“You fell for that one,” Land said. “Now I’m in the mood for breakfast.”
“Sacre bleu!” moaned Verne, from the floor. “I beg you, do not mention food!”
They took their leave of Jean Lafitte and rowed out to the Valkyrie, which sailed on the morning tide. In the early morning sun, with the wind blowing through their hair and the salty sea spray misting in over the decks, they all felt relaxed and invigorated. It was hard to imagine that in a short time, they would be involved in the most dangerous conflict of their careers.
Drakov was strangely silent as he stood by the helmsman, his gaze on the horizon. There was an air of tense anticipation among his crew.
“It’s almost as if they know there’s going to be a fight,” Lucas said softly to Finn as they stood on deck.
“You think they’re onto it?” said Finn.
“I don’t know,” said Lucas. “I sure as hell hope not. We need the advantage of surprise.”
“Maybe it’s just the thought of returning to the base,” said Andre. “If they know Drakov is ready to put whatever plan he’s made into action, that could account for it.”
“I’d feel a whole lot better if we had our warp discs,” Finn said.
“We’ll have to try to get some,” Lucas said. “Maybe Martingale can help. If not, we’ll have to take them from Drakov’s men.”
“We may not get that chance,” said Andre.
“I just wish we didn’t have to depend on Martingale to get the signal out,” said Finn. “Are you sure he’s straight on the fugue sequence program?”
“I showed him as best I could,” said Lucas. “He’ll be all right. He’s a pro.”
“If something goes wrong and he winds up in the dead zone, what happens then?” said Andre.
“Then nothing’s changed,” said Lucas. “It will still be up to us, just as it was in the beginning. One of us will have to try and get out to signal Forrester. The others will have to stay and destroy the sub. It will still leave a mess, but the sub has to be destroyed, no matter what. All Martingale and Dr. Darkness can do is improve our odds. We’ve still got to get the job done.”
“What about Verne and Land?” said Andre.
Lucas sighed. “We protect them, if we can. If not, well, they’ll just have to fend for themselves.”
When they were well out of sight of land, Drakov signaled the Nautilus. Within a short time, they saw its dark bulk rise up out of the waves, dwarfing the small ship they were on. Verne, who had shrugged off most of the effects of his hangover with the help of the tangy sea air, had joined them at the railing and he gasped as he saw the Nautilus rise.
“I have never seen her surface before!” he said. “What an incredible sight! She breaks the surface of the water like an island rising from beneath the waves. Small wonder sailors took her for a sea monster. She looks both terrifying and majestic.”
As the lines were tossed, bringing the schooner and the submarine closer together, men came up behind them, two for each of them, one on each side. They were grasped firmly while others, standing before them, covered them with pistols. This time, they were not black powder weapons or revolvers. These were lasers.
“Henceforth,” said Drakov, coining up to them, “you will be kept under constant guard. I shall not make the mistake Falcon made in underestimating the three of you. You shall be separated, from Verne and Land as well as from each other. Two men will remain with you at all times. Two more will serve to reinforce the first two. I know you had planned to search my cabin for the warp discs. Land told me. Perhaps he is sincere in wishing to join me. Perhaps it is a plot you hatched. In either case, I will not trust him quite yet. He will be watched, as well. If all goes according to plan, and I see no reason why it should not, you will all come away from this unharmed.”
“Just what is-” Lucas began, but Drakov interrupted him.
“No questions, Mr. Priest. T-Day is approaching. I have no more time for pleasantries nor for being a gracious, tolerant host. Take them below.”
They were escorted down into the submarine and immediately separated. The orders given to their guards were clear. They were not to be let out of sight even for a moment, not even while going to the head. The guards would say nothing to them and they kept well apart, both holding lasers at the ready, so that if one was jumped, the other could fire, killing his shipmate if need be. Drakov had not exaggerated. He was taking no chances whatsoever.
Each of them, in their separate areas of the ship, kept thinking the same thing. Whether Martingale could bring help or not, the missiles must not be fired. There was only one way to guarantee that. Kill Drakov and destroy the sub. There were three against more than a hundred and that number would grow sharply when they reached the secret base in the volcano off New Guinea. And they could not act, even if they were able to, before they reached that base. For the present, there was nothing to do but wait.
They did not have to wait for long. Soon after they had submerged, the transition signal sounded throughout the submarine. They each felt the effects of temporal teleportation as the mammoth sub translocated to another time. Lucas bit his lower lip and stared at his two guards, who returned his gaze unblinking, both their lasers pointed directly at his midsection.
Whatever happens, Lucas thought, it won’t be long now.
Moses Forrester sat in a straight-backed chair behind a small table on the raised stage of the briefing room on the sixty-third floor of the Temporal Army Corps Headquarters building at Pendleton Base. On the table before him was a steaming mug of coffee, which was periodically freshened by his orderly. Beside the coffee mug was an ashtray into which he tossed his wooden matches, an archaic affectation, and tapped out his pipe. He smoked continually and, to pass the time, watched the terminal before him, which he had switched to outdoor scan.
The cameras showed him different views of the Departure Station sixty-three stories below. There was no sound, for he wanted none, but he could imagine the sounds out there. It was part of the world he lived in every day. Down there in the Departure Station, men and women of the Temporal Army Corps congregated in groups in the center of the giant plaza as ground shuttles zipped through the crowds, carrying the supplies and personnel to their clockout points. Many soldiers sat in the bars which ringed the plaza, enjoying a last drink or two before being clocked out to their missions. Overhead, skimmers wound their way through the maze of pedestrian spans which connected the various buildings of the base. A computer-generated voice announced departure codes and grid designations for the soldiers to report to.
Code Yellow 38, Grid 600. To the Spanish-American War. Code Green 67, Grid 515. To an arbitration action in Korea. Code Indigo 14, Grid 227. Destination-the Asteroid Belt in the 24th century, scene of the last modern, non-temporal war.
Soon it would change. The departure grids would be replaced by warp discs, but meanwhile, the new technology had not reached the regular corps yet. Only the First Division had them. Only the temporal adjustment teams and a group of renegade time pirates led by Forrester’s own son.
The soldiers sitting before him in the briefing room were very different from the regular troops assigned to arbitration conflicts, though they had all come from those ranks. Unlike those outside in the plaza, who were dressed either in disposable green transit fatigues or in period costumes-Cossacks, Mongols, Waffen SS, Rainbow Division, Vikings, Celtic knights-the commandos in the briefing room were dressed for action in blue battle suits woven from nysteel, lightweight, flexible one-piece garments that would deflect most ammunition but not, they all knew only too well, laser beams or plasma from an auto-pulser. All the commandos had their equipment at their sides, weapons and floater-paks, ready to be donned in an instant. Each had programmed his or her warp discs with the partial coordinates for the attack. They lacked only the final coding for the sequence-the precise time.