Nine Eleven Read online

  Nine Eleven

  TIME PATROL

  BOB MAYER

  Dedication

  To the passengers of Flight 93

  “These are the times that try men’s souls.”

  — Thomas Paine in The American Crisis

  The Time Patrol

  There once was a place called Atlantis. Ten thousand years ago, it was attacked by a force known only as the Shadow, on the same day over the course of six years. The last attack led to Atlantis being obliterated to the point where it is just a legend.

  There are many Earth timelines. The Shadow comes from one of those alternate timelines (or perhaps more than one). It is attacking our timeline by punching bubbles into our past that can last no more than twenty-four hours. In each bubble, the Shadow is trying to change our history and cause a time ripple.

  By itself, a single time ripple can be dealt with, corrected, and absorbed. But a significant time ripple that is unchecked can become a Cascade. Six Cascades can combine to become a Time Tsunami.

  That would be the end of our timeline and our existence.

  To achieve its goal, the Shadow attacks six points in time simultaneously, the same date in different years.

  The Time Patrol’s job is to keep our timeline intact.

  The Time Patrol sends an agent back to each of those six dates to keep history the same.

  This is one of those dates: 11 September.

  For more on the Time Patrol, its mission, its Agents, the Shadow, previous missions, and the worlds that are involved, please journey into: www.bobmayer.com

  Where The Time Patrol Ended Up This Particular Day: 11 September

  “So little of what could happen does happen.”

  — Salvador Dali

  Barents Sea, 11 September 2001 A.D.

  THE WORLD’S LARGEST PLANE carried the most powerful bomb ever created by mankind. What could go wrong?

  Eagle looked down at the control panel and realized there was no computer display receiving external data and no GPS showing his location. The radio direction finder was dead. The radar screen was an unintelligible haze. There was just static in the audio from the helmet. Eagle knew he was somewhere over the Barents Sea, but he had no clue exactly where. From what was displayed in front of him, there was no way to find out.

  The display read 13:46 GMT, 11 September 2001. It wormed in Eagle’s prodigious memory, never mind Edith’s download, triggering memories.

  It is 2001 A.D. The world’s population is 6,165,219,247. Roughly sixty percent live in Asia, thirteen percent in Africa, twelve percent in Europe, eight and a half percent in Latin America, and five and a half percent in North America. Point zero-zero-five percent live in Oceania. Off Earth, the first long-term crew in the International Space Station has already completed Expedition 1, lasting from November 2000 until March 2001, and containing three people. The next crew also consists only of three humans; on 10 September, Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld says 2.3 trillion in Pentagon spending can’t be accounted for, and that the Pentagon is the biggest threat to America; Stanley Kramer, director of films such as On the Beach, High Noon, and Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner dies; the Congressional Budget Office predicts a surplus of 5.6 trillion dollars for the next ten years; the iPod is released.

  At this moment, American Airlines Flight 11 is flying into the North Tower of the World Trade Center, eight time zones east of Eagle’s location.

  Staten Island, Colony of New York, 11 September 1776 A.D.

  “THAT FATE IS CLOTHO,” Thyia said. “She spins the thread of life.”

  “Yes,” Doc said. “Appears we have the same mythology. Even the same names for things. Clotho also has influence on decision-making. Is that why she was in Philadelphia? To see what decision the Committee of Five made? I don’t—”

  Thyia held up a hand, silencing him. She pulled a short bow out from under her cloak then notched an arrow. The hair on the back of Doc’s neck tingled, and the temperature in the room suddenly dropped a couple of degrees.

  Thyia focused on the door at the top of the staircase, her bow at the ready.

  There was no noise, no indication of anyone moving, nothing other than vague feelings to indicate there was someone else in the house.

  There was someone else in the house. Doc was certain of it. He drew his dagger, feeling useless, knowing he stood little chance if it were a Legion.

  It is 1776 A.D. The world’s population is slightly over 900 million, with only 3.6 million living in the United States; Patriots capture Dorchester Heights overlooking Boston; A hurricane strikes Guadeloupe, killing over 6,000; Rhode Island becomes the first colony to renounce allegiance to King George III; George Washington loses the battle of Long Island and retreats to Manhattan; Thomas Paine, as part of Washington’s army, publishes The American Crisis; The Committee of Five is established to write a Declaration of Independence; the first Hessian mercenaries arrive, landing on Staten Island.

  All was still for long seconds, then Thyia slowly released her draw.

  Doc waited, not sure what was happening, but the feeling was gone.

  Thyia slid the arrow back into the quiver inside her cloak, then the bow disappeared there also.

  Believing it was finally safe, Doc asked, “What was that?”

  “A young girl,” Thyia murmured. She sat back down.

  “Where’d she go?” Doc was confused.

  “Nowhere,” Thyia said. “She’ll be here until he comes, and then they will both be forever dead.”

  “Who?”

  Thyia sighed. “The girl who was killed here.”

  Some things change; some don’t.

  Mountain Meadows, 11 September 1857 A.D.

  MOMS INSTINCTIVELY BROUGHT up her left forearm in a high block, stopping the hatchet coming toward her skull. The blow staggered both her and the attacker, but with his other hand, he grabbed the barrel of her musket and tried to take it from her. Moms jerked back, and they both lost their grip on the weapon and it fell to the ground.

  She jabbed with her right hand, a sharp strike into the solar plexus of the attacker, able to see that it was a half-naked man with long hair, but little more. He pulled the hatchet back as he gasped in pain.

  Moms kept the initiative with a flurry of jabs, hitting his chest hard four times, then delivering an open-hand strike to his nose. It broke with an audible crack, and blood spurted.

  The broken nose and blood didn’t deter him. He drew a knife from a scabbard on his belt. Hatchet in one hand, knife in the other, he edged sideways, looking for an opening. He didn’t whirl the two weapons about like the fools in movies did, but held both in the ready position for either an attack or defense.

  Which meant he was a professional.

  “Who are you?” Moms asked as she reached for her pistol with one hand and the saber with the other.

  He didn’t answer or give her the chance to draw, leaping to the attack. Moms stopped both hatchet and knife, but was forced to give ground, her arms stinging from the forearm blocks, knowing he’d cut her soon, once he ascertained her defense.

  She turned and ran, hearing him in close pursuit. She drew the saber and wheeled about, slashing, forcing him to halt his charge and jump back, the tip of the blade slicing a thin line across his bare chest.

  Moms held the saber at the ready, while he went on guard with hatchet and knife. She considered the pistol, but as her free hand drifted toward it, he spoke, confirming he wasn’t Native American, or native at all to the timeline.

  “If you manage to draw and fire before I kill you, Moms, you’ll be caught between both sides.”

  It is 1857 A.D. The world’s population is roughly 1.2 billion. The Anglo-Persian War over control of Afghanistan ends (that particular war in that country; there wi
ll be more); the Indian rebellion of 1857 includes the Cawnpore Massacre; the SS Central America sinks off the coast of North Carolina, killing 425 passengers and sinking 30,000 pounds of gold, leading to the Panic of 1857 (not over the passengers’ lives); Queen Victoria chooses Ottawa as the capital of Canada (“O, Canada!”).

  “You’re not Legion,” Moms said, “and why should I care about both sides?”

  “No. I’m not Legion. And you should care because you’re here to do something. If you do manage to draw and fire before I charge and kill you, which I doubt you’ll be able to do, then I’ll be dead, and my body will disappear. They’ll find you standing out here with no one else around and no one who knows who you are. Correct?”

  He has better intel than I do, Moms thought. “You’re Spartan, but not of our Sparta.”

  Some things change; some don’t.

  Teutoberg Forest, Germania, 11 September 9 A.D.

  “ATTACK!” ROLAND YELLED, taking the initiative. He charged, his axe raised high. As he closed on the beast, he leapt into the air, swinging at an angle toward the center of Grendel’s face.

  Well before the axe made contact, the beast’s paw hit Roland on the side, sending him flying, the breath knocked out of him. He fell to the floor of the clearing, then scrambled to get to his feet.

  The Centurion was deflecting Grendel’s other hand, his sword clanging futilely as it glanced off claws trying to rip him apart.

  Roland charged back into the fight.

  The Centurion swung again, and this time, Grendel’s claws closed on the blade, wrenching it out of his hands, then throwing it to side. Roland swung the battle axe, the heavy blade thudding into Grendel’s forearm as he reached for the Centurion. Out of the corner of his eye, Roland spotted movement.

  It is 9 A.D. The world’s population is just under 300 million; Ovid is banished to Tomis for writing negatively about the current Emperor of Rome; Vespasian, who would later be Emperor, is born; in China, Lui Kuai, Marquess of Zuziang, battles Fuchong, but is defeated and killed; the Rhine River becomes the border between the Latin and German-speaking worlds, because of...well, read on.

  The Legionnaire behind Grendel had gotten a running start. He leapt, the point of his sword leading toward the base of the monster’s skull.

  Some things change; some don’t.

  Santiago, Chile, 11 September 1973 A.D.

  IVAR’S COVER WAS GOING to get him killed.

  “Are you here to kill Allende?” he asked the American holding the .45 caliber Colt against his forehead.

  Major Tower blinked. “What?”

  “The coup.” Ivar tried to nod toward the sound of tanks outside, but the gun pressed against his head prevented that. “Are you in the Palace to make sure Allende dies? He already turned down safe passage.”

  “How do you know that?” Major Tower asked.

  “I just heard him say so on the phone,” Ivar said, “and you don’t have to kill him. He’ll kill himself later today, once he realizes there’s no hope. And there’s no hope, correct, Major Tower?”

  “Nope. No hope. But how do you know he’s going to kill himself?”

  “Because President Allende is not a stupid man,” Ivar said. He smelled alcohol wafting off the American.

  “I’d have to disagree with your assessment,” Tower said, “since he’s surrounded, and his Army, Navy, Air Force, and police have all turned on him. That speaks to a kind of stupid.”

  “It would be a different kind of stupid if you killed me,” Ivar said. “My people will not let that pass without retribution. I have other comrades in country. More importantly, the sound of the shot inside the Palace will draw attention, as will my body. Allende and his friends will not look upon that kindly. You’re acting precipitously.”

  “Lots of shot being fired in the Palace,” Tower pointed out. “One more isn’t going to draw any notice.” A muscle twitched in his jaw, and Ivar worried he’d used too big a word. Roland never liked that, and this guy was sort of Roland-like.

  It is 1973 A.D. The world’s population is 3,942,096,442. A company called FedEx begins operations with fourteen aircraft out of Memphis, delivering 182 packages its first night; the last U.S. soldier leaves Vietnam (except for roughly 1,350 MIAs); the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center in New York City officially open; Picasso passes away; Watergate; a device called an ATM is patented; Dark Side of the Moon; Bruce Lee dies; Billie Jean King defeats Bobby Riggs in matches watched by ninety million worldwide; the ITT building in New York City is bombed in protest of ITT’s alleged role in the 11 September coup in Chile; the Yom Kippur War; Construction of the Alaska pipeline begins; homosexuality is removed from DSM-II as a sexual deviation; O.J. Simpson runs for over 2,000 yards; OPEC doubles the price of crude oil; The Sting; Laugh-In airs its last episode; Roe v. Wade; Wounded Knee.

  Tower pulled the gun back, then slid it into a shoulder holster inside his coat. “Ah, I was just messing with you. Let’s see whether Allende decides to blow his brains out. He does, I let you live. He don’t, then I take both of you out.”

  Some things change; some don’t.

  Abbottabad, Pakistan, 11 September 2012

  SCOUT WAS STARTLED when a voice whispered in her earpiece: “Status?”

  “Go,” Scout replied, prompted by the downloaded script. “Status of Pakistani air defenses?” Scout already knew the answer, but this was a role she had to play perfectly.

  “Inactive. You’ve got a local problem.”

  “Roger,” Scout said. “But we kept this tight, so the only way word was leaked was via the Agency.”

  “Naturally,” said Hannah, head of the Cellar, over the secure satellite net. “I foresee a Sanction in the future, but for now, it is your call whether to proceed or not.”

  “I’m on mission,” Scout said. This was déjà vu all over again, except not her déjà vu.

  It is 2012 A.D. The world’s population is 7.043 billion people; life expectancy is 70.78 years; Hurricane Sandy becomes the second costliest hurricane in U.S. history; the 2012 Summer Olympics are held in London; the European Union embargoes Iran over enriching uranium; the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Elizabeth; Curiosity Rover lands on Mars; Encyclopedia Britannica suspends its print version after 244 consecutive years; The Scream sells for 120 million; the worst outage in the world leaves 620 million people without power in India; Palestine is granted non-member observer status at the U.N.; Benghazi; the Transit of Venus, where the planet casts a visible shadow on the Earth (it won’t happen again until 2117); 2012 is designated the Year of Sustainable Energy for All.

  Hannah spoke once more: “Missile countdown begun, and exfil inbound.”

  Nothing further. The mission clock was started, and there was no going back from this.

  Some things change; some don’t.

  But Before Nine Eleven, and After They Came Back From Independence Day

  The Possibility Palace

  Where? Can’t tell you. When? Can’t tell you.

  “YOU WERE ALREADY GIVEN the choice whether to join the Time Patrol,” Moms said to Lara. “Correct?”

  Lara nodded. The teenager sat on one side of a table in the Time Patrol Team Room. Moms, the Team Leader, sat at the head of the table, and Eagle, team sergeant, directly across from Lara.

  “If it was a real choice,” Lara said.

  “It was real,” Moms said. She tapped the old wooden table. NADA was carved on it. Next to it MAC, another of the team’s fallen. “Our team sergeant, Nada, chose to go back rather than be part of the Patrol. And he did.”

  “Did he have a good reason to go back?” Lara asked.

  “Yes. And it cost him his life.” Moms answered sharper than she’d intended. Tall, broad-shouldered, slender, she could be cast as a rugged cowgirl, except she hailed from the desolate plains of middle Kansas, where miles and miles of wind and bleak, flat horizon ruled. When the brutal world of Special Operations was an alluring choice for a young woman, it said everything about where she’d c
ome from. Her dark hair was crudely cut, with scissors in front of a mirror, indicating more than just a lack of fashion sense.

  Lara looked about. Tacked to one wall was an original Badge of Merit authorized by George Washington, the forerunner to the Purple Heart, a token brought back from a mission to 1783 AD. Next to it hung a gray-green scale, a trophy from Aglaeca, mother of Grendel, from Roland’s 452 AD mission to Denmark. The room was square, with four doors, one centered in each wall. It was painted a bland off-white that a psychologist would say induced no emotion other than disinterest. Above one door was Eagle’s hand-drawn Time Patrol tab. That door led to the Gates, which led to the past, where the Time Patrol conducted its missions, but only when the Shadow opened up a bubble in the timeline.

  “Interesting place,” Lara said. “Could use a little cheering up.”

  “You think?” Moms said.

  “I’m the team sergeant,” Eagle said. He was as tall as Moms, six feet, his skull hairless, the black skin rippled and pocked on the left side of his head from an IED explosion in another war.

  “Okey-dokey,” Lara said. “Team sergeant. Got it.”

  Moms and Eagle exchanged a look. Then Moms began to speak, grabbing Lara’s full attention.

  “You do know that someone has to man the walls in the middle of the night?” Moms began. “The walls between all those innocents out there, in our time, our present, who lay their heads down on their pillows every evening, troubled by thoughts of such things as paying the rent, or their dog is sick, or their kid is failing in school? The normal things people should worry about. There are even those who have grave, serious worries, such as being diagnosed with a fatal illness and given weeks to live. But the things we, here, worry about, they are far deeper and wider than any of those worries.”