The Traveler (35 page)

Jack and the other veterans of the space battle over Antarctica recognized the dimensional wormhole, which evidently was a form of nature that did not change from one application to the next … nature's own design of power and differing dimensions. The multicolored spin of the tunnel was creating its own weather system inside the building. The vortex of spinning laser light widened and then settled into a round spinning wall of waterlike illumination that approached the speed of sound and vanished after only a few feet, ending in a sparkler-type fountain that flew to nothingness. The doorway to other dimensions was now open. All they had to do was find the right corresponding doorway to catch the broadcast of Everett's escape pod geopositioning system and transponder beacon.

The room settled and the doorway became a steady hum of light and power. The artificial winds had calmed. Virginia took a deep breath. “The doorway is open, Dr. Morales. You and Europa can start your search.”

In Nevada, Xavier Morales patted the console in front of him and then smiled at his new department personnel and up at Europa's enormous main monitor sitting in the middle of the main wall.

“Okay, Europa, old girl, let's start making some calls and see if anyone answers.”

Xavier's new computer department watched as he gave Europa the order and they all heard the search-and-rescue tone burst from the speakers. Morales smiled as his searching signal went out into the newly expanded multi-universe.

“All right, Admiral Everett, I hope you didn't leave your phone off the hook.”

 

14

BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

The New York City police captain wore civilian clothing as he always did when meeting with his financial partners. The large man was sitting in the back room of Kellum's bakery, a shop that used to be owned by his family in what seemed like a million lifetimes ago. Now it belonged to the man he was there to meet. The precinct captain was in serious debt to the man known around legitimate police officers as the “Bolshevik.” Alexi Doshnikov had originally agreed to finance a failing bakery in a run-down section of Brooklyn—a bakery whose livelihood was threatened not by economic downturn, but by its resurgence. The fashion was now to buy, renovate, and then sell to the highest bidder for homes and businesses that once made Brooklyn work. It had taken an unsavory alliance for Captain Kellum's family to keep their business. An alliance with the Butcher, and the bill was coming due big time. The captain had managed to save his family from being run out of their home and business, but the cost of that was his soul.

He poured himself a glass of cold milk and then sat and waited by the stainless-steel table. As he did he removed the thirty-eight snub-nosed revolver from his ankle holster and then placed it on the shiny tabletop. He sipped his milk and waited.

He heard the back door open and the footsteps approach from behind him. He was tempted to finger the loaded weapon on the gleaming tabletop but instead took another swallow of cold milk and waited.

“It seems you caused my brothers in blue in Manhattan to work a little overtime tonight in the East River,” Kellum said as he placed the glass down. He heard the refrigerator open and then close. The man known as Mr. Jones sat next to the captain and poured himself a glass of milk. He held the glass up in a toast and then drank deeply. The Russian smiled and smacked his lips.

“There were times a few years back something as simple as a cold glass of milk was nearly impossible for my family to grasp. Everything our region had in dairy was sent straight to Moscow and the rich bastards that ran things back then. We were lucky if we were allowed to keep the cow manure from the very dairy herds we tended to night and day.” He drank again and watched the police captain. He set the glass down.

“We all have our hard-luck tales. It was no picnic growing up here either. Our stories aren't that much different.”

The Russian eyed Kellum and then smiled. “Someday I will explain to you the difference, my friend.”

Kellum didn't care for the smile.

“Now, as to the aerial mishap you mentioned with that business helicopter, tragic.”

Kellum watched the man closely, knowing he had ordered the assassinations of the entire board of directors for Mendelsohn's company. However, he didn't want the mobster to know just how much of this he really knew or was guessing at—it wasn't healthy. He decided he would leave it alone.

The captain reached into his breast pocket and brought out a small notebook and opened it. “Your four missing men? Well, we just found two of them. They were fished out of the water near Coney Island two hours ago. Single tap to the head for each. I suspect we will find the other two in the same mint condition.”

Doshnikov capped the bottle of milk and then looked Kellum over. He shrugged his shoulders. “No loss. If they were foolish enough to get taken out by the federal authorities, they're not meant to be in my employ.”

“Well, there is a funny little wrinkle there on two fronts, Mr. Jones,” Kellum said as he thumbed through a few pages from his notes. “It seems whoever is occupying those buildings in the navy yard are not the federal authorities. I can't get one single thread on who and why they are there. But I have been told by my superiors that it is none of my concern. The second matter is that you may have a sort of resurgence on your hands.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” the Russian asked, bemused.

“One of my C.I.'s in the neighborhood says the buzz on the streets is that your men were taken out not by these strangers in the navy yard, but by the Gambinos. And that, my friend, means you have a growing problem if they moved on your men, for whatever reason. I would say they showed very little respect.” The police captain closed his small notepad and raised the glass of milk to his lips and made a silent, but mockingly irritating return toast.

“Gambinos.” The Russian mobster smirked, his disdain for the Italians showing clearly on his face. “Your confidential informant should have told you that the Gambinos and all of those old men that call themselves the mob are nothing but ghosts from the past. Tales to scare little children at night.” He eyed the captain as he finished his glass of milk. His look was one of fury for the briefest of moments, and then the facial features relaxed once more and he smirked. “Please, you know as well as I do that all the New York families are dying off one old man at a time and the men who will replace them are morons.” He smiled and slapped the captain on the shoulder. “Besides, with what I have been working on the Gambinos can have Brooklyn after tonight. I'll be moving on to far greener pastures, as the Cossacks used to say.”

Kellum just raised his brows. “And just how many people will be killed to get you to those greener pastures, comrade?”

The Russian laughed at the captain's little barb. “Possibly just a few of those people your police force cannot identify now occupying those buildings at the navy yard, maybe a few others, but then again the latter of those have died before, or at least should have … so no great loss.”

Kellum saw that the man was wild-eyed with some scheme that seemed to make him oblivious to the dangerous situation he had entered into with the Gambino family and whoever those people were that had taken over the Brooklyn Navy Yard.

“Now about this request of yours, I don't—”

“It was not a request.”

The smile was gone and the black eyes told Captain Kellum that the man was truly on the edge of sanity.

“Your order for me and my men to seal off that end of the navy yard from all observers, well, it will all depend on—”

“You. It's that simple. At two a.m. not one person is to be allowed into the navy yard. Interference for three uninterrupted hours. No one in, or out.”

“Look, I can't control the damn fire department, the federal authorities, or whoever those people are who have credentials that would scare Comrade Stalin.”

“Three hours and the building and the business you are now sitting in is yours for your family to do with as they please. Your obligation to my organization will be complete as will your loan debt. All cleared for a mere three hours of work. Not even Comrade Stalin could be so generous.”

Kellum heard what he said but could not believe it. Russians never allowed any agreement to lapse. That was the difference with the Russians over the American mob—there was truly no getting out from under their dirty thumbs.

“Three hours. I can give you that.”

“Then I can give you your family's livelihood back with a significant real estate investment to boot.”

Kellum stood and buttoned his sport coat and retrieved the pistol from where it had been prominently displayed. “Just what in the hell is so important about three hours?” he asked as he turned to face the smaller man.

The Russian smiled again and then stopped at the back door. Amid the smell of baked bread and muffins, he said, “That's the time it will take for me to become the richest man in the world—legitimately. Imagine, me, legitimate.” He laughed and then left.

Kellum had a bad taste in his mouth as he took a deep breath and then suddenly flung his empty milk glass against the door as it closed. It was then that the police captain swore that if he could he would find some way to go back in time and change how he saved his family business.

But he knew there was no such thing as a time machine, much to his regret.

BROOKLYN NAVY YARD

As Jason Ryan and Will Mendenhall secured the electric rolling supply trailer that would accompany the team into the doorway, Ryan turned and looked at Mendenhall. He sat heavily on a large plastic crate that contained a lasing system invented to protect a perimeter in the field.

“I'm sorry, I guess I screwed not only me, but you in the process.”

Mendenhall placed a rolled tent onto the small trailer and then sighed. Mendenhall sat down heavily next to Ryan.

“Look, you did nothing that Jack or Carl wouldn't have done. How many times would the authorities have thrown both of those nut jobs into jail for the things they've pulled off?” Mendenhall slapped Ryan on the back. “No, you got the job done and that's just what the colonel looks for.”

“Then why would—”

“Because I need you two here. The odds against us pulling this H. G. Wells crap off is just about a billion to one and I don't care what Albert Einstein Mendelsohn in there says.”

Both men turned and saw Collins as he stood in the shadows watching them. He finally stepped into the light with a small case and placed it on the trailer. Ryan stood and faced his commander. Mendenhall pursed his lips and waited.

“Then why are you even attempting it?” Ryan asked, braving another confrontation.

“Why did you allow Charlie in on Morales's prison extraction?” Jack leaned against the trailer and looked up into the foggy night. “Why did you go back after Will in Chato's Crawl when you knew the Destroyer was in those tunnels? Hell, for that matter, why didn't you return to naval aviation after the board of inquiry cleared you in the incident over the Pacific?”

“Because Will and Charlie are friends; I know what they can do. As for naval aviation, I found out I care for the people at Group and didn't want to leave.”

Jack smiled and looked at Ryan and Mendenhall. “That is why I'm going. I have a friend out there somewhere who's lost and I intend to try to bring him home. No matter how crappy the odds.”

“Then why are you pissed at me?” Ryan asked, wanting the truth.

“Your performance during the prison break was outstanding. You took the people you trusted, and as things do with good people, it worked out. I wasn't mad at you, I was mad at me because I saw myself in you and our shortcomings. We truly respect, admire, and trust the friends we have around us and that is why I am going after Carl. I sat back and allowed others to seal his fate. The fate he encountered doing what he did when any one of a thousand men could have done the same. When you take this department over, and someday you will because I saw what you are capable of, you'll know what you have to do at the most horrific of times—protect the people under you. I don't intend to lose one more person on my watch if I can at all help it. So, you stay, I go.”

“But you just said that friendship—”

“You stay, I go. Someday you'll understand, Jason, believe me.” He smiled and then slapped Mendenhall on the back on his way by. “I figure if the worst happens, I could be leaving the department in far less capable hands than yours and Will's.”

The two watched Jack vanish into the fog. “I absolutely hate his object lessons.”

Will Mendenhall had to agree.

*   *   *

On the large monitor situated above the dimensional collider, as Jenks liked calling the doorway, was a strange graphic supplied by Europa and Morales. It was a multiplaned series of levels. They undulated, changed positions, and then re-formed. In between these colored planes a single line of light emerged, vanished, and then appeared on another multicolored level. Morales had explained that each line represented what Europa was reading as dimensional planes. She was able to track the light source as it split among different forms of atoms that made up the universe. Differing atomic structure that could only be seen by Europa and her wide sweeping band of sound waves. The signal reached out, penetrated, and then wormed into another level searching for its sister signal on the escape pod. The doorway had been searching and listening for the better part of two hours with no return bounce of the pulsating rescue beacon.

“Hell, I don't know,” Jenks said louder than he wanted to. The noise of the open doorway made communication without headsets impossible. He found it hard to communicate with Virginia sitting right next to him. “Morales and that damnable computer are speaking a language never taught at MIT or the navy. Give a call out to Stephen Hawking or Einstein, maybe they can explain this differing planes of existence crap. I sure as hell can't. I see a bunch of lines and then another bunch of lines and I only have Europa's calculations that it's even feasible for us to locate that beacon.”