by Chuck Dixon
“They shouldn’t be hard to find,” Tauber said. “They’ll be the only three humans on the continent. It won’t be a matter of picking them out of a crowd.”
“Just wanted to put faces to the names,” Chaz said. “See who’s who.”
“I’m kind of curious, too,” Dwayne said.
Tauber pulled up a photo file on one of the monitors.
“These are the most recent photos,” Tauber said. “I can print some up.” He began scrolling through the file, and there were shots of Doc Tauber with two other men. One was a heavyset man in his forties. Balding with the kind of thick beard some balding guys grow to compensate. It had to be Kemp. The other man was rangy and thin and in his twenties. Longish hair. Goatee. Phillip Worth. The graduate student. They were happy in the photos. Dressed in outdoor wear and obviously on some kind of short hike. Phillip wore a Batman t-shirt.
“We took these on one of our excursions to scout out the ground the team would be traveling over,” Tauber said. The others stood close behind him. “The plant life and water table would be different at the destination. But the topography would be basically the same as it is now.”
More pictures of the three men in and around the facility.
“Where’s your sister?” Dwayne said.
“She took most of the photos,” Tauber said.
He moved the mouse and opened another file.
A series of images showing a woman of about twenty-five who looked even younger when she smiled. The smiles were rare, though. Mostly candid shots of her intently studying monitors in the room they now stood in or making adjustments to their gear. Her posture betrayed a serious demeanor. Not the fussy type. Shoulder-length blonde hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. But in one shot the camera caught her unawares. It was from the earlier series of shots from the hiking expedition. A hand holding a beer and an arm thrown up to shade her face. An embarrassed smile or caught in mid-laugh; a band of zinc on her nose barely concealing a field of light freckles.
“Let’s get to work,” Dwayne said.
HNTGHRNS MST HDE
“This is it?” Chaz said. “You call this intel?”
“That’s the text message my sister sent back through the wave transmitter,” Dr. Tauber said. “It followed after a message telling me the local temperature and conditions. Then the transmissions stopped.”
It was the night before the step-off date they all agreed on. The reactor was heating up and could provide the jolt the Tube needed by early the next morning.
The rocket guns had all been tested, stripped, and cleaned. They tried out one of Renzi’s hemp-bag, eco-friendly satchel charges. It created enough shock and awe to satisfy all of them. They packed power bars in soy-based edible wrapping, leather botas for water and a small medical kit with no plastic and a minimum of metal parts. They wouldn’t need any radios as the unit was small and would stay tight. They’d take a wave transmitter with them. Doc worked another one up for them. They could send voice and texts back as long as the field was open. It had a record and re-send feature as well.
They were chowing down on pizza and beer and cooling out before the Big Day around a fire Jimbo laid in the desert beyond the huts.
“The first word is gibberish,” Dwayne said. “I’m guessing the second phrase is ‘must hide.’ Hide from what?”
“We go find where they’re hiding,” Renzi said.
“I don’t think it’s going to be that easy,” Dwayne said. “If hiding got them out of their trouble they’d have come back through the tube already when the field re-opened. They missed three opportunities. At the very least they would have sent another message. They’re either in deep shit somehow or cut off from the field area.”
“Or dead,” Renzi said. Dwayne shot Renzi a look.
“So, Doc, what’s the point of this whole thing?” Chaz said.
“I’m not sure I understand,” said Tauber after a moment.
“The time machine,” Chaz said. “You gonna hunt dinosaurs, rob a pharaoh's tomb, take a peek at Jesus, or what?”
“It’s purely a scientific endeavor,” Tauber said. “Frankly, Caroline, Dr. Kemp, and I weren’t thinking much past the math. We were focused on proving the theory and building the Tube. We chose the first destination era because it was similar enough to present conditions with no risk of encountering any human population or catastrophic conditions.”
“What’s the money man’s interest in your Tube?” Chaz asked. “He’s laying down some serious cash here. I started with the ownership papers on that G-5 we flew in on but ran into a jungle of shell corps. A few of them had heavy ties with the feds.”
“He’s a man with a keen interest in physics and the advancement of knowledge.”
“And some shady connections,” Jimbo said. “Those two Axis of Evil escapees you have running the reactor. You didn’t find them through any want ad.”
“Our benefactor is a man of considerable influence,” Tauber said. He seemed anxious to change the subject but knew they’d want something from him. “But I’d be violating a stack of non-disclosure agreements this high if I told you any more. Your fee for this mission buys him his privacy.”
“You’re right, Doc.” Jimbo crushed a Coors can between his palms. “A quarter share of ten mill buys a shitload of shut-my-mouth.”
“I still don’t see a profit motive here,” Chaz said. “That’s an ass-load of cash to throw away just for curiosity. What’s the practical purpose for time travel?”
“What was the practical purpose of going to the moon, dumbass?” Renzi said.
“They don’t really share that kind of information with me,” Tauber said. “For Caroline, Martin Kemp and I, the success of the Tauber Tube can lead us to practical experimentation to prove string theory. Have you heard of that?”
“I’ve heard of it,” Chaz said. “Stephen Hawking, right?”
“Yes,” said Tauber, who tried to cover his surprise.
“We read more than Hustler and weapons manuals, Doc,” Dwayne said dryly.
“Uh huh.” Tauber blushed. “String theory posits that there are universes next to ours; similar but differing in subtle details to radical shifts in reality. It’s long been theorized that these universes are created by disruptions in time rather than space. It’s where history branches off in a new direction at a critical point.”
“Like the South winning the Civil War,” Chaz offered. “Or JFK surviving the assassination.”
“Or the Lions winning a Superbowl,” Renzi said and brayed.
“We are talking probabilities not fantasy,” Tauber said.
It was the Rangers’ turn to be surprised. The doc made a funny.
“So, if you go back to the past and fart around on purpose,” Chaz said. “Won’t you risk changing the present?”
“We’ve considered that and planned to devise some low impact tests that we could then return to the past to undo,” Tauber said.
“Like what?” Dwayne wanted to know. “Well, we hadn’t gotten that far in actuality,” Tauber said with a dour expression. “And I hope we haven’t already strayed into a temporal anomaly.”
“Hey, where are Pervert and Queerbait?” Renzi said. He glanced over the hut. “I haven’t seen them around.”
“Parviz and Quebat went to Las Vegas for the day,” Tauber said. “The reactor is entirely self-maintaining. But they’ll be back in plenty of time to monitor the readings.”
“They gamblers?” Renzi said. “Celine Dion fans.”
DWAYNE STOOD ON A ledge of shale and looked out over the moonlit desert. The temperature dropped forty degrees since the sun went down. If the trail left by the three eggheads led that way, they’d be walking down this slope the following day and into the bowl-shaped depression below. It wouldn’t look exactly like this, if Tauber was right. It could be wooded or grassland. Somewhere below would be a lake, a marsh, or even an inland sea where there was now sand, rock, and dust. The doc assured the team that rocks don’t lie.
>
Dwayne turned at the crunch of a boot heel. Chaz was climbing the natural steps up to him. Chaz clutched two beers, the necks between his fingers.
Chaz handed a bottle to Dwayne, and they stood looking over the desert.
“The Iranians are back,” Chaz said. He took a pull off the Coors.
“They enjoy the show?” Dwayne said.
“They didn’t share. They were wearing matching Celine t-shirts, though. You know they’re not a couple?”
“Huh?”
“Parviz and Quebat. They’re gay, but they’re not each other’s type.”
“Good to know.” Dwayne tipped the beer back in one long swallow.
“They’re our ticket back, man,” Chaz said. “I thought I’d talk to them. So we’re not just strangers.”
“Like when you always made sure the Black Hawk pilots knew all our names.”
Chaz threw his empty far out into the dark.
A brittle pop echoed over the rocks.
“Renzi seems to be dealing,” Chaz said after a moment. “He’s sober. Cranky about having no smokes, though.”
“He’s good as long as he has someone to shoot at or blow up,” Dwayne said. “It’s the home side of it he sucks at. Jimbo’s a smoker too, and he’s not bitching.”
“Ricky thinks he’s going to get the wife and kids back.”
“Never going to happen. Even if it does, if she comes back, he’d find a way to screw it up. And she’d only come back for the cash. I don’t know her, so I don’t know if she’s that kind.”
“Rick says she’s a bitch.”
“What else is he going to say?”
A coyote yipped somewhere out in the dark. “You think this is for real?” Chaz said.
“Going backward in time?”
“The money is,” Dwayne said.
“Yeah. But all this science fiction bullshit.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s a payday. What do you believe?”
“I hope it’s bullshit. I hope it’s all smoke and mirrors and Tauber’s crazy and invented this story and all his machine does is keep beer cold. Because if all this is for real? We’re walking into God knows what with our eyes shut.”
“Quick in and out, bro. No unfriendlies.”
“You can’t know that. Our intel is non-existent. We know jack squat of what to expect on the other side.”
“When’s intel ever been one hundred percent? But this is hindsight, bro. We’re going back into history, not a mystery.” Dwayne threw his own bottle. It landed soundlessly somewhere out on the sand. “When haven’t we been told one thing and got dropped into the middle of something we weren’t expecting?”
“Yeah, but there was five of us then.”
“Four’s enough.”
“Did you even call him, Dwayne?”
“I thought four was enough.”
“I know it ain’t the money because there’s more than enough of that here.”
“We don’t need Hammond,” Dwayne said. “You might not say that on the other side.
We needed him in Tikrit. We needed him in Kandahar and Quito. Remember when it all went south in Golol?”
“This is different.”
“I don’t see how.”
“It’s a rescue, not a raid. Hammond brings a whole lot of shit with him I’d rather not deal with. I don’t need the variables. I have enough to think about.”
“I damned sure hope you’re right, bro,” Chaz said. He turned and made his way down from the ledge back to the compound.
Dwayne stood studying the terrain for a moment. He tried to picture it as it would appear tomorrow. How it would be different and how much it would be the same all that way in the past. He decided that was a waste of time and followed Chaz back toward the lights below.
Together they neared the Q-huts. They saw someone out in the dark near the tower. It was Tauber. He was pacing back and forth, holding a satellite phone to his ear. He waved at them as a greeting and a gesture that he was occupied and would speak to them soon.
“History, not a mystery,” Chaz muttered, and they headed for their bunks.
RENZI WAS STILL UP AND seated at the kitchen table in the residence hut. He was sipping coffee and watching the tiny TV there with the volume all the way down. His eyes were on the silent screen where cars went round and round a track without seeing any of it.
Dwayne and Chaz got that “not in the mood” vibe and just said their good nights and went to their bunks. Renzi grunted back.
He was still up with the TV on when Parviz and Quebat returned and bustled into the hut, chattering in Persian. They fell silent when they saw Renzi seated in the blue glow of the TV.
“Good show?” Renzi said.
“Oh, yes.” Parviz smiled. “We’ve seen her a dozen times or more.” He turned to Quebat and spoke in a hushed tone. Quebat fished in a plastic shopping bag and held up a t-shirt with an image of Celine at the mike large on the front. He turned it to show Renzi the legend on the back.
“My Heart Will Go On,” Renzi read. “My little girl likes that song.”
“Maybe we can get her a shirt for her,” Parviz said. “Next time we go. After you and the others come back.”
“Yeah, that’d be cool,” Renzi said. “Or maybe I’ll take her myself. I’ll be able to afford it after this.”
Both Iranians smiled the smiles they wore when they felt they did not quite understand what was being said to them. They excused themselves and left Renzi in the dark.
MORRIS TAUBER STOOD OUTSIDE huddled in a parka and listened to the voice on the other end of the sat phone. He nodded impatiently. Each time the voice paused, Tauber interjected with pleas and assurances. The voice broke in on him, and he paced as he listened. Then silence. Tauber wanted to throw the phone as far into the dark as his strength would allow. But it was his lifeline; his sister’s lifeline. He would need that connection to beg for more money, more time.
THE COMPOUND CAME TO life the following morning.
The four men stripped down and dropped their clothing, watches, wallets, and other personal items into tubs marked with their names in black Sharpie.
Tauber stood by to assist. He wore a neutral expression and kept his eyes on their faces. But his gaze could not help but stray to bodies marked with scars and garish tattoos. All four had some variation of the Army Rangers unit symbol on their arms: a grinning skull with crossed combat knives behind it. Rick Renzi had an impressive one on his back that covered his entire right shoulder. The skull wore sunglasses and a fatigue cap with a cigarette butt clutched in tombstone teeth. Crossed M-16s and “We All Come Back” were emblazoned in a scroll beneath. There were also the puckered scars from bullet wounds on each man. Chaz had a broad patch of skin on one thigh covered in pink flesh left speckled by shrapnel. Dwayne had some grafting on the left side of his belly, the skin slick and hairless. Each man had the kind of rough-worn bodies a soldier gets in the field. No prison muscle or sculpted flesh from a gym. These were bodies built by long marches laden with heavy packs. They were used hard by battle.
The men showered with a strong antibiotic, exfoliating soap as Tauber directed. It was part of the protocol for entering the Tube. They had to remove as much bacteria from their skin as they could. The theory being that many of the bugs living on them would be unwelcome strangers in Nevada 100,000 BC.
The Tube was prepared to power up. The coils were rimed with a thick coat of white ice and dripped clumps of wet, frozen nitrogen. A frigid mist spread from the tubes across the concrete floor of the big room. The interior temperature hung down around thirty degrees.
The monitors at the computer station were filled with graphs of floating bars. Levels climbing and falling in tiny increments. Tauber turned to them now and again to make sure the levels were constant. He was up all night going over the programs to calibrate the window into which the field would open on the other side. He wanted the men emerging as close behind Caroline and the others as he could manage. That intense wor
k kept him from reviewing and re-reviewing the phone conversation from the night before and what he might have said to make his case stronger.
The Rangers stepped shivering from the showers and lined up at the tables where their uniforms and underwear lay folded. The clothing was neutral colored and stiff.
Next came the ammo packs and gloves that were made from a thicker weave of the same paper-based cloth as their uniforms. Each man would carry ten clips for two hundred rounds total in addition to one of Renzi’s special satchel charges. Two one-quart leather botas were worn on straps about their shoulders. Leather boots with leather soles held together with organic, decomposable glue. All was topped off with broad-brimmed boonie hats made of the crinkled paper cloth.
“We look like angry UPS drivers,” Jimbo said.
“More like angry UPS packages,” Renzi said. “These outfits make noise, man.” The fabric was coarse and made a shushing noise when they walked.
“Don’t start bitching this soon,” Chaz said. “We don’t need camo in the AO.” Area of Operations.
“Oh, I haven’t started bitching, brother.”
“You ain’t my brother, Renzi. My brother’s black.”
It was all just grab-ass. Relieving the tension. Shaking out the kinks.
Guns were next. Each man picked up the rocket gun that they’d used on the range and zeroed in. Jimbo Small wrapped the fore end of his weapon in strips of paper cloth he tore from one of the extra shirts.
“Cuts down on glare,” he said. “Still say we could use a long range gun.”
“Barnes didn’t work up any workable scopes,” Dwayne said.
“These rocket rounds would have a wicked bad trajectory anyhow,” Jimbo said. He shrugged and shouldered the weapon.
“Yeah,” Dwayne said.
Tauber handed Dwayne what looked like a simple hand-held transmitter. A speaker with a built-in mike. A press key on the side was the only audio control. It had a retractable whip antenna, plus a foldout mini-keyboard for text.
“I built a new wave transmitter,” Tauber said. “Easy to use. I modified it to carry audio. Just press to talk. It’s made of soy-based plastic. Twenty-four-hour battery life. Just give me an initial check when you arrive and location updates as you make progress. Turn it off when not in use. It has a three-hour digital record feature and will turn the unit on and repeat your last broadcast every ten minutes. If the field’s not open when you send I’ll catch the replay.”