The Reacher Code: Timestream 3, page 1
THE REACHER CODE
TIMESTREAM 3
JUDE HARDIN
Before being recruited as Jack Reacher’s time-traveling bodyguard, Rock Wahlman got chased and shot at and beat some bad guys senseless in The Reacher Experiment series of thrillers. Pulse-pounding action from the first page to the last!
About The Reacher Code: Timestream 3
Rock Wahlman…
Former Navy Master-At-Arms, Jack Reacher’s genetic duplicate, produced from a blood specimen that was drawn over a hundred years ago.
Recently recruited by a secret government agency called the FCYYC (the Federal Commission on Yesteryears and Years to Come), Wahlman is now a time-traveling operative, performing missions designed to protect Reacher from a faction called Topple—a rogue group of criminals determined to alter the past in an effort to make the future more profitable for themselves.
Intent on traveling to 1994 and stopping Topple from destroying Reacher’s blood specimen, Wahlman soon has plans for a new life with his wife and stepdaughter—strategies for a future that will not include the FCYYC.
Unfortunately, the FCYYC has strategies for a future that will not include Wahlman…
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1
Victor dropped what he was doing and headed to the control room. Again. He hadn’t been very happy about the first two trips down there, and he certainly wasn’t very happy about this one. He didn’t have time to be holding anyone’s hand.
The new guy was no Ray McDaniels. That was for sure. McDaniels had been an invaluable asset for more than half a decade. Invaluable to the Federal Commission on Yesteryears and Years to Come, to the President of the United States of America, and to Victor himself. McDaniels had pretty much written the book on time travel, taking William Top’s Neocortex Frequency Adjustment Theory to the umpteenth level, leading the way toward the production of an actual working machine. Not to mention the revolutionary medications he’d helped develop: the pharmaceutical cocktail that allowed human beings to travel to other time periods without losing their minds, and the memory repressors and compliance enhancers that allowed the administration to maintain an unprecedented degree of control over the individual missions and, as a result, over the ultimate objective—to corner and annihilate the opposition. McDaniels was a genius, and the time travel program might have never gotten off the ground without him.
Unfortunately, he was dead now, along with dozens of other FCYYC team members, murdered in cold blood during the hostile infiltration of the underground complex commonly referred to as The Lab.
The event never should have happened. It was still under investigation, but there was no doubt in Victor’s mind that Topple—the organization William Top had cobbled together after stealing hundreds of classified documents and abandoning his position with the FCYYC—was responsible. William Top was the only person on the planet who could have circumvented the extreme security measures in place at The Lab. It had to have been him, and Victor was more determined than ever to take him and his nefarious group of temporal criminals out of the picture for good.
At any rate, McDaniels was gone now, so the new guy would have to do.
His name was Brodmarkle. He was forty-three years old, and he’d spent most of his adult life teaching astrophysics and quantum theory to United States military officers. He’d been recruited several years ago as a potential alternate for the time travel program, and had jumped at the opportunity when the position of Lead Technician had suddenly become vacant. He’d looked good on paper, and had interviewed well, but McDaniels had left some mighty big shoes behind. Only time would tell if Brodmarkle would be able to fill them or not.
Victor seriously doubted it as he quickstepped through the hangar and made his way to the control room.
Brodmarkle was sitting at one of the computer stations, shoving some kind of snack cake into his mouth with one hand and typing something with the other. He could have used a comb. And a razor. And some coaching on posture.
“What is it now?” Victor said, inadvertently kicking an empty soda can as he walked to where Brodmarkle was sitting.
“Just wanted to run something by you,” Brodmarkle said. “Have a seat.”
“I don’t want to have a seat. I don’t have time to have a seat. Just tell me what you need to tell me, so I can get back to what I was doing. Which, if you were wondering, was extremely important.”
Brodmarkle brushed the cake crumbs off his lab coat, used the middle finger of his right hand to push his eyeglasses up on the bridge of his greasy nose.
“It’s about Wahlman,” he said.
“Did you just shoot me the bird?” Victor said.
“Sir?”
“Never mind. What about Wahlman?”
“You told me we need him for Timestream 3, and that once the mission is complete, we need for him and his wife and stepdaughter to disappear.”
“And? You need me to spell it out for you?”
“I’m just not comfortable with that. I was thinking we could—”
“You’re questioning a direct order?”
“Not at all, sir. But I have an idea. I think it’ll make everyone happy. Everyone except Rock Wahlman, of course. And his family.”
“I don’t care how you get rid of them,” Victor said. “Just that you do. Are we clear on that?”
“I thought you might like to hear some of the details.”
“You thought wrong.”
“Okay.”
“This room’s a mess. Being the smartest kid in class doesn’t mean you get to be a slob. Not here. Get it cleaned up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And try not to call me anymore today. Unless Topple breaks in and starts killing people again. Then you can feel free to give me a holler.”
Brodmarkle nodded.
Victor turned to exit the control room. On his way out, he glanced over and saw his new lead technician’s reflection in one of the observation windows.
Brodmarkle was pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose again.
With the same finger.
2
Soon after waking up from a long nap in his standard-issue FCYYC apartment, Rock Wahlman carried a cup of coffee over to the standard-issue kitchen table, sat in one of the standard-issue wooden chairs and slid his left foot into his left boot. He pulled the laces to a comfortable snugness, and then he tied them in a double knot.
He always put his left shoe on first. He didn’t know why. It was just the way he’d always done it. Since he was a kid. Maybe he would mix it up one of these days. Start with the right one. Maybe tomorrow.
If there was a tomorrow.
Lucie Barbeau had promised not to tell anyone about what had happened, about Wahlman’s actions immediately following the spin to South America, about aiming a gun at her face and chaining her to a U-bolt and commandeering her time-traveling motorcycle for the purpose of defection. But of course there was no guarantee that she would keep her promise. And if she didn’t, Wahlman was history. Victor would punch his ticket in a heartbeat over something like that. And Wahlman wasn’t on very good terms with him right now anyway. Victor knew that Wahlman wasn’t fully onboard with the program anymore, that he was ready to walk away the instant the terms of his contract were fulfilled, that he wanted to go back to being a regular old private investigator, back to keeping both feet firmly planted in the present, right here in 2102, in the time period he was born in. Victor didn’t like it, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. Not at the moment. Wahlman and Barbeau were the only remaining operatives with any sort of time travel experience, and Topple had a major attack planned for June 2, 1994—a period the recently deceased Ray McDaniels had designated The Reacher Code: Timestream 3—an attack that was scheduled to take place within the next few hours. Victor needed Wahlman, and he would continue to need him until Topple was permanently eliminated, and there was a degree of comfort in that.
Even so, Wahlman had been cautiously watching his own back. He didn’t trust Victor, or Barbeau, or anyone else at the FCYYC. And if it ever came down to it, he would do whatever it took to protect himself and his loved ones. Especially his loved ones. They were his world. They were all that mattered. Kasey and Natalie. His wife and stepdaughter. He would do whatever it took to make sure that no harm ever came to them.
His cell phone buzzed. It was Barbeau. He thought about letting it go to voicemail, finally decided to pick up and see what she wanted.
“This is Wahlman.”
“Bonjour.”
“I don’t speak French.”
“Everyone knows what bonjour means.”
Barbeau spoke French fluently, and she spoke English as well as anyone, but with a French accent. Wahlman wondered if the accent was real. She was an espionage expert. She could probably turn it off anytime she wanted to. Not that Wahlman wanted her to. He kind of liked it.
“Are you certain that everyone knows what it means?” he said. “Did you ask everyone?”
“Why do you have to be so literal?”
“You’re not the first person to ask me that question. And you probably won’t be the last. But I know you didn’t call just to chitchat.”
“I was wondering if you’d like to share a ride
“I’m not quite ready to go yet. I’ll be along in a little while.”
“We’re scheduled to spin at four.”
“I know that.”
“It’s three-thirty now.”
“I know that too.”
Barbeau sighed.
“Okay,” she said. “Just don’t be late. We’re going to be cutting it close as it is.”
“That almost sounded like an order. Hope you’re not planning to—”
“I was going to tell you on the way to the hangar. Victor’s putting me in the lead on this mission. I just want you to know that I didn’t have anything to do with that decision.”
Wahlman took a sip of coffee.
“I have way more experience with time travel,” he said. “I should be the lead operative.”
“You’re welcome to discuss it with Victor if you want to. Like I said, I didn’t have anything to do with the decision.”
Wahlman decided there was no point in arguing about it. Regardless of who ended up being in charge, Barbeau was in a position to have things the way she wanted them, because of the dirt she had on him.
“You can take the lead,” Wahlman said. “Just try not to let it go to your head.”
“I’m not like that. As far as I’m concerned, we’re a team. Any important decisions that need to be made can be made together.”
“Sure.”
“My ride just showed up. So I’ll see you on the pedestal at four, okay?”
“I’ll be there.”
Wahlman disconnected. He drank some more of the coffee, and then he carried the cup to the sink and rinsed it out, trying to keep any thoughts of the extreme danger he would be facing in a little while simmering on the back burner, where they belonged. A little bit of fear was helpful. It was a good thing. It kept you on your toes. But you couldn’t dwell on what was actually going to take place. You couldn’t dwell on the ordinary hazards involved with time travel—especially with a rookie like Brodmarkle at the controls—and you couldn’t dwell on the extraordinary nature of this particular mission. Which, if successful, would prevent the infiltration of a super-secret underground military installation in Colorado in 1994, thereby preventing the destruction of a vial filled with super-secret cryogenically preserved blood cells taken from an Army officer named Jack Reacher, cells eventually used to produce a great number of super-secret human clones. And you certainly couldn’t dwell on the fact that you were one of those clones, and that the destruction—or even the misplacement—of the single microscopic blood cell you were produced from might result in the cessation of your very existence.
Wahlman had spent some time thinking about it, and he knew that Kasey had too. It had caused her to have some recurrent nightmares. It wouldn’t be the same as dying. It would be as if you’d never been born. Everything you’d ever done would suddenly be erased. Deleted. Gone. The effects that such an occurrence might have on the history of the world were unfathomable. Not to mention that you just kind of enjoyed existing.
But you definitely couldn’t dwell on any of it. If you did, the fear would grip you like a vice, and you wouldn’t be of any use to anyone.
All you could do was try to focus on the task at hand.
All you could do was sit back down and put your other boot on and call for a ride and go to work.
3
A hundred kilometers south of Bogota, Colombia, on several remote acres that had been cleared to build the headquarters for a future worldwide empire, William Top sat in the theater room of his laboratory, fiddling with the remote control, waiting for his new apprentice to join him, trying to figure out exactly how things had gone so wrong. He’d viewed the footage a total of seven times. He knew it by heart. Kyle Harrison, his friend and lead technician—his right hand man when it came to everything that pertained to time travel—was preparing to interrogate a beautiful young operative named Lucie Barbeau, who had admitted to being a spy. She’d been taken to the makeshift brig out in the jungle, and Harrison had been sent to find out exactly who she’d been relaying information to.
Unfortunately, he never got the chance.
His security escort was shot, and then he was shot, and Barbeau and her rescuer, a man Top was almost certain he’d encountered previously on a mission to 1983, escaped into the dense foliage.
Of course a vigorous and prolonged attempt had been made to apprehend them, an attempt that included state-of-the-art infrared detection devices and ultrasensitive sound monitors and not-so-state-of-the-art-but-nevertheless-highly-effective bloodhounds, but they were nowhere to be found. It was if they had disappeared into thin air.
Which, of course, they had.
Top had suspected all along that the mole he’d been attempting to expose was working for the FCYYC. Barbeau’s association with the man who came for her—along with the fact that the couple had eluded capture—was proof enough. Barbeau and her knight in shining armor must have spun off to another time period. Or to a different location in the same time period. Which happened to be something that Kyle Harrison had been tinkering around with in the days before his untimely demise. He hadn’t produced a working program yet, but it was possible that the FCYYC had produced one. It was possible that Ray McDaniels had gotten the jump on Harrison on that deal.
At least McDaniels was gone now too. After three years of trying, Harrison had finally figured out a way to get past the elaborate mechanical and electronic systems protecting the underground complex that served as the center of operations for the FCYYC, a monumental hack that allowed a team of hired assassins to waltz in there and take care of business. Of course the security experts at the FCYYC had changed all the codes immediately following the massacre, and it wasn’t likely they would ever be broken again, and of course Victor had an extensive list of backup personnel ready to jump in and replace the slain team members on a moment’s notice, but it had been worth the effort just to get rid of McDaniels. Not having him around would be a huge setback for the FCYYC.
And, as a result, a huge boost for Topple.
But everything wasn’t exactly hunky dory at the moment, not like it should have been. Because William Top did not have an extensive list of backup personnel, and it was going to be next to impossible to find a replacement for Kyle Harrison. That being the case, Top had been forced to assume most of the heavy lifting himself. The programming, and the engineering, and the direct supervision of the technical support staff. The insane volume of the workload caused him to have an even greater appreciation for Harrison, who’d performed the duties flawlessly and without complaint for almost five years. He would definitely be missed.
Sheila Everton, the woman Top had chosen to be his apprentice, was extremely intelligent, but it would take her a while to learn the ropes. Months, if not years. In the meantime, Top would have to take up the slack. He didn’t particularly look forward to grinding it out twenty hours a day seven days a week, but he knew it would all be worth it in the end. Once his current goals were achieved, he would be one of the most respected scientists on the planet.
And one of the wealthiest.
He heard footsteps approaching from behind. He glanced down at the remote control, pressed the button for the overhead lights, turned and saw Everton coming his way. She wore a white lab coat and navy blue slacks and sensible shoes. Eyeglasses, dark brown hair tied back in a bun.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said.
She smelled good.
“Have a seat,” Top said. “I wanted to show you some footage from one of our cameras out in the jungle.”
Everton nodded. She slid into the seat beside Top and stared up at the screen.
Top dimmed the lights and started the video. He monitored Everton’s reactions as the scene unfolded, and was pleasantly surprised that she didn’t flinch—not even a little bit—when the security guard’s head exploded.
Top turned the lights back up when the video was finished playing.
“Interesting,” Everton said.
“The man who was shot in the chest held the position you’ll be training for,” Top said. “I just wanted to demonstrate how dangerous working for me can be sometimes. Still interested?”
