“Now?”
“Now,” Weaver said, not even looking up. “We’re going to Disney World.”
The staff duty officer had been reluctant to part with a Humvee and driver but when Weaver pointed out that he was going to be a making a report to the President in the morning, not to mention looking for where the Titcher might break through next, things got remarkably easier. The yawning driver took them down the almost deserted Greenway until it connected to Interstate 4 then turned south to County Road 535. More turns led to a guard-shack manned by a young guard in a blue uniform and a nylon jacket sporting an embroidered mouse that was world famous.
“Can I help you?” the guard said, looking at the driver of the Humvee. The only one available at that time of night was a recon Humvee that still had a 40mm grenade launcher mounted.
“Yes,” Weaver said, leaning over the driver. “Could you direct me to Bear Island Road?”
“Sir, this is a restricted area,” the guard said. “I understand that you think you need to enter here but we’re considered a top target of terrorism. Nobody gets in without a pass that has to be preapproved by the security office. I don’t see a pass. No pass, no entry.”
“Too bad,” Weaver said with a smile. “My orders from the national security advisor and the gun on the top of this thing, not to mention the very pissed off and sleepy SEAL in the back means I can go anywhere. Now, could you direct me to Bear Island Road?”
Chief Miller had just laid his head down for the first time in two days when he’d felt somebody kicking his boot.
“Come on, Miller, the game’s afoot,” Weaver had said, tossing him his M-4.
“What now?” Miller said, standing up. He was almost instantly awake but that didn’t mean he was rested. He looked at his watch and groaned. “Jesus, I just got off the horn to SOCOM an hour ago!”
“You’re a SEAL? You’re complaining about a little sleep? Besides, how long were you out in Shands?”
“What?” Miller asked. “UNCONSCIOUSNESS does not COUNT.”
“Whatever, come on…”
So he was in no mood to be held up by some rent-a-cop. And he’d been waiting most of his adult life for a moment like this.
“Son,” he said, popping his head up through the gunner’s hatch and training the MK-19 until it was pointed vaguely at the guard. “We’re in no mood for Mickey Mouse. Get out of the road.”
“Where are we and why are we here?” Miller asked as the Hummer pulled to a stop on a stretch of deserted road. There was something that looked like a small factory just down the road and he could see lights and what looked like the top of Cinderella’s castle off to the left. To the right was a drainage ditch half filled with water and then dense forest.
“I think I know where another boson settled,” Weaver said, climbing out of the back of the Hummer and opening the hatch. “I need to get some readings. Help me with this.”
“This” was a box about a meter square and a half meter high. There were also two car batteries to be lugged.
“We need more people,” Miller said, lifting one end of the box. It wasn’t all that heavy but it was bulky as hell. “Where are we going with it?”
“That way,” Weaver answered, looking at a hand-held GPS and pointing into the woods. As he did a car made a screeching turn at the end of the road and came barreling down, yellow lights flashing. It slammed to a stop and two more security guards got out, one of them fingering his side arm.
“If you put your hand on that again, I’ll feed it to you,” Miller growled, flipping the M-4 up to a hip-shot position.
“What’s going on here?” the driver said, coming around the car. When he saw the SEAL pointing an M-4 in his general direction he stopped and raised his hands. “Sir?”
“I think there’s a boson over in those woods,” Weaver answered. “Thanks for showing up. We needed some more help.”
With the two security guards carrying the box and Weaver and the national guardsman carrying the batteries and Chief Miller following along, his rifle in no way pointed at the two guards, they managed to get the material across the drainage ditch and into the woods.
“About seventy-five yards that way and we’ll take our first reading,” Weaver said, pointing slightly to the right.
The woods were pine with palmetto undergrowth and hard going. The only light was the tac-light Miller had attached to his M-4 and it was great for illuminating about a one-meter patch but otherwise useless. The guards continually stumbled over the low, spiky, palmettos, occasionally letting out a yelp as one of the fronds pierced their pants.
“Can I ask a question?” the driver said, gasping. The box was a bitch to carry though a swamp and over palmettos.
“Sure,” Weaver answered. He looked at his GPS again and stopped. “This’ll do. Try to find a flat spot.”
The palmettos were close growing but there were occasional open spots and the guards gratefully lowered the box onto one of them, wincing and grabbing at their hands that had been cut by the thin handles.
“What in the hell is a boson?” the driver said, sniffing. “Do you smell something?”
“It’s what’s causing the gates,” Weaver replied. There were levelers on the bottom of the box and he was busy trying to get it level. “This is a muon detector. They should be emitting muons and we should be able to detect them within about a hundred meters.”
“Doc,” the SEAL said.
“There are two coated plastic plates inside. When the muons hit the plates they cause Cherenkov radiation, which emits a flash of light. Light sensors record the flash and with the two plates we can get a reading on which direction they’re coming from. That way we can figure out which way the boson is and move it around until we find it. The particle itself will probably be invisible to the naked eye…”
“Doc,” Miller repeated, hoarsely.
“But we’ll know where the boson settled. And from that we can extrapolate where more gates might open…”
“Doc!”
“What?” Weaver said, looking up as he realized nobody was listening.
No more than twenty feet away a large, round mirror was reflecting the lights from Cinderella’s castle.
“The planet on the far side has a reducing atmosphere and what looks like an F class sun.”
The military responded even faster now that there was an SOP for such things. In no more than two hours secure communications and a string of tents and trailers were set up along Bear Island Road and the national security advisor, rubbing sleep from her eyes, was shaking her head at the physicist’s latest report.
“No signs of life at all; it might as well be the primordial Earth. Very low oxygen levels, high levels of ammonia, chlorine, methane and carbon dioxide. Rocky ground, very dry. Slight overpressure so we’re getting a fair amount of their atmosphere leaking through.”
“No signs of the Titcher?” the NSA asked.
“No,” Weaver said. “From what Nyarowlll told me the planet would be of little interest to the Titcher. But what I don’t understand is why a gate opened at all. I’ve come up with a list of GPS sites and the list is going out to local police for investigation. But if this gate is open, it means most, or at least many, of them are going to be open. This explains the magma pile in Georgia, at least.”
“Do you think it’s the same planet?” the Homeland Security Director asked. “I’ve seen stuff about the early Earth, lots of lava…”
“Those shows are… slightly overdramatized,” Weaver said, carefully. “At the point of advancement of the planet on the far side crustal formation seems to be complete and we’d expect similar tectonic activity to earth or significantly reduced. This is going to be a good opportunity to find out which.”