He squinted, eyes adjusting as he turned on the lights. “Hello.”

  It had been years since he’d talked to anyone but Dane, and those discussions were brief and businesslike.

  Lara came in, shutting the door behind her. She looked about, then focused on him. “What do you do in here?” she asked.

  “Dane didn’t tell you?”

  Lara shook her head. “Nope. Just told me there was someone I needed to meet. Walked me down here, told me to go in, so I’m in.” She indicated the door. “Think he’s on the other side, listening?”

  That had never occurred to Dominic.

  Lara walked around, putting her hands on the walls. “You feel that vibe?”

  “Yes.”

  She stopped moving about then sat on his bed, across from his desk. “I felt it when I first arrived, but it’s really strong in here. So, what’s your job in the Time Patrol? I thought I was gonna be on the team—they briefed me and everything—but then Dane didn’t send me on a mission, and brought me down here. So I figure maybe my job will probably be like your job. So, whatta you do down here?”

  “I try to see things.”

  “In the dark?” Lara grinned. “Messing with you, man. Like I said, I feel the vibe. Pretty cool. But what things do you see?”

  “I try to see the future,” Dominic said.

  “How’s the future look? Half-full, or half-empty, or should we worry more about what’s in the glass?”

  “It’s never done any good,” Dominic said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because knowing it doesn’t change it. I saw my father die in a car accident, and we couldn’t stop it. I saw a coup in Chile and warned the President, but it still happened. I saw—” He hesitated.

  “What?” Lara prompted.

  “Bits and pieces of what happened on Nine Eleven before it happened. I told Dane. He told someone else. But it still happened.”

  “That sucks,” Lara said. “So, you’re the other end of this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Patrol,” Lara said. “They go back into the past and make sure everything stays the same. Maybe the future is the same way. Doesn’t matter what you see, who you tell, what they do, it’s going to be the same.”

  Dominic blinked. “I never thought of it that way.”

  “Or,” Lara said, “maybe you see a possible future, the most likely one, but like the Shadow is having a hell of time changing our past, it’s just as hard to change the future. Maybe there has to be a really good reason to change the future.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Lara shrugged. “I don’t know, either. Person could go nuts trying to figure it out. Maybe it isn’t even supposed to be figured out? You know, they think I’m crazy, by the way.”

  The abrupt switch confused Dominic. “What?”

  Lara pointed at her head. “See the road map?”

  Dominic squinted. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t see that.”

  “The hair’s coming back,” Lara said. “Sorry about your chair.”

  When he didn’t say anything, she continued. “I’m thinking of colors for it when it grows in. I like that Scout chick. You met her?”

  Dominic shook his head. “I only see Dane. Not very often.”

  “You don’t get out of here?” Lara asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why leave?” Dominic asked.

  “To see things, meet people. Get laid. Sorry. Maybe you can’t. Whatever. How long you been here?”

  “A long time.”

  Lara leaned forward. “Can you see things other than the future?”

  Dominic nodded toward the door. “I can sort of see the history from the Pit.”

  “Can you see other timelines?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Lara sat back. “Bummer. I’m trying to figure things out. Figure me out. Was hoping you could help me. Thought maybe that was why Dane sent me in here.”

  “I think he sent you in here because you’re supposed to replace me,” Dominic said.

  “Why? You getting fired?

  “I don’t know,” Dominic said. “I’m afraid.”

  Lara got off the bed, grabbed the dust-covered chair, then dragged it next to him. “Afraid of what?”

  “Not existing.”

  “I’m not sure I ever existed,” Lara said, “except in my head. Maybe that’s all any of us have. Maybe I’m imagining you, like I imagine so many other things. But that’s when I’m asleep. I think I’m awake now. I am, right?”

  Dominic reached out. “You’re awake.” He took her hand, and they both exclaimed in surprise as the room went dark.

  The Missions Phase V

  Airspace, Barents Sea, 11 September 2001 A.D.

  It was quiet. Absolute silence, eerie after having the engines roaring behind him.

  There was no sense of movement, either.

  Eagle shook off the impact of hitting the wing, and then the cargo plane beaching on the deck inside the sphere. He unsnapped his oxygen mask.

  The flat deck extended five hundred meters in all directions. Overhead, the entrance began to disappear as the outer surface of the sphere began to iris closed.

  They were trapped.

  He hit the cockpit release, and the canopy opened. The air was foul, sickening, something he’d smelled before, in the Space Between. Eagle unbuckled then climbed out of the cockpit. He slid down the side of the plane onto the surface of the AN-225’s wing. Looking down, he saw the sphere’s deck was metal, dull black, not perfectly smooth, but unevenly pitted, none of the divots more than an inch or so.

  The AN-225’s landing gear, thirty-two wheels, hadn’t been extended when its engines cut out, resulting in the plane rolling to the left until that long wing hit the deck and brought it to a halt. Eagle ran up the wing to the fuselage. The download indicated an emergency exit on the top, above the cockpit.

  Eagle headed in that direction. Before he got there, the hatch was pulled in, and a man stuck his head out.

  “What is this? What is this?” The panic in his voice was clear. “Who are you? Where is this?”

  “We—” Eagle began, but then the hair on the back his neck rose.

  Floating just above the deck, dozens of Valkyries were approaching. Two of them were on either end of a floating sled made of dull grey metal. The others had Naga staffs.

  The sled was big enough to carry the Tsar Bomba.

  Eagle reached the hatch. “Get in!”

  As the man got out of the way, Eagle slid inside, climbing down the ladder to the flight deck. Several of the crew, dressed in blue jumpsuits, were clustered behind the two pilots, arguing, trying to make sense of something that defied their reality. One of the pilots was trying to restart the engines, even though one could look up and see the iris had closed above them.

  “Silence!” Eagle yelled.

  They all turned to him in shock.

  “You were flying the fighter!” one of the pilots exclaimed.

  “We have to—”

  “Do not move!” A soldier was at the door leading to the cargo bay, assault rifle tight to his shoulder, wearing a black balaclava and body armor. Eagle recognized the insignia: Spetsnaz, Russian Special Forces.

  “We’re going to be attacked very soon,” Eagle said.

  Another soldier appeared, weapon also at the ready, with the four stars of a captain. “What has happened to the plane? Where are we?”

  Eagle pointed. “There are”—He thought about it briefly—“men in white armored suits coming. They want the bomb. We must stop them.”

  The captain looked at Eagle, apparently trying to reconcile the ethnicity with the uniform and rank: major. “Sir, who—”

  Eagle pushed forward. “There’s no time. They’ll be in here any minute.” He raced down the steeply-inclined metal steps to the first landing, then turned one-eighty and descended the second set into the massive cargo bay. Two more Spetsnaz waited. In the center of the long cargo bay was the Tsar Bomba, with four more guards around it.

  “What is happening, major?” The captain was next to Eagle.

  “An enemy is trying to get the bomb.” Eagle walked forward, trying to think of a way out of this predicament.

  “What enemy?” the captain asked. “Chechens?”

  The Second Chechen War had started in 1999, and was turning into a nasty guerilla war with both sides committing atrocities. “Yes,” Eagle said, to give the officer some reality to ground himself. “They have armor suits that will stop your bullets. You must tell your men to aim for the eye-guards. Red bulges.” He thought about adding in the detail that the armored suits allowed them to fly, but one thing at a time. “Also, the joints. Do you have grenade launchers?”

  “No, sir.” The captain relayed Eagle’s information about the eyes and joints to his men. There were several looks exchanged between the soldiers—more insanity piled on top of a crazy situation—but they were Special Operations, and formed a perimeter around the bomb, facing outward.

  Eagle arrived at the bomb and made a quick assay of the situation. Eight Spetsnaz armed with automatic weapons. Several crewmembers were coming this way, having followed. They were unarmed.

  The bomb was huge: twenty-five feet long, by seven feet in diameter. A panel was open on one side, with a cluster of wires leading from it to a console on a long table bolted to the deck of the aircraft.

  One of pilots, a colonel, stepped in front of Eagle. “I am in command. Who are you? What unit are you? Why were you following us?”

  “Colonel, we’re not flying anymore,” Eagle said. “The captain is in command.”

  “We picked up strange reports from the United States about some sort of attack on New York City before the radio died,” the Colonel said. “What is going on?”

  “The world is changing,” Eagle said. “ And this plane is going to be—”

  A narrow golden beam sliced through the left side of the plane, forward of the bomb, going through one side, across the cargo bay, and out the other. It moved upward, a neat cut, leaving a one-inch gap, until it went through the roof. Then it started coming down. One of the crew was straggling, and he tried to duck under the beam, but was too slow. It sliced him in half, one part falling forward, the other back.

  In seconds, the AN-225 had been neatly cut in half just behind the wings. The rear section, where Eagle and the others were, no longer supported by the left wing, rolled farther to left until the left part of the wide twin tail hit the floor. All those inside fell to the deck, sliding. The bomb, lashed down with chains, strained against the restraints, but they held.

  Eagle got to his feet. “They’ll be coming in! They cannot get the bomb.”

  One of the men dressed in blue stood, leaning to stay upright. “I am Senior Technician Primakov. The bomb is my responsibility.”

  “Does it have a core?” Eagle asked, hoping that perhaps the bomb was inert. “Will it work?”

  Primakov looked insulted. “Of course it will work. Full yield.”

  One hundred megatons. Twice that of the Tsar Bomba test. A blast that size would take out New York City completely. Or London. Or wherever the Shadow intended to use it. They had to have failed the first time, Eagle thought. Or not even tried. They’d learned of the bomb transport, that it had disappeared on this day, and decided to use the opportunity while the world was focused on New York City, and—

  Eagle had to stop his runaway train of thought. None of that mattered. He was standing next to the most destructive device ever created by man.

  There was a burst of automatic weapon fire, then a second rifle joined in. Valkyries were floating in through the gap between the two parts of the plane. Rounds hit their white armor, ricocheting off.

  Something flashed toward the tail of the plane. A hole was being cut in the fuselage. Eagle felt a surge of power pulse over him. The firing suddenly ceased, replaced with the curses of the soldiers as they performed immediate action on their weapons. But the guns wouldn’t fire.

  “Bayonets!” the captain yelled, drawing his own, then slipping it over the muzzle of his AK-74 and bravely stepping forward.

  A round section of fuselage fell inward, and three of the Spetsnaz turned in that direction to face the Valkyries that slid in through the hole.

  Hopeless.

  Eagle looked at his watch.

  It was 15:07 GMT. United Airlines Flight 93, in the midst of a battle between passengers and terrorists, was crashing into the ground in Pennsylvania, well short of its target.

  “Can you detonate it?” Eagle asked Primakov. “Quickly!”

  Primakov’s jaw dropped, and his eyes grew wide. “Sir. I—” He couldn’t get any more words out.

  Eagle grabbed the Russian by both shoulders. “We must detonate it before they get it. They will kill millions with it.”

  An abbreviated scream echoed through the cargo bay as one of the Spetsnaz was sliced in half by a Naga staff.

  Primakov leaned over the console attached to the bomb. He began throwing switches as more screams echoed in the cavernous cargo bay. Eagle glanced about. Half the Spetsnaz were down, futilely battling Naga staffs and armored Valkyries with their bayonets, but they were buying precious seconds.

  The seconds weren’t going to be enough as the captain was decapitated by a Valkyrie.

  “Come, men!” the colonel cried out, a large cable wrench in his hands. He ducked under a Naga, then slammed it into the side of a Valkyrie, knocking it sideways. The rest of the crew grabbed whatever was handy and charged.

  “Hurry!” Eagle urged Primakov.

  “It has to charge in order to fire the primer,” Primakov said, still turning old-fashioned dials and throwing switches on a console that dated from the first blast.

  Eagle picked up a bloodstained AK-74 with its bayonet attached. A severed hand was still wrapped tightly around the grip under the barrel. He stood between Primakov and the approaching Valkyries. They were just a few feet away, the point of a Naga aiming straight for Eagle’s heart, and he charged forward, screaming, to—

  There was a flash of light as bright as the surface of the sun.

  Staten Island, Colony of New York, 11 September 1776 A.D.

  The tip of Legion’s dagger stopped an inch from Benjamin Franklin’s chest, and several inches from Doc’s less copious one. Pandora continued the thrust that had spitted Legion on her Naga, driving hard across the wood floor, pinning him to the wall, the blade through his body from side to side.

  Yet he was still alive, dropping both daggers, pushing the hand closest to the wall against it, the other trying to pry the Naga out of his body. Doc slit his throat.

  Legion slumped down, feet not touching the floor, held by the Naga. Then the body crumbled to dust, leaving just the weapon.

  “Doctor Franklin?” John Adams’s voice came up the stairwell. “Are you well, sir? Do you need assistance?”

  Franklin cleared his throat. He tried to speak, cleared his throat once more, then called out, “I am well, sir! I will be down in but a moment.” Without another word, he went back to the table and sat down, badly shaken. “What happened? Who was that? Who are you?”

  Doc picked up the treaty and match, both of which Franklin had dropped in his surprise. He went to the table. “Sir, there is not much time. They will grow suspicious below. We are your friends. We must burn this. All else that happened here is of no consequence. That man was here to kill you. Kill both of us. They”—He indicated Pandora and Thyia—“are here to protect us.”

  “But his body,” Franklin said. “I’ve never seen the like.”

  “He’s gone,” Doc said. “He didn’t belong here.”

  Pandora stood next to Doc. “We must hurry.”

  Doc held the treaty and the match in front of Franklin. “Sir? May I?”

  Franklin waved a hand in dismissal. “Of course, of course.”

  Doc scraped the match along the front of the mantel then used it to ignite the treaty. Satisfied it was burning, he dropped it in the fireplace.

  “Doctor Franklin!” Admiral’s Howe’s voice, trained to give orders on board ship in the midst of battle, boomed up the stairwell. “Are you well, sir?” Doc heard his boots start up the stairs.

  Franklin stood then made for the door. “I am fine, sir!” he called out, but judging by the sound, Admiral Howe was still coming.

  Pandora sprinted across the room to the opening for the dumbwaiter. She pulled the panel away, then climbed in and slid out of sight, feet first, holding the Naga tight to her side. Thyia followed.

  Howe was halfway up the stairs. Doc checked the fireplace; the treaty was ashes.

  “Perhaps we’ll meet again, sir,” Doc said to Franklin, then he ran for the dumbwaiter. He snatched Franklin’s spectacles off the table as he went by, then dove in headfirst, realizing as he did so that it might not have been the smartest move.

  He plummeted down and landed on top of Thyia, who was standing at the bottom. They ended up in a jumble, and Pandora reached in to help them out.

  There were two slaves in the kitchen, staring at the sudden appearance of three people out of the dumbwaiter with no apparent reaction. They’d seen worse, and stranger, things in their time.

  “This way,” Pandora said.

  She went to the west side of the kitchen then opened a trapdoor. A dark tunnel beckoned. The download confirmed a tunnel from the house to the woods, just short of the beach. An easy way to smuggle contraband, human and otherwise, in and out of the house without being observed.

  “Go,” Pandora ordered. Thyia went in, then Doc followed. He stumbled as Pandora shut the trapdoor behind them, plunging the tunnel into absolute darkness. “Keep moving,” Pandora ordered when she bumped into Doc.

  He put his hands out to either side. Fortunately, the tunnel was barely three feet wide. Doc staggered forward, Pandora pushing from behind.

  Thyia cursed, some term Doc couldn’t make out, but the tone was obvious, then he bumped into her, and Pandora into him.

  “Steps,” Thyia said, a voice in the darkness.

  Daylight flooded in as Thyia opened a trapdoor. Doc scrambled out after her then fell to the ground in a small clearing in the woods.

 

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