General Elijah Grazier, wearing his dress uniform, strode down the Buffalo Thunder Hilton hotel’s hall as if he owned the place. His graying hair offset the tones of his rugged face as he stopped short. Milling officers, both civilian and military, clogged the hallway.
Bill Stevens’ people got here first. Oh, joy.
He allowed a ghostly smile of anticipation to tickle his lips; He tightened his grip on the briefcase he carried.
So, Dr. Ryan? Having a nice day, are you?
As he started forward, his campaign ribbons caught the light, and he had his cover tucked under his left arm. Just imagining the consternation currently running through Ryan’s and his psychotics’ heads brought a chuckle of amusement to Grazier’s throat.
One of the sheriff’s deputies noticed him first, elbowing his fellows, and pointing.
An uneasy whisper broke out among the assorted officers. Several MPs emerged from the cluster, snapped to attention, and saluted.
Grazier cocked his head, taking note of Tim Ryan where he sat on the carpeted floor, back to the wall. The man looked half rabid, glaring knives at the officers. His wrists were cuffed where they hung off his knees, hands knotted in hard fists. In a line on the floor beside him sat Major Winchester Swink, and Dr. Catalina Talavera, all similarly cuffed, cowed, and depressed.
Chief Raven, to his surprise, sat separately, wrists and feet chained, two MPs with drawn sidearms just out of her reach. The look of bottled rage on her face was like nothing he’d ever seen.
Grazier set his briefcase on the floor and returned the MPs’ salute. “I see you got the lot of them.”
At the sound of his voice, Ryan’s head jerked up, and Grazier was surprised to see violence in the man’s eyes.
To Ryan, he said, “I truly regret it, Tim. But my orders come straight from the president, through the Secretary of Defense, and the Joint Chiefs.” He paused. “In a word, due to the extent of the national security threat posed by Gray and her technology, and through the powers of the National Security Act—”
“Eli, I don’t give a damn about national security. I need to see to Falcon.”
“What’s wrong with Falcon?”
“Your friends, here, have him in a fugue state.” Ryan was using every bit of his self-control. “Maybe catatonic. I’m not sure he’ll ever come out of it.”
Eli looked in the direction Ryan indicated to see a curled ball of a man where he lay on his side, cuffed hand and foot, a pool of vomit next to his slack mouth. The dark stain on his pants could only have been urine. The MP closest was staring down in disgust.
Grazier felt his stomach drop. “You!” He indicated the closest officer. “Get Captain Falcon to the nearest hospital! Now, damn it!”
The sheriff’s deputy gaped for a moment, then snapped a salute and began speaking urgently into his microphone.
If I lose Falcon, I lose it all.
In sudden panic, he bellowed, “And you be damned sure Dr. Ryan goes with him!”
“The rest of you gentlemen,” Grazier turned to the clot of officers and ordered, “I need these prisoners back inside that room.”
Stepping through the door he strode up to where two suited men, a provost, and a sheriff’s officer, were shuffling papers on a wood-veneer table.
Private Edwin Tyler Jones, his long wrists in cuffs, sat stoically before them, his face an expressionless mask.
“What the . . . ?” The pale-blond man raised white-blue eyes, his pupils widening. He and his companion shot to their feet, saluting. “General, sir?”
“At ease.” Grazier turned to watch as the prisoners were brought in and seated. Then he said, “Special Agents Hanson and Chenwith will remain. The rest of you need to leave the room immediately.”
He gestured to the MPs. “You gentlemen are ordered to ensure I have complete privacy, and that no one is listening at the door. Do I have your full and complete understanding?”
“Sir!” they both shouted, snapping salutes, then went about herding the officers out.
Only after the door closed did Grazier turn to inspect the sullen prisoners. The look Karla Raven was giving him would have blistered paint. Kilgore France looked pale. Grazier wasn’t sure how Maxine Kaplan and Virgil Wixom had ended up here, but they obviously wanted desperately to be somewhere else. Cat Talavera reminded him of cracked crystal ready to shatter at any instant.
“I’m sorry, people,” Grazier began, “but it would seem that circumstances—and your own remarkable proficiency—have created a political shitstorm. We’ve got dead bodies strewn halfway across the country, shot-up aircraft, a team of lawyers demanding an explanation for why a military operation was mounted against a private citizen on American soil in Aspen, a misappropriated Blackhawk helicopter. Not to mention a bloodbath to clean up at the Los Alamos lab. While we’ve got Pete McCoy’s body . . . with a bullet hole in a most unfortunate place, Tanner Jackson seems just to be missing. Losing McCoy and Jackson—both prominent donors to the president’s re-election campaign would be problem enough. Then there’s the missing time machine in Lab One.
“And, most importantly, where’s Gray?”
“Gone, sir.” Chief Raven’s words cut the air. “She activated the time machine.”
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and said, “That is a most unfortunate development.” But because of it, he was going to have a big chunk of Bill Stevens’ hide.
He glanced around the room. “People, this isn’t the movies where tomorrow everybody acts like none of these things happened. These are events for which there are, unfortunately, consequences.”
“We’re not going to like this, are we?” Winny Swink asked.
“No, Major, I’m afraid you are not.”
Hanson Childs, the Army CID guy, asked, “Sir? With your permission, may I ask if we can proceed with our—”
“You may not.” Grazier slapped the briefcase on the table. Flipping the latches open, he withdrew a sheaf of papers. “I need the two of you to inspect the signatures at the bottom of your new orders. After you have done so—and assuming you want to walk out of this room as free men and go back to your everyday lives—I need you to sign the nondisclosure and National Security secrecy agreement documents attached. Please pay particular attention to the penalties on the NDAs for any breach of secrecy and initial in the box. Once signed, you will leave every scrap of paper you brought with you on the table, exit the room, collect the mob of officers you brought with you, and have them off this property posthaste.”
“What about the perpetrators?” Chenwith asked in a strained voice.
“You never saw them. Never heard of them. Didn’t even imagine they existed in your dreams. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” they cried in unison.
The agents glanced at each other, quickly scanned the papers before them, and hurriedly signed. They stood, saluted, and walked quietly from the room.
“What about Falcon?” Talavera’s voice, despite her appearance, carried iron.
Grazier—wondering the same thing—said, “If anyone can help him, it will be Dr. Ryan.”
“Are we getting out of these handcuffs anytime soon?” Edwin Jones asked hopefully.
Grazier perched himself on the table. “After you hear what I have to say, you may very well wish you’d gone with the special agents. Before I start, I want you all to know that I did my best on your behalf.”
“Political deal, sir?” Chief Raven asked.
“From the very top. Now, let’s see just how much worse I can make your day . . .”