Nine Eleven, page 10
part #5 of Area 51- Time Patrol Series
The Legionnaire laughed. “The mouth? I think that’s where it wants us.”
“Silence, Rufus,” the Centurion snapped as Grendel moved toward them. “We’ll engage from the front. Rufus, get behind it.”
Roland didn’t appreciate the Centurion immediately taking charge, but he focused on the monster, noting that the Legionnaire, Rufus, was moving sideways.
Maybe, Roland thought.
“Attack!” Roland yelled before Grendel could take the initiative away. He charged, his axe raised high. As he closed on the beast, he leapt into the air, swinging at an angle toward the center of Grendel’s face.
A large paw hit Roland on the side, sending him flying, his breath knocked out of him. He tumbled to the floor of the clearing, then scrambled to get back to his feet.
The Centurion was fighting off Grendel’s other hand, his sword sparking as it glanced off claws trying to rip him apart.
Roland was trying to catch his breath, uncertain if ribs were broken, the least of his concerns now as he charged back into the fight.
The Centurion swung again, and this time Grendel’s claws closed on the steel blade, wrenching it out of his hands, then throwing it to side. Roland swung the battle axe, the heavy blade thudding into Grendel’s forearm as it reached for the Centurion to tear him apart. The blow saved the Roman. For the moment. Out of the corner of his eye, Roland spotted movement.
The Legionnaire, Rufus, had gotten a running start. He leapt, the point of his sword leading.
Grendel sensed the threat, turning, but Roland slammed the axe toward its chest. The Centurion, swordless, drew a dagger then jabbed upward, trying for the armpit.
It all came together at the same time: the Centurion’s dagger broke skin in the armpit, not deeply—it was too high, but enough to hurt the beast; Roland’s axe bounced back, his hands and arms numbed from the recoil, but the motion got Grendel’s attention for a split second; the tip of the Legionnaire’s sword struck the base of Grendel’s skull, penetrating several inches.
Grendel howled as the Legionnaire’s hand slid off the hilt of the trapped blade, and Rufus fell to the dirt. Grendel was still turning. One massive hand swiped the side of the Roman’s helmet, sending it, and him, tumbling to the side.
Roland took the opening and used the flat side of the battle axe as a hammer, slamming it upward against the butt of the sword, driving it farther into Grendel’s thick skull.
While it didn’t fatally penetrate, it did stun the beast.
“Seriously?” Roland muttered as he gathered himself for another futile assault.
Grendel roared in pain, and then a spear went right between those razor-sharp teeth, through the roof of the mouth, and into its brain.
Grendel fell to its knees, whimpering, then collapsed sideways, a solid thud onto the ground.
Roland stood over the body, breathing hard. The Centurion stepped up beside him and the Legionnaire slowly got to his feet, shaking his head, disoriented.
The Centurion raised the dagger.
“Wait,” Roland said. He knelt, drawing his knife then levering off a scale. “It’s done.” He looked about. “But who threw the spear?”
Grendel’s body crumbled inward, turning to dust, leaving the spear that had killed it, the Legionnaire’s sword, and the scale in Roland’s hand behind.
“What in Mars’s balls was that?” Rufus asked as he walked up, his dented helmet in one hand. He picked up his sword. “Never seen the like of that beast.”
“A Grendel.” Roland looked at the trophy he’d taken, then tucked it into a pouch hanging on his belt.
“Where did it go?” the Centurion asked.
“I sent it back to the hell it came from,” a voice said from underneath the nearby trees. A man stepped out. He was tall, dressed in black leather pants, well-worn boots, and a tunic, revealing well-muscled arms. He had dark, shaggy hair, crudely cut away from his eyes, but drooping to his shoulders and the back of his neck. “To attack one as you did...? Very impressive. May I have my spear?”
Roland picked it up, then tossed it to the man, whom he recognized as a Jager, a hunter from another timeline.
The Jager looked past them at the Germanic villagers clustered on the far side of the clearing. “Too late for their men, though.” He nodded over his shoulder, in the direction from which the beast, and he, had come. “Their bodies are back there. They were less successful.”
“I don't see why we need to stand by and watch a country go communist due to the irresponsibility of its people. The issues are much too important for the Chilean voters to be left to decide for themselves.”
— Henry Kissinger, President Nixon’s National Security Advisor, 1973.
Santiago, Chile, 11 September 1973 A.D.
Ivar wasn’t there, and then he was there, but he’d sort of always been there. It was the best way to explain how he arrived, becoming part of his current time and place without fanfare or excitement among those around him; especially because those around him had more important things troubling them, since they were in a Presidential Palace while it was besieged by a military coup. He was in the bubble of this day, not before, and hopefully not afterward, because this place was going to be smoking rubble by the end of the day.
There was also the rather curious factor that, as he became aware of his new surroundings, he was in a toilet stall. Nothing like appearing in the midst of the action.
Ivar slid the lock on the stall door open then stepped out. The bathroom, ornate, heavily tiled, fitting for a Presidential Palace, was empty. Excited voices echoed in a large open space coming through the door, but he took a moment. He checked his uniform in the mirror and thought he looked particularly un-military, but very ‘revolutionary.’ He sighed, walked to the heavy wooden door, then opened it.
A group of women were clustered in the large hall near the front doors of the Palace. Several of them were crying. A man was urging them out the door, an AK-47 slung over his shoulder. That set the timeline for Ivar: Allende had ordered all the women out of the Palace after the first exchange of fire. Ivar heard the distinct sound of tank treads rolling on asphalt, and the rumble of their engines. The Palace was being surrounded. The aerial bombardment was not far off.
No one paid attention to Ivar, the handful of men concerned with making sure the women got out. Accessing the download, Ivar made his way to the central staircase then took it to the second floor. Allende’s office was up there, so Ivar figured his best bet for finding Dominic was to get close to the President.
That didn’t seem hard, since what little security existed was oriented outward toward the attackers. President Allende’s version of the Secret Service was the Grupo de Amigos Personales, the Group of Friends, better known as GAP. Their level of training was minimal, most having received fourteen days of ‘bodyguard’ training in Cuba by Castro’s forces.
Of course, Ivar thought, Castro had outlasted several Presidents, including one who got killed while plotting to kill Castro, so perhaps Edith shouldn’t have been so dismissive of the Cuban training in the download.
It is 1973 A.D. The Godfather wins best picture at the Oscars; the DEA is founded; Asia and Europe are connected for the first time ever by the Bosporus Bridge; Watergate; the Knicks, yes, the Knicks, become NBA champs; Secretariat wins the Triple Crown; Led Zeppelin breaks the Beatles’ single-concert attendance record; Spiro Agnew resigns; the Sydney Opera House opens; the Sears Tower in Chicago opens, becoming the world’s tallest building; more people watch Elvis Presley in concert on T.V. than watched the moon landings.
Double doors were open at the end of the hallway, and Ivar heard a commanding voice echoing out of the opening: “Who do you think you are, you treacherous shits? Stuff your plane up your asses! You’re talking to the President of the Republic. And the President elected by the people doesn’t surrender!”
Some things change; some don’t.
Ivar arrived at the doors as President Allende slammed the phone down, continuing to curse. Guards were all around the three sides of the room facing outward, their weapons in the windows. Two men stood close to Allende, submachine guns at the ready, along with a young woman.
Is that Dominic’s mother? Ivar wondered.
Allende was a solidly built man with dark hair, beginning to go gray, and a thick gray mustache. His most distinguishing characteristic was his heavy, black-framed glasses. He wore a bulletproof vest under a gray jacket, dark gray trousers, and black shoes. The download indicated this was Allende’s “combat” uniform; he’d hurriedly come to the Palace this morning because of vague warnings of trouble. There was an ornate AK-47 on his desk, next to the phone. A personal gift from Fidel Castro, inscribed, To Salvador, from his companion in arms. Fidel.
Allende was arguing with the woman standing in front of him. He spotted Ivar in the doorway. “Captain!”
Ivar came to a semblance of attention. “President!”
“Come here, comrade,” Allende ordered.
Ivar walked into the Presidential office, checking the download for identification. The woman wasn’t Dominic’s mother. She was Allende’s daughter, Beatriz, known to everyone as Tati. She was a surgeon, and married to a Cuban. She was also Allende’s most fervent supporter.
“Those are tanks approaching,” Allende said, “and I do not think this is a repeat of June. They have just offered me free passage out of the country. The pigs.” He shook his head. “Bruno and his men were arrested when they arrived. I called and ordered the Director General to release them, and he dared to hang up on me. The Central Communications building has been seized. An announcement has just been made on the radio by the Junta that I am deposed. Can you believe that? While I am still here! Still breathing! I am the President.”
“You are,” Tati said, putting a hand on her father’s shoulder, “but to remain President, you must come with me. Live to fight back.”
“What about poor Augusto?” Allende asked Ivar.
Edith’s download came up with the rest of that name: Augusto Pinochet.
“I do not think you can count on him,” Ivar said, understating the reality. At this point, Allende didn’t know the extent of the coup. Just a few months earlier, in June, a tank unit had surrounded the Palace, but that revolt had quickly been squashed by the military and police. The greatest irony that was now unfolding, and which Allende would not live long enough to fully comprehend, was that the President worried about Pinochet’s fate, not believing he could be in cahoots with the conspirators. After all, Pinochet had helped put down the abbreviated coup in June.
“Come with me to the State Bank,” Tati urged. “We can secure ourselves in the basement. Wait for the counter-coup. For the people to rise up and come to us.”
Allende smiled at his daughter. “Your dedication always brings me comfort.” The smile disappeared as he looked at Ivar. “Tell me, Captain. It is the Americans, isn’t it? Kissinger.”
Ivar shrugged, aware of Rule One. “The Americans are always meddling, President.” Stick to the known facts—known right now, that is. “They have tried to assassinate my President several times.”
“Should I go to the bank?” Allende asked Ivar.
He should if he wants to live, Ivar thought. “No, President. The cordon is too tight. You will not make it.”
Allende nodded. “I thought so. And what will the people think if their President runs and hides? Such a man isn’t worthy of their blood and sacrifice.” He turned back to Tati. “Go! Now. The other women have already left. Even those pigs outside will allow a woman safe passage. Captain, where is her husband?”
The download provided that answer. “At my Embassy, President.”
“Go the Cuban Embassy,” Allende ordered his daughter. “You must survive to lead our people into the future. This will not last. Liberty will always win in the end.”
Tati hugged her father tight, her eyes glistening.
Ivar felt detached, watching history play out, almost a movie in front of him. Meyer Lansky, Ulysses S. Grant, General Pemberton; he’d been in the presence of other historical figures as part of their present, but they remained always subordinated to his past. To history.
Tati reluctantly left. Allende watched her until she disappeared down the stairs at the end of the hallway, then he picked up the AK-47. “I will use my comrade’s gift. I want you to tell him that it will be in my hands when I breathe my last.”
“I will, President.”
Allende joined his men at the windows. He put the AK to his shoulder and fired a long, sustained burst.
Ivar saw no sign of a boy in the office, so he backed out, leaving the men to their fighting. He wasn’t here for this. Allende’s fate was sealed. He began opening doors, searching room by room along the second floor of La Moneda.
He got to the end of the hall, then turned the knob of the only door left when he froze at the sound of a voice.
“Who are you?”
Ivar turned, careful not to make any threatening gestures.
A man in khakis was holding an M-1911 .45 caliber Colt pistol with the assurance of someone who knew how to use it. He had the look: military who’d seen too much. High and tight haircut, what remained of it a mixture of white and gray, broken blood vessels on his cheeks from too much drinking, but it was mainly the eyes.
Dead.
“I am Captain Ivar.”
“One of Castro’s boys,” the man said, his Spanish tinged with an obvious accent. “I’ve seen you about.”
“You are American,” Ivar said. “One of Nixon’s boys.”
“Don’t get smart with me,” the man said.
Ivar checked the download for the Americans in the MILGROUP. “Major Tower.” Army, most of his record redacted, normally on loan to the CIA for paramilitary operations or operations that were deniable and deep black.
“How do you know my name?”
“We have files on everyone,” Ivar said, which was true, although not in the way Tower would think.
“They’re not going to do you much good,” Tower said.
Ivar noticed Tower hadn’t lowered the .45. “I don’t appreciate having a gun pointed at me.”
Tower nodded, as if that were perfectly logical. “Who does?”
“I am a Cuban citizen,” Ivar said. “My country—”
“I was at the Bay of Pigs,” Tower said. “I watched your people execute my friends who’d surrendered. No trial. Just a bullet to the back of the head.” Tower walked forward then placed the muzzle of the Colt to Ivar’s forehead. “Back of the head, front of the head. Same result. Right, comrade?”
His cover was going to get him killed. Ivar wondered if that fit the definition of irony, or just bad planning.
“Are you here to kill Allende?” he asked.
Tower blinked. “What?”
“The coup.” Ivar tried to nod toward the sound of tanks and weapons outside, but the gun pressed against his head prevented that. “Are you in the Palace to make sure Allende dies? He already turned down safe passage.”
“How do you know that?” Tower asked.
“I just heard him say so on the phone,” Ivar said, “and you don’t have to kill him. He’ll kill himself later today, once he realizes there’s no hope. And there’s no hope, correct, Major Tower?”
Tower inhaled deeply through his nose, as if the extra oxygen could make his brain function better. “Nope. No hope. But how do you know he’s going to kill himself?”
“Because President Allende is not a stupid man,” Ivar said. He smelled alcohol wafting from the American. Either he was terribly hungover, or he was still drunk. Most likely a combination.
“I’d have to disagree with your assessment,” Tower said, “since he’s surrounded, and his Army, Navy, Air Force, and police have all turned on him. That speaks to a kind of stupid.”
“It would be a different kind of stupid if you killed me,” Ivar said. “My people will not let that pass without retribution. I have other comrades in country. More importantly, the sound of the shot inside the Palace will draw attention, as will my body. Allende and his friends will not look upon that kindly. You are acting precipitously.”
“Lots of shot being fired in the Palace,” Tower pointed out. “One more isn’t going to draw any notice.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. Tower pulled the gun back, then slid it into a shoulder holster inside his coat. “Ah, I was just messing with you. Let’s see whether Allende decides to blow his brains out. He does, I let you live. He don’t, then I take both of you out.”
”We love death. The U.S. loves life. That is the difference between the two of us.”
—Osama Bin Laden.
Abbottabad, Pakistan. 11 September 2012 A.D.
Scout wasn’t there, and then she was there, but she’d sort of always been there. It was the best way to explain how she arrived, becoming part of her current time and place without fanfare or excitement among those around her. She was in the bubble of this day, not before, and hopefully she wouldn’t be here afterward.
She knew she wasn’t exactly Scout anymore. Not completely. She felt the tendrils of Neeley, a powerful persona, who had been here in history on this mission, even though Scout was still Scout for this bubble of time. It was disconcerting, but the Time Patrol always became somebody during the bubble. A somebody who then went back to being whoever they’d been if the mission was successful, because then the bubble had never existed.
If Scout thought about it too long, it gave her a headache. She knew it drove Doc and Ivar crazy to not understand physics of it.
It is what it is.
No one was excited about her being here, because no one was around, and even if they were, they’d have a hard time spotting her. Scout was buried in a mound of garbage, one of several lining the alley. Her clothes were sticky from whatever was oozing through the refuse. Seemed like the garbage man wasn’t doing a very good job.
According to Neeley’s debrief, she’d already been here for over twenty-four hours.
