still bright red and short.

  “But you get the Naga staff this time,” Scout said. She nodded at Eagle. “Looks like you’re sitting this one out, unless you’re going back as a patient.”

  “That means Ivar will be operational,” Eagle said.

  Scout shook her head. “He had a rough time on his last one. I felt bad for him.”

  All three turned as Doc entered, dressed for combat, wearing desert camouflage and carrying a G-3 carbine.

  “Post-Vietnam, but pre-Nine-Eleven.” Eagle placed Doc’s mission, noting the dated Alice web gear that Doc wore. “MOLLE didn’t really come into use until after that. The uniform is old-time desert camo, but the G-3 isn’t U.S. issue. Special Ops might carry it on mission that required it.”

  “What war?” Doc asked. “Desert Storm?”

  “Could be,” Eagle said. “Don’t worry. For a lot of people, that was a lot of sit around and wait in the desert.”

  “You think I’m going someplace just to sit around and wait?” Doc asked.

  “You got a point,” Eagle said.

  Roland indicated the rifle. “You got live ammo, so be careful where you point that thing. It makes a loud bang when it goes off. Remember, never fire on full auto unless you’re pulling a Custer.” He noted something about the uniform, or rather, the lack of something. “And, you’re sterile.”

  “What?” Doc was confused.

  “No name tag,” Roland explained. “No shoulder patch. No U.S. Army patch. No flag. Nothing. Looks like a covert op, especially given the G-3. Most likely, you got that because it means you’ll sound the same as whoever you’re shooting at, which is an advantage if you’re outnumbered. Every rifle has a different sound and—” Before Roland could give a dissertation on The Sound of Weapons, a door opened and Ivar entered, also in uniform, but of a very different era.

  Ivar was dressed in gray upon gray: high-collared, long-sleeve tunic and wool slacks. The front of the gray coat was covered in brass buttons. He wore black boots and had a military cap tucked under his arm.

  “Curious,” Eagle said, looking Ivar over. “West Point. Mid-Twentieth Century.”

  “West Point?” Ivar was confused.

  “Cadet gray,” Eagle said. “In honor of General Winfield Scott’s troops, who defeated the British near the end of the War of 1812.”

  “Why would I be going to West Point?”

  “Why are any of us going anywhere?” Doc answered the question with a question.

  Before they could speculate further, Mac entered.

  “Whoa!” Roland said.

  Mac was wearing OD green fatigues, World War II era, with the baggy pants used by paratroopers—which was validated by the large pile of gear he had in his arms: main parachute, reserve, Thompson submachine gun, and a kit bag full of other items.

  “You’re jumping in, dude!” Roland was excited and profoundly disappointed, the Naga staff being trumped by the parachute and Thompson sub. “I usually get the jumps. What gives?”

  “You know how to rig this?” Mac asked, indicating the chute. “It’s before my time.”

  “Before my time, too,” Roland said, checking the parachute and harness. “But it’s pretty much the same as the T-10. These four straps go around your legs and arms, and come together in the quick-release, which is in the middle of your chest, and—”

  The jump school lesson halted as Moms entered.

  “What the frak?” Roland exclaimed, distracted from the parachute.

  Moms was covered in furs, roughly stitched together with animal sinew and held in place with ropes made of vines wrapped around her body. The furs were thick, and Moms was already sweating. She too, carried a Naga staff.

  “Where the frak are you going?” Roland asked.

  “No idea,” Moms said, “but I have a feeling there’s no running water or indoor plumbing. And it’ll be cold.” She saw Ivar. “Interesting. You’re going to my Rockbound Highland Home, also known as Hudson High. The Military Academy.” She almost sounded wistful. “Four of the worst years of my life were spent there. And you only get a day.”

  “Sounding better and better,” Ivar said. He looked around at everyone else. “This is a weird assortment.”

  “Nature of the mission,” Moms said.

  “I wonder why
both of you have the Naga,” Scout said to Roland and Moms.

  “Roland has one because it’s very likely he’s going to run into a monster,” Dane said from the doorway. He went right to the blackboard. Edith Frobish slipped in behind him, closing the door.

  She gave Eagle a quick smile, something the other team members noted, but she didn’t notice they noticed, since Edith had the social acuity of, well, Edith.

  Dane held the chalk poised over the board, but didn’t write. “Anything we need to get out of the way before I get into the mission brief?”

  Moms was getting used to wearing ridiculous outfits, from the short-skirted tennis outfit in North Carolina to the almost-sheer robes she’d worn on Ides, so she had no problem stepping forward in her animal skins. “Ivar said you confronted him about lying in the Black Tuesday debrief. But he’s here, with us, ready to go on a mission. I assume, then, that bygones are bygones?”

  Ivar appeared surprised that Moms was standing up for him, since he wasn’t an original Nightstalker and had never really felt part of the team.

  “We don’t Sanction lying,” Dane said. “I want to emphasize that who we are, what we do, must remain only with us.”

  “You didn’t answer the question,” Moms said.”

  “He gets a pass,” Dane said. “This time. We were lucky. We probably won’t be lucky again.”

  “All right,” Moms said. “That’s all I have. Anyone else?” She looked at each member of the team, giving them a chance to speak up.

  No one did.

  Moms joined the rest of the team at the table.

  Dane turned back to the board and wrote the first, and most obvious, year down: 6 June, 1944 A.D., Normandy, France.

  “The Day of Days,” Moms said as they all turned to Mac.

  “I don’t have a Screaming Eagle or All-American patch,” Mac noted, indicating his left shoulder and referring to the two American airborne divisions that made the historic jump, the 101st and the 82nd.

  “No, you don’t,” Dane replied. “You’re infiltrating at the same time as the Pathfinders, first boots on the ground. Your drop zone is to the east of the invasion area, where you will link up with a French Resistance cell. Technically, you’re from the OSS: Office of Strategic Services.”

  “Will there a be a Time Patrol agent from the era with the Resistance?” Mac asked.

  “Reports from the agent of that era in the locale stopped suddenly,” Dane said. “We’re not sure what that means. We got enough from the agent and our analysts to pinpoint where the bubble will be. This Resistance cell’s mission is to blow a key bridge; you’ll get the target analysis and CARVER data in the download. In our history, the Resistance succeeded, and by doing so, delayed a Panzer division from making it to the beachhead in time to launch a counterattack. What data we have suggests the Shadow wants that bridge to remain intact. If those Panzers get to the beachhead any earlier than they did historically, it could turn the tide of the entire invasion.”

  “All right,” Mac said. “Seems straightforward.”

  “As far as we can tell,” Dane said, “it is. But that doesn’t mean—”

  “I know,” Mac said. “Be prepared for the unexpected.”

  Dane nodded.

  “I’d give my left nut to make that jump,” Roland muttered.

  “Neeley wouldn’t be happy if you did that,” Mac said.

  “Don’t worry,” Dane said to Roland. “You have something significant also. Something most people consider a legend, but it was real.”

  Dane wrote: 6 June 452 A.D., Sjaelland Island, Denmark.

  “Beowulf,” Eagle said.

  “Who?” Roland was perplexed.

  “Beowulf is a classic poem,” Eagle explained. “In it, he fights a monster named Grendel and kills him.”

  Roland was caught up on the second part. “I’m going to fight a monster?”

  “Technically, Beowulf fights the monster,” Dane said. “We believe 6 June 452 is the day Beowulf confronts Grendel in the great hall of Heorot. At least that’s the way the poem unfolds. What the reality is, we have no idea. The assumption among most people is that the poem is fiction, or perhaps reality, greatly distorted.”

  “What am I supposed to do?” Roland asked. “Why do I have the Naga?”

  Dane gestured for Edith to take over. She reached into her satchel and removed a plastic-encased document. “This is the Nowell Codex, one of two manuscripts that make up the bound volume Cotton Vitellius, which is one of the four major Anglo-Saxon poetic manuscripts.”

  “Whoa!” Mac said, surprisingly coming to Roland’s aid. “He’ll get the nitty-gritty in his download. You’re exploding my brain right now.”

  Edith nodded. “I’m sorry. This document dates back to about the turn of the first millennia. Around the time you went to England on the Black Tuesday mission. It contains the first known copy of Beowulf, which is the world’s oldest English poem.”

  “I’m going back for a poem?” Roland was confused. “I thought there was a monster.”

  “The poem,” Edith said, “was most likely composed for entertainment. But it has enough facts in it that can be verified that it’s hard to tell where the line is between fact and fiction. No one is certain if Beowulf was a real person, or just based on a real person. The same with Grendel.”

  “Does it matter, Edith?” Eagle said. “If the Shadow is targeting the sixth of June in that year, in that place, then something is real.”

  “Indeed,” Dane agreed with a curious glance at Edith, then at Eagle.

  Edith pressed on. “Most would dismiss the concept of a monster like Grendel, but we know the Shadow has sent genetically modified creatures into our timeline. There are the kraken that are near the Gates when they open in the water.”

  “They’re pretty badass,” Roland said, having firsthand experience.

  “That chimera I ran into was someone’s bad idea of a monster,” Scout said.

  “Grendel sounds a bit like a yeti,” Moms added from her own experience high in the Andes.

  “Exactly,” Edith said. “We can accept that the Shadow is capable of creating creatures that would be considered monsters in our legends.”

  “Thus, the Naga,” Dane said. “We think many of what we call legends and myths are based on truths that have been lost in time. The biggest one of those, and the basis of what we do, is Atlantis. It was real. It did get destroyed.”

  Edith reached into her satchel, then pulled out a handful of photos and handed those to Roland. “Recent archeological excavations in Denmark have uncovered a hall built in the early- to mid-sixth century that closely resembles Hrothgar’s great hall, Heorot, which Grendel terrorized. That’s where you’re going.”

  “So I help Beowulf kill Grendel?” Roland was trying to catch up.

  “In the poem, Beowulf rips Grendel’s arm off,” Edith said.

  “That’s pretty wild,” Roland said. “So what do I do? Just hang out and watch?”

  “We don’t know,” Edith said.

  “Roland.” Moms’s voice was sharp, and she shifted her admonition to the entire team. “Let’s not get overconfident, people. Ivar barely made it back from Black Tuesday. And Doc escaped a firing squad by the width of his coat. Our luck won’t hold like that.”

  Roland hung his head, and it was his turn to take on Edith’s blush. “I’m sorry, Moms.”

  “Edith?” Eagle said.

  “Yes?”

  “Make sure you also give Roland the Cliff Notes version of the poem in the download. I think any of us would have a hard time understanding even the modern English version of Beowulf.”

  She nodded. “I’ll do that.”

  Dane was already writing on the blackboard: 6 June 1998 A.D., Kala Chitta Range, Pakistan.

  “Pakistan’s nukes,” Doc said.

  “On the sixth of April, 1998,” Dane said, “Pakistan tested a medium-range missile capable of striking India, but because no one was absolutely certain until then if
Pakistan had nuclear capability, it wasn’t seen as a direct threat. More saber rattling ensued. The world knew India had nuclear capability—”

  “Smiling Buddha, 1974,” Doc said.

  “Yes,” Dane said. “But no one was quite sure in 1998 what was in the scabbard on the Pakistani side. On May eleventh, India detonated three nuclear weapons underground, making their own statement. In response, on May twenty-eighth, Pakistan proved without a doubt it was the seventh nation to have nuclear capability by detonating five bombs underground.”

  “Not much subtlety there,” Mac noted.

  “And after each country tested their weapons,” Doc said, “the citizens went crazy. Dancing in the streets. Celebrating their ability to annihilate their foe, even though it most likely meant their own annihilation. I remember seeing film clips of the jubilation in India after Smiling Buddha was detonated. My parents were horrified that people could be so ecstatic over such a terrible thing.”

  Dane nodded. “People reacted the same in Pakistan. The twenty-eighth of May was signed into law as the Day of Greatness and National Science Day. They gave special medals to the scientists. Pakistanis celebrate it to this day.”

  “So what happened on the sixth of June?” Doc asked.

  “Nothing,” Dane said. “And that’s the way it needs to stay.”

  “Where exactly am I going?” Doc asked.

  “To join a special task force,” Dane said.

  “Task Force Kali,” Moms said, finally understanding. “But that wasn’t established until after Nine-Eleven.”

  “Kali was actually established in 1998,” Dane said. “As these events were escalating.”

  “Explain, please.” Doc said.

  “Task Force Kali,” Dane said, “was, and is, a forward-deployed Special Operations Force whose mission, should it be required, is to secure Pakistan’s nuclear weapons stockpile.”

  “But it’s based in Kandahar now,” Moms said. “We weren’t in the ‘Stan back then.”

  “The FOB, Forward Operating Base, was set up in the United Arab Emirates in 1998, after the back-and-forth nuclear testing,” Dane said.

  “Wait,” Doc said. “How did they propose to secure the Pakistani arsenal? And why?”