Written in Time (57 page)

“Within twelve hours’ time, sir, I can field five thousand to six thousand men with light equipment, some heavy artillery, etcetera, and then whatever travel time should be required to reach the battle site.”
 

“Clarence. With your background in military electronics, and everything we can possibly steal from Lakewood’s time-transfer base, do you think you could rig up the means by which to track their surface vehicles—the tanks—so that we can pinpoint the location of their intended firepower demonstration?”
 

“Probably. If we can find or rig some balloons for high altitude aerial observation or get one of those jump jets into the air under our control. But, remember, once we hit the time-transfer base, they’ll radio their people and alert them.”
 

“I can deal with that. David. Can you liaise with Mr. Roosevelt? We’ll need a half-dozen men who can be trained so well on late-twentieth-century small arms that they can duplicate that training as required, when and if additional weapons become available.”
 

“We’re going to equip a commando force. What are we sending them against, Dad?” David asked.
 

“If Mr. Roosevelt is willing to risk it, I’ll want those six men—well-equipped and ready to die if it comes to that—to accompany me, and Alan also, into 1996. We’ll attempt to destroy Lakewood’s abilities to time-transfer. If we succeed, Alan will stay behind in 1996 and fuck with Lakewood’s technology after we are returned to 1900. Then, win or lose at the site of the firepower demonstration, Kaminsky’s people and equipment will be trapped here in their objective past. Their fighter aircraft will run out of jet fuel and their tanks will run out of diesel. They’ll run out of ammo for their weapons. Eventually. However long it takes or hard it is, their supply lines will have been cut and they’ll lose.”
 

Jack lit another of his precious cigarettes. “And, Mr. Roosevelt, you should find it advisable to destroy all the equipment from the future. And you may find it advisable, after this is over and if we win, to quietly, clandestinely, get Mr. McKinley to order that all of us—and, I mean all of us, men and women—should be terminated. But, sir, should the government find such a course of action to be in the nation’s best interests, be advised that anyone who comes after my family should be prepared to die as long as I have sufficient breath in my body to enable me to pull a trigger. You may want to mention that to Mr. McKinley, as well, sir.
 

“And now,” Jack said, raising his voice, putting a smile on his face that would not be seen in the all-consuming darkness, “I suggest that we might be making a small contribution to linguistic history tonight. We may actually be coining a phrase to become closely associated with the automobile: ‘Don’t spare the horses.’ Let’s ride, gentlemen.”
 

And Jack dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, bent low over its neck and rode as if the very Devil were chasing him. But, instead, he pursued a demon of destruction, and it was far more threatening.
 

There were several motor homes at the time-transfer base, of varying degrees of luxury. Bethany’s, of course, was the most luxurious. It had been time-transferred into the past for her use and would remain in 1900 to accommodate her needs when necessity demanded business trips between the two epochs.
 

Within the heavily customized motor home—wellfurnished with every modern convenience, well-stocked with life’s everyday luxuries, spacious with “bump-outs” on both sides—there were two particularly large walk-in closets, each filled almost to overflowing with period costumes. As a woman in 1900, if she wore her usual business attire from 1996—slacks, short skirts, etc.—she would be seen as a freak. Calling one of her political contacts in Hollywood—they’d met at a fundraiser for the seated President—she’d gotten him to do up a full wardrobe for her, his promptness not unexpected when she’d added that she didn’t give a damn what it cost, so long as everything was beautiful, fit perfectly and was in her hands within a matter of days. She’d e-mailed him all the measurements he’d requested, and his greed had seen to the scheduling details.
 

It was no wonder to her that women had not progressed farther in business or politics by 1900; it took too damned long to get dressed to do anything. There was layer upon layer of undergarments. She’d worn corsets, but not like these and only for fun with some guy who got turned on by the sight of one.
 

Bethany twirled in front of one of the sets of mirrored closet doors. Yes, she looked beautiful, but the novelty of costuming herself for some goofy masquerade would wear thin very quickly. Gathering her voluminous skirts, she exited the motor home, knowing that she was not only stepping into the greatest business deal in human history, but one that would secure her standing as the most powerful person—male or female—of all time.
 

Using the store in Atlas because of its proximity to the telegraph line, and taking young Bobby Lorkin partially into their confidence, they established a base of operations. Bobby would race off to the telegraph office with a flurry of wires from Mr. Roosevelt, only to come running back with a flurry of responses not long afterward. The first return telegraph was from President McKinley:
 

“Governor Roosevelt STOP If I did not trust your senses, sir, I would think this madness STOP Wreckage of flying machine recovered and hidden STOP Track restored STOP I have no choice but to believe situation as dire as described STOP Full support to your efforts at your disposal STOP Second Platoon Company B Seventh Cavalry under command of Lieutenant Easley arrives Atlas approximately midnight tonight STOP Reinforcements await your discretion STOP McKinley”
 

***

David, upon hearing Teddy Roosevelt’s reading of the wire, announced, “They were the guys with Custer, weren’t they, the ones who were so successful against the Indians?”
 

Roosevelt had cleared his throat, ignored David’s sarcasm and dictated a response to Bobby. Slapping his hat over his reddish-blond curls, Bobby took off like a shot, running back to the telegraph office.
 

“We’ll need fresh remounts for this Lieutenant Easley’s troopers,” Roosevelt declared, then set about writing more wires.
 

Clarence enlisted the aid of Atlas’s two deputy city marshals in finding the horses that would be needed for the arriving Second Platoon B Company of the Seventh, while Ellen recruited the deputy marshals’ wives to get some of the other townswomen to have copious amounts of hot food and hot coffee prepared for the soldiers’ anticipated midnight arrival.
 

By seven p.m., Theodore Roosevelt was seated on a stool at the head of the store’s long main counter, Jack, Ellen, David, Lizzie and Clarence flanking him. All was, Jack hoped, in readiness for the first stage of their operation. “It seems readily apparent,” Roosevelt began, picking up a mug of steaming black coffee, “that the key to this venture’s hoped for success comes in three parts. First, we must seize control of what you all refer to as the time-transfer base, after that locating precisely where the weapons demonstration for the various foreign-legation members will take place. Lastly, we must utilize the time-transfer device or system or whatever the blazes it is in order to go into the future.” At that, Roosevelt shook his head, removing his glasses as he did so and covering his face with his other hand. Without looking at anyone, Roosevelt inquired, “Where might they plan to hold this showing of their wares? Are there any ideas?”
 

“They’ll want someplace really deserted,” Clarence volunteered. “I’ve seen firepower demonstrations when I was in the Air Force.”
 

“Air Force?” Roosevelt repeated, looking up.
 

“It started out as part of the Army, but after World War Two—”
 

“Clarence!” Jack cautioned his nephew. “Future history, remember?”
 

“Yeah, right. Anyway, the Air Force is like the Army, but uses airplanes more than the Army does.” Clarence looked at Jack. “Okay?”
 

Jack shrugged, and Clarence continued. “Anyway, what was I saying?”
 

“About firepower demonstrations,” David supplied.
 

“Right. Firepower demonstrations are extremely, extremely noisy. Anyone within any reasonable distance— miles in open flatlands—would be able to hear what was going on. And the airplanes will be visible from great distances away if they take any altitude, which they probably will in order to dramatize the effect of swooping in on a target. The explosions from their missiles will be another consideration.”
 

“Missiles?” Mr. Roosevelt asked.
 

Clarence looked at Jack. Jack told Theodore Roosevelt, “They’re rockets, maybe a few feet long, not that different from what you might see on the Fourth of July or what has been used in various wars throughout recent history.
 

Except they’re sturdier, fly very fast, can travel great distances and strike targets with great accuracy. And the forward portion of the missile has some sort of warhead, containing sophisticated conventional explosives. There are other, worse things the warheads can contain. Hopefully, not even Lakewood Industries would contemplate loosing any of that stuff in an era before antibiotics.”
 

“Thank you for creeping us out, Jack,” Ellen declared.
 

Jack noticed the worried eyes below Mr. Roosevelt’s tightly knit brow. Before Jack could speak, Ellen told Teddy Roosevelt, “In our time, some unscrupulous people have devised ways in which to kill or disable enemy combatants or civilians with chemicals and with diseases. Such substances can be placed in the warheads of the missiles Jack and Clarence spoke about. But if Lakewood released such chemicals or diseases in this time period, before modern medicine developed to the point of being able to counteract or defeat such substances, the death rate would be beyond comprehension.”
 

Jack suddenly shivered, an involuntary paroxysm, the thought striking him that perhaps all of their efforts were in vain, that this had happened before and the “good guys” had lost. Had/would the influenza epidemic which followed/would follow World War One been/be the work of Lakewood Industries? Jack shook off the notion as best he could. There had been/would be millions of deaths. He lit a cigarette.
 

“In the future,” Jack began, picking up the thread of Roosevelt’s earlier question, “the United States government selected extremely remote locations for top-secret projects. Nevada—south, out in the desert—was a favorite spot. The Lakewood people will think along the same lines, be conditioned to remote areas of Nevada or New Mexico for something like this. And New Mexico is just a lot greater distance than they need to travel by ground, and offers more potential for inadvertent discovery. They’ll probably take their dog and pony show south of here, into the desert. There’s a possible location I’ll show you on the map. It’s about eighty miles north of a little Nevada town that may not even exist yet.”
 

“One question for you, sir, before any of that, for you or for any of you. Clarence mentioned World War Two. There has yet to be any World War in the modern age, encompassing the modern world.” Theodore Roosevelt looked at once saddened and resolute, doubtlessly in anticipation of the answer he would be given.
 

Jack let out a long breath, realizing that it sounded like a sigh; perhaps it was. “I can’t tell you, sir.”
 

“Is it, somehow, with Russia? Is that behind the references to the origin of these tanks and aeroplanes? Were these seized from some future world battlefield?”
 

“I can tell you that, sir,” Jack offered. “As far ahead in the future as is our origin, open warfare between the United States and Russia was/will be successfully avoided. As to the other thing, suffice it to say that, in the end of both World Wars to come, the forces of democracy, the forces of good, the forces of human decency largely triumphed. But of course, what transpires in these next hours might change all of that, which is why we can’t let it happen.”
 

“You would have made a fine politician, Jack, with answers like that; but, I suppose they’ll have to do.”
 

“Yes, sir, I suppose they will,” Jack agreed . . .
 

As in so many films, as the Seventh rode in a column of twos down the main street of Atlas, Nevada, there was the thrumming of hooves, the rattling of spurs and the creaking of tack. Clarence could almost imagine hearing the strains of “Gary Owen.” As the officer in command dismounted, there was the creak of leather. And, as if somehow the youngish lieutenant—one bar, only—had seen those classic films, he saluted Governor Roosevelt, then Jack, then saluted Ellen and made a curt bow. “Second Platoon, Company B, Seventh United States Cavalry reporting as ordered, Colonel Roosevelt. Allow me to present myself, sir, and to you, ma’am, as well. I am Second Lieutenant Warren P. Easley. Is there someplace where the horses might be taken to be fed and watered and my men might take a well-deserved respite?”
 

Roosevelt answered. “There’s a large corral down the street by the livery stable. Fresh remounts are awaiting you there. This lovely lady, in conjunction with the women of the town, has organized a fine repast for you and your men. Then, I’m afraid, in order to take advantage of the darkness, as our Indian friends might, it will be necessary to remount and be on our way in comparatively short order.” Roosevelt drew his watch from the pocket of his vest. “Will forty-five minutes be adequate to your needs, Lieutenant?”
 

“Most adequate, Colonel Roosevelt. And, now, sir, if you will excuse me, I must see to certain matters concerning my troop.” Again Lieutenant Easley saluted, bowed slightly to Ellen, then began issuing orders to his appropriately grizzled-looking platoon sergeant, the man looking for all the world like a central-casting version of a youthful Victor McLaglen as he had appeared in Gunga Din.