A Perfect World




Chapter 18



The Roseville Police Department, being one of the more affluent agencies in 
the Sacramento area, owned a large motor home that had been converted into a 
command vehicle for major incidents. Inside, most of the furniture had been 
removed and replaced by banks of computers, radio equipment, coffee makers, 
and detail maps of the surrounding region. The command vehicle had been 
taken out of storage for the first time in more than a year and was now 
sitting in a parking lot at the intersection of Roseville Parkway and 
Englewood Avenue, the point where the white van they were looking for had 
entered the residential tract and disappeared. Lieutenant Don Michaels-the 
night watch commander for Roseville PD-sat in the command chair facing a 
radio microphone and two computer screens. One screen displayed a map that 
outlined the positions of all of the units he had sitting on the perimeter. 
The other screen displayed the dispatch software that allowed him to send 
and receive messages. He sipped from a cup of coffee and monitored the radio 
traffic, waiting for word that the two SWAT teams he'd assembled-one from 
his agency, one from the Sacramento Sheriff's Department-were ready to move 
into the perimeter and begin their search.



"Phone call for you, El-tee," said Sergeant O'Hara, who was normally the 
dispatch supervisor but was now serving as Michaels' secretary. "It's Bailey 
over at the hospital."



"Thanks, John," he said, taking the phone from him, feeling a worm of dread 
going through his guts. This would be the call regarding Officer Vic Singer, 
the officer who had been... well, they weren't sure what had happened to 
him, other than he'd been hauled into the ER completely unresponsive. Was 
Bailey going to tell him Singer had been declared dead? Roseville PD-which 
was basically a suburban department-hadn't had a line of duty death in 
nearly ten years. "Michaels here. What's the word?"



"He's awake, El-tee," Bailey said.



"What did you say?" he asked, sure that he had heard wrong.



"He's awake," Bailey repeated. "Awake and talking. I just came out of his 
room. He has a little bit of a headache, but other than that he feels fine."



"You're kidding," Michaels said, feeling more uneasy than elated. Something 
very strange was going on with this situation.



"I wouldn't kid about something like that, Lieutenant," Bailey told him, 
sounding a bit miffed. "He's wide awake and remembers everything, right up 
to when... well, when whatever happened to him happened."



"What do the docs say?" Michaels asked. "Did they find out what happened to 
him? Was it a taser gun they hit him with? Was he shot? What?"



"There's nothing wrong with him that they can find. Not a damn thing. No 
marks on his body whatsoever. CT scan was negative. Tox screen was negative. 
Blood sugar was normal. All of the labs and exams show nothing. There was no 
reason whatsoever why he should've been unconscious like that, but he was. 
He was so unconscious that he wouldn't even withdraw from pain."



"And just like that, he woke up?"



"Just like that," Bailey said. "And that's not all."



"What else?"



"I had security pull the tapes from the security cameras covering that 
entrance, just like you asked."



"Uh huh?"



"Both of the cameras malfunctioned just before it happened, about thirty 
seconds before it, in fact. And both of them came back on line two minutes 
after it was over. The security supervisor said he's never seen anything 
like it before, that he didn't even think it was possible. The camera 
maintenance guy is coming in... but... well... you know."



"Did any of the other cameras in the system malfunction?" Michaels asked 
slowly.



"No," Bailey responded. "Everything else was working fine."



"I see," Michaels said slowly. "Did Vic give you a statement?"



"Nothing official yet," he said. "I figured I'd let the detectives take the 
official one, but like I said, he remembers everything right up to the 
moment it happened. He says he saw two guys who looked like soldiers or 
professional wrestlers but they were dressed in housekeeping uniforms. One 
of them was carrying a briefcase. He says there was no way in hell they were 
really housekeeping staff. Three other people, two chicks and a dude, all of 
them dressed in housekeeping uniforms, too, met them and... flashed them 
with the same sort of thing that took Vic down. He says he saw two blue 
flashes and the guys dropped like they'd been shot. He went over to detain 
them and something touched him on the chest. He thinks it was a wire or a 
strand of metal coming out from the cell phone the blonde chick was 
carrying. The next thing he knows, he's waking up in the ER with an IV and 
tubes sticking out of him."



"That matches what the paramedic saw," Michaels said.



"Uh huh," Bailey said. "You know that Vic was tapping the paramedic, right?"



"No," he sighed, "but it doesn't really surprise me. Vic is one of our 
more... uh... active officers off-duty, isn't he?"



"That's what they say," Bailey said diplomatically.



"Not my concern," Michaels said. "It doesn't seem like she's covering up for 
anything, does it?"



"No," he said. "She's a hot looking piece but there's not a whole lot of 
personality there. I mean, she bought that whole 'my wife doesn't understand 
me' bullshit Vic laid on her. I don't think she's capable of lying on that 
sort of level."



"Let's just try to keep their relationship, whatever it might have been, 
away from the boys and girls in the press, shall we? It's not their concern 
either."



"You know it, El-tee. In any case, I don't think there's any funny business 
going on with the story. Who would make up some bizarre shit like that?"



"My feelings exactly," Michaels said, leaning back in his seat and stifling 
a yawn. He sat back up again. "You know something, Bailey?"



"What's that, El-tee?"



"I've been a cop for twenty-four years and I've seen a lot of strange shit, 
but I think I'm looking at the strangest thing I've ever encountered 
tonight. What in the fuck happened at that hospital? Why would two men who 
look like soldiers show up at a hospital in the middle of the night dressed 
like janitors and carrying a motherfuckin' leather briefcase? Why would 
another group of people dressed in the same clothes attack them with some 
weapon we've never seen or heard of before and then drag them off in their 
van? Why would they burn down a car in the parking lot before they left? Did 
you hear who the car was registered to?"



"John Smith," Bailey said. "A man who lives at 1234 Main Street in 
Sacramento and works at 3456 Main Street in Sacramento-except there ain't no 
fucking Main Street in Sacramento."



"Right," Michaels said. "How in the fuck did they get that address through 
DMV? And the date of birth? January 1, 1980? You ever heard a more pathetic 
alias before?"



"No," he said. "Actually I haven't."



"Yet, somehow, they got DMV to accept that crap. The license wasn't 
forged-it was valid, backed up by the computer and everything, which means 
there's a birth record on file with social security somewhere." As he 
articulated it, the strangeness of the whole thing struck him anew. He shook 
his head. "None of this makes any sense."



"We need to get our hands on these people," Bailey said. "How's it looking 
for that?"



"We've got a solid perimeter over the whole residential tract. We're pretty 
certain they're in there somewhere. We got a solid witness statement from 
some residents who saw them pass through this intersection and we got our 
perimeter up quick enough that they couldn't have come out the other side. 
It's just a matter of sniffing them out. Our SWAT team and Sac sheriff's are 
about to head in from opposite sides. Six K-9 units will be going in with 
them."



"Hopefully they'll resist arrest," Bailey said, meaning, of course, that he 
hoped the cops who finally took them into custody would beat the shit out of 
them first.



"No comment on that," Michaels said, his voice conveying that he very much 
hoped for the same thing. "Keep me updated if you learn anything else."



"Will do," Bailey told him.



Michaels hung up the telephone and looked at his computer screen again, his 
eyes appraising the positioning of the perimeter units for about the 
twentieth time, looking for holes the suspects could potentially slip 
through. There were none that he could see, especially not with four 
helicopters circling overhead, probing with their FLIRs.



"Lincoln-one," said the voice of the dispatcher. She sounded excited.



He picked up the microphone and keyed up. "Lincoln-one, go ahead."



"We're online with a female resident from 2406 Pussywillow. She's reporting 
several males just climbed the fence into her backyard and went out the 
other side."



He looked immediately at the map, his finger tracing over the screen until 
it was resting on Pussywillow Street. It was in the southeastern corner of 
the residential tract, near the very edge of the inhabited portion of 
Roseville, well inside the perimeter. He decided he would send one of his 
air units to go check it out. More than likely it was a false report called 
in by a nervous Nellie who had heard all of the commotion and was starting 
to imagine things.



His opinion began to weaken a moment later when the dispatcher reported 
another call, two houses over, in which yet another woman complained of 
several men jumping her fence and running through her backyard. The third 
and fourth calls-three and five houses down respectively-erased all doubt. 
The men who had hospitalized one of his cops, who had burned up a car in a 
hospital parking lot, who had possibly kidnapped two even more mysterious 
men, were on the move, heading for the edge of the perimeter.



"All units on the perimeter, this is Lincoln one," he said into the 
microphone. "We have multiple reports of several men moving through 
backyards in the vicinity of Pussywillow and Deer Creek. Air units, move in 
and see if you can spot them. Ground units, let's move the main perimeter 
in." He consulted his map and began ordering his core units inward, 
tightening up the noose around them. He shuffled his mutual aid units-cars 
from Sacramento County, Placer County, Citrus Heights, and Rocklin-around to 
different positions, creating a looser perimeter on the outside in case some 
of the men had separated from the main group.



He listened to all of the units acknowledge his orders and then used the 
mouse to update their positions on the map. His eyes looked for any holes, 
especially in the outer perimeter. It was a little loose out there, but he 
saw no patch of ground where someone could walk out without passing before 
the peering eyes of at least one patrol unit.



"We've got you, motherfuckers," he whispered. "We've got you."



+++++



In the empty house under construction, an exact duplicate of Michaels' map 
floated in the air before Ken's eyes, captured by the Martian hacking 
technology and generated by the holographic hardware in his cell phone. He 
was disappointed but not terribly surprised that an outer perimeter had been 
left in place as a just-in-case measure. It was what he would have done had 
he been in the incident commander's place and had access to so many units.



"How we looking, Frazier?" enquired Sampson up on Calistoga. "Do you see any 
holes that I don't see?"



"Well," he said, "the perimeter's been loosened up quite a bit, but it's 
still intact. We're not gonna be able to just stroll on out of here."



"How much time before they discover we're not really where they think we 
are?"



"If they don't find a trace of us after fifteen or twenty minutes, they'll 
start talking to some of the residents where the 911 calls came. Once they 
realize those calls were never made... well, I don't really know what will 
happen. It depends on what the guy in charge of things makes of it. From 
what I see here, though, he seems pretty competent at what he does. If I 
could get inside his head a little, maybe I could come up with something, 
but other than that, I don't see an easy way out."



"I can help you get inside his head," Sampson said. "The incident commander 
is Lieutenant Donald William Michaels, age 48. Hired by the Roseville Police 
Department August 2, 1983. He's got a bachelor's degree in Criminal Justice 
with a minor in Business Administration. Two children, both of whom are in 
college. Night watch commander since a promotion to lieutenant five years 
ago. Before that, he spent fourteen years as a patrol sergeant and five 
years as a rank and file patrol officer. Belongs to the First Presbyterian 
Church of Roseville, though not a frequent patron of the establishment. On 
his second marriage and his current wife is being pharmaceutically treated 
for clinical depression. He has a mistress named Doreen Johnson, age 31, 
whom he has been seeing secretly for the past two years. He has two 
alternate names on his Internet access that he uses to subscribe to various 
pornographic sites with. His sexual kinks-based on the type of material he 
stores on his computer-seems to be submissive sexual games involving women 
dressed in black leather outfits and tying him up to a bed. He also..."



"Whoa," Ken interrupted. "Hang on a second. How do you know all of this 
shit?"



"It's standard Intelligence doctrine to gather all possible information 
about one's adversaries. Our hacking software pulled up his personnel file, 
Internet habits, and even looked through the hard-drive of his home 
computer. We've not only done this for Michaels, but for every officer 
staffing the perimeter."



"Really?" Ken asked. "Every officer?"



"As I said," Sampson told him. "It's standard doctrine. Is there anything in 
Michaels' file that might help you predict his next move? That's why we do 
it."



"No... it's very interesting, but it doesn't really help much."



"Maybe there's something about one of the other officers then," Sampson 
suggested. "One of the ones on the perimeter. The computer automatically 
outlines information that's potentially compromising against the current 
moral standards."



"Huh?" Ken said, not quite getting him, and certainly not seeing how any of 
this would help.



"For instance," Sampson said. "Officer Michelle Ringer with the Sacramento 
Sheriff's Department has a husband who often hits her, sometimes hard enough 
to get her hospitalized. Officer Jim Edwards with the Placer County 
Sheriff's Department has an addiction to a prescription drug called Xanax 
and often uses a false Internet identification to get it. Officer Todd 
Madison with the Rocklin Police Department is a pedophile with an extremely 
large collection of child pornography stored on his home hard-drive. Officer 
Randolph Smith of the Citrus Heights Police Department is embezzling money 
from the police union. Officer..."



"Hold up a second," Ken interrupted, a glimmer of an idea flashing through 
his mind. "Go back to the child molester guy. Tell me more about him."



"Officer Todd Henry Madison," Sampson said. "Born July 7, 1971. Joined the 
Rocklin Police Department in 1993. We have evidence of the standard 
psychological problems that such people go through in their adolescent 
years. It seems he came to grips with his desires right around the time of 
his college graduation. His target group is eight to eleven year old boys. 
We have no actual incidents on file of him fulfilling his urges to have sex 
with young boys but that's only because such things are not generally 
documented. There is anecdotal evidence to suggest he does engage in such 
activities on a regular basis. He is unmarried and only dates single mothers 
with eight to eleven year old male children. He volunteers as a little 
league baseball coach and as a Boy Scout leader-both activities that 
pedophiles frequently pursue in this society as it puts them in close 
proximity with their target. Cross references of several children he's been 
in contact with over the years show classic psychological profiles 
consistent with those who have been molested by people such as Todd. And the 
pornography collection on his hard-drive, as I've mentioned, is quite 
extensive. He has over six thousand images of naked boys alone, engaging in 
sex acts with each other, and engaging in sex acts with men. Ninety-six 
percent of these images are classified as illegal under current federal and 
state law."



"Can you access those images?" Ken asked. "Did he leave his home computer 
turned on?"



"He didn't leave it turned on," Sampson said, "but that doesn't matter to 
us. It's still hooked up to an Internet access line. That means we can get 
into it. Is there something we can use here, Frazier? I don't have to tell 
you that time is rankin' short."



"Where is he on the perimeter?" Ken asked, his mind whizzing along at a mile 
a minute, trying to formulate a plan.



"He's holding the intersection of Whistling Oak and Black Oak," Sampson told 
him.



Ken looked at the map, his eyes going to that intersection. Yes! That point 
in the perimeter was not visible to the surrounding units. He expanded the 
map view so it showed the streets beyond the perimeter. Yes again! If they 
could get by that particular point they could get out to an unguarded main 
artery without being seen. He expanded the map even further, looking for 
potential pitfalls, looking for the quickest route out of the area. It could 
work. With a little luck, it could work.



"Frazier?" Sampson asked. "You still with me, Dawg?"



"I'm here," Ken said. "Listen up. This is my plan..."



+++++



Todd Madison sat slumped behind the wheel of his patrol car, his eyes 
tracking over the landscape before him. His point in the outer perimeter sat 
at the edge of the developed area. To the south of him were empty lots where 
construction had yet to begin. To the north of him was a row of silent, 
darkened model homes and a few lots where the frames of houses had started 
to go up. In the far distance, several miles away, he could see the lights 
of the circling helicopters as they tried to flush out the suspects that had 
assaulted a Roseville PD officer and put him in the hospital.



Todd was only semi-interested in the great scheme of which he was a part. He 
hoped they would catch the people who had taken down one of his colleagues 
but he was more interested in a quick end to the situation so he could go 
back to Rocklin and find a dark parking lot and catch a few winks. He hated 
working the goddamned night shift but he was doing his time, making the 
good-old-boy network that ran Rocklin PD happy so he could maybe get his 
dream assignment sometime next year. If he played his cards right he would 
be the next Rocklin Elementary School District resource officer when that 
fuckstick John Stevenson finally retired. The very thought caused his cock 
to stiffen in excitement. He would be the cop assigned to all of Rocklin's 
elementary schools! Oh the young boys he would come into contact with in 
that assignment! The most troubled of them-which meant those who were his 
most likely targets-would actually be assigned to counseling sessions with 
him. He had worked his entire career to achieve such a posting. The 
opportunities it would produce would be much greater than his Boy Scout gig 
or his youth baseball gig. He might get his hands on some young, hot, 
innocent piece of boyhood once a month instead of the two to three times a 
year he now averaged.



"Oh God," he sighed, his cock now fully erect as he imagined the 
possibilities. Talk about your dreams come true.



A beep emanated from the computer terminal mounted between the front seats. 
He turned toward it absently, figuring it was a personal message from one of 
the other Rocklin PD units staffing the perimeter. But it wasn't. His breath 
caught in his throat as he saw what was on the screen. His erection 
instantly wilted, driven away by the burst of adrenaline that surged through 
his body.



Rocklin PD, like many upscale suburban police departments with budget money 
to burn, made a point to utilize the latest in technology. As such, the 
mobile communication terminals in each patrol car were more than simple text 
screens. They were fully functional notebook computers, powered by the 
latest Intel computer chip and the latest version of Windows. Though they 
weren't normally used for displaying digital photograph files, they were 
certainly more than capable of that function, as evidenced by the fact that 
a high-resolution picture in full color was now gracing Todd's screen. He 
recognized the photo instantly. It was one that he had stored on his 
hard-drive at home, one he had acquired by means of a false identity and 
stolen credit card data. It was a picture of a young boy, around nine years 
old, naked and kneeling before a hairy, fully grown, and equally naked man 
with a large, erect cock. The boy had this cock in his hand and was about to 
put it in his mouth. The expression on the boy's face was one of nervous 
anticipation.



"What the fuck?" he whispered in horror. What was this picture doing on his 
MDT? How had it gotten there?



Before he had time to fully comprehend these questions, there was a beep and 
the picture disappeared, only to be replaced by another image-this one of a 
naked eleven year old boy bending over in the classic position of sexual 
submissiveness. This image was also one that was on his hard-drive, was in 
fact one he frequently used for masturbation.



There was another beep, and another image appeared, and then another, and 
then yet another. They began to go by quickly, each appearing for about two 
seconds and each an image from the collection he kept on his 
hard-drive-images he had collected over a ten-year period from a variety of 
Internet sources. With each beep, with each new shot on his work screen, 
more adrenaline surged through him and his sense of panic increased. How was 
this happening? Who was doing it? And, most important, how had they found 
his collection? He had always been so careful to hide the shots in secure, 
password-protected files. How in the hell was this possible?



The slide show went on for almost two minutes, displaying all of his 
favorite shots in what seemed to be the order of preference. He could not 
tear his eyes away from it. Finally, the images stopped and a message 
appeared instead. FIVE TO TEN YEARS IN PRISON, TODD, it said. THAT'S WHAT 
THE KIDDY PORN ON YOUR COMPUTER ALONE WILL GET YOU, BUT IT WON'T END THERE, 
WILL IT?



"Whuu... whuu," he stammered, now trembling from fear. Todd! They had called 
him by name.



Another message appeared. IT GOES WITHOUT SAYING THAT YOU'LL LOSE YOUR JOB 
AND THAT YOUR NAME WILL BE ALL OVER THE PAPERS. BUT IT WON'T END THERE. 
THEY'LL KNOW YOU'VE DONE MORE THAN DOWNLOAD ILLEGAL PORN. THEY'LL START 
LOOKING AT THE BOY SCOUTS YOU'VE HAD IN YOUR TROOP, AT THE BOYS YOU'VE 
COACHED IN BASEBALL, AT THE SONS OF THE WOMEN YOU'VE BEEN DATING. YOU'RE A 
COP. HOW LONG DO YOU THINK IT WILL TAKE BEFORE THE FIRST KID COMES FORWARD? 
HOW LONG DO YOU THINK IT WILL TAKE BEFORE THE DOMINOES START TO FALL AFTER 
THAT?



He was now completely incapable of speech. He had never been more terrified 
in his life. Everything that his MDT was telling him was correct. He could 
not begin to delude himself that it wasn't. If his collection of pictures 
came to light it would be a matter of weeks before some kid somewhere would 
spill his guts. He would go to prison, probably not for life, but his life 
would be ruined and he would be required to register as a sex offender 
forever.



There was another beep. BUT IT DOESN'T HAVE TO BE THIS WAY, the message 
read. THERE IS A WAY OUT OF THIS MESS.



A way out? How? How could there be a way out? What in the hell was going on 
here?



WE DON'T GIVE A RAT'S ASS ABOUT YOU OR YOUR KIDDIE PORN, TODD. THERE ARE 
THINGS GOING ON HERE TONIGHT THAT ARE MORE IMPORTANT THAN YOUR PERVERTED 
LITTLE BRAIN COULD EVER HOPE TO CONCEIVE OF. THE PERIMETER YOU ARE STAFFING 
IS JEOPARDIZING AN ONGOING GOVERNMENT OPERATION RELATED TO THE WAR ON 
TERROR. THE PATRIOTIC MEN AND WOMEN TRAPPED IN THIS PERIMETER MUST BE 
ALLOWED TO COMPLETE THEIR MISSION WITHOUT INTERFERENCE. ONE OF OUR AGENTS IS 
GOING TO APPROACH YOU FROM THE WEST, JUST BEHIND THE MODEL HOME. YOU WILL 
ALLOW HIM TO COME CLOSE ENOUGH TO CONVERSE WITH YOU. YOU MAY KEEP YOUR 
WEAPON BELT ON BUT DO NOT ATTEMPT TO DRAW YOUR PISTOL AND DO NOT COMMUNICATE 
WITH ANYONE VIA YOUR RADIO. IF YOU COOPERATE, YOUR LITTLE HOBBY WILL REMAIN 
YOUR SECRET. IF YOU DO NOT, YOU WILL BE IN A JAIL CELL AWAITING TRIAL WITHIN 
24 HOURS. IF YOU AGREE TO THIS, STEP OUTSIDE OF YOUR VEHICLE AND STAND AT 
THE FRONT OF IT.



A government operation! he thought, his terrified mind grasping at this 
straw. That made perfect sense! He had always suspected the United States 
Government was more powerful than it let on. Who else would know about 
his... well... his habits and computer files? And the bizarre circumstances 
of what had happened at the hospital tonight served to lend credence to this 
explanation. When you came down to it, it really made no sense that a group 
of men dressed as janitors would attack another group of men with some 
unidentified weapon and then burn down their car before leaving. Unless, 
there was some sort of shadowy government conspiracy behind it.



The MDT beeped again. TIME IS SHORT, TODD AND WE'RE DONE FUCKING AROUND WITH 
YOU. STEP OUTSIDE YOUR VEHICLE IN THE NEXT FITEEN SECONDS OR THE OFFER IS 
WITHDRAWN AND A COMPLETE COPY OF YOUR COMPUTER HARD-DRIVE WILL BE SENT TO 
EVERY POLICE AGENCY IN THE GREATER SACRAMENTO AREA, INCLUDING THE FBI AND 
THE DOJ! MOVE IT, ASSHOLE!



He had no time to think things over or try to analyze the situation. There 
was only one clear course of action, and that was to do what he was told and 
hope that whoever was communicating with him was sincere. He opened his car 
door and stepped out, keeping his trembling hands well away from his 
holstered pistol. He walked over to the front of the car and stopped, his 
eyes looking over at the model homes. A few seconds passed and there was 
movement from that direction. A man stepped out of the darker shadows and 
started heading toward him, not running but not exactly walking either. As 
he got closer Todd's police-trained eyes automatically catalogued him. White 
male, mid-twenties, six feet, maybe 180 pounds, wearing blue jeans and a 
short-sleeved shirt. He held something in his right hand but it wasn't a 
gun. When he got about twenty feet away-just out of effective pistol 
range-he stopped.



"What now?" Todd asked, his voice shaky.



"As enjoyable as it would be to castrate you with a rusty knife," the man 
said conversationally, "the message on your MDT was truthful. You will not 
be harmed and your secret will not be revealed as long as you cooperate."



"You want me to just let you and your people walk through here?" he asked. 
"I can do that, but chances are you'll get picked up again before you 
can..."



"That's not exactly what I had in mind," the man interrupted, pointing his 
hand at him.



Todd instinctively dropped his hand down to the butt of his gun, his thumb 
releasing the snap that held it in place.



"Get that fucking hand back up!" the man barked. "I told you, I'm not going 
to hurt you."



Todd did as he was told, though reluctantly. He saw something extend from 
the object in the man's hand, something that looked like a rigid piece of 
wire. It glinted in the moonlight as it traversed the distance between the 
man and himself. It nestled up against his chest, touching him just below 
the badge. He tried to back away.



"Stay where you're at and listen carefully if you want to get out of this," 
the man told him. "As I said, time is short. You down with it?"



"Uh... well... yeah, I'm uh... down with it," he said, eyeing the piece of 
metal that was touching him.



"This is a stun gun of sorts," the man said. "It will put you out like the 
cop at the hospital was put out and you'll wake up in thirty minutes or so 
no worse for wear."



"I don't want to... I mean, you can just..."



"Shut your ass," the man barked. "It doesn't hurt. I just need you out of 
the way and I need your car. When you wake up, tell them someone snuck up on 
you and that's the last thing you remember. Got it?"



"Uh... yes, but, can't we..."



"No," the man said. "We can't."



Todd had the vaguest impression of a blue flash and then he knew no more. He 
was unconscious even before he hit the pavement.



+++++



Ken stepped over the prostrate body of the pedophile cop, resisting the urge 
to deliver a swift kick to his groin. He opened the driver's door of the 
blue and white Crown Victoria and sat down in the driver's seat. A wave of 
fresh nostalgia washed over him as he settled in. He was in a police car 
again after all these years! Although he was stealing it instead of working 
in it, it still smelled the same as he remembered, still felt the same, was 
still full of familiar equipment.



"No time for sentimental bullshit," he whispered to himself. He set his cell 
phone down in his lap and turned the ignition key, hearing the engine roar 
to life with eight cylinders of power. He dropped the gearshift into reverse 
and backed around for a few feet so he wouldn't run over his good friend 
Todd. He then dropped it into drive and put the accelerator down, tearing 
down Whispering Oak Street at high speed. He kept the headlights off as he 
drove, navigating by moonlight. Once he was well underway he picked up the 
cell phone again and dialed up Spankworth.



"Frazier here," he said. "The child molester is down and I'm in the car. 
I'll be there in less than three minutes. Get everyone out front."



"Good job, Frazier," Spanky's voice said. "We'll be waiting."



Exactly two minutes and twenty-three seconds later he screeched to a halt in 
front of the house. As promised, Wing, Bingbutt, Spankworth, and McGraw were 
out front. Spankworth and McGraw were dragging the still unconscious WestHem 
operatives. Ken fumbled around the interior for a moment until he found the 
trunk release lever. The lid slid smoothly upward and, working together, the 
four Martians unceremoniously lifted the WestHem operatives up and dumped 
them in the trunk. They slammed the lid down and then got in the car, 
Spankworth in front, Bingbutt, Wing, and McGraw cramming uncomfortably 
together in the back. The moment the doors were shut, Ken tore out of there, 
making a screeching U-turn and heading back the way he'd come. Soon they 
were passing the unconscious Rocklin police officer and moving unseen out of 
the perimeter.



"Brilliant, Frazier," Spankworth said, clapping him on the shoulder. 
"Absolutely fucking brilliant the way you pulled that off."



"Don't thank me yet," Ken said, turning on the headlights now that they were 
clear. "We're not out of this yet. Nothing is easier to spot than a stolen 
police car stuffed full of people who aren't wearing cop uniforms. As long 
as we're in this car, we're still vulnerable."



"Where are we going?" McGraw asked.



"Away from the populated areas for now," he answered. "I'm gonna skirt out 
of Roseville on the back roads and head toward Folsom Lake. We'll find a 
place to ditch the car and then hole up somewhere for the night until the 
heat dies down."



"What are the odds of us making it?" Spankworth wanted to know.



Ken smiled a little. "Ironically, pretty good. All the cops in the vicinity 
are staffing the perimeter we just escaped from. That'll make it a little 
hard for them to blunder across us." He took a deep breath, feeling his 
adrenaline start to evaporate. It was a good feeling. "For what it's worth, 
I think we might've done it."



+++++



Twenty-five minutes after Ken and the special forces team made their escape, 
Commander Huffy drifted into Calistoga's intelligence department. She 
positioned herself over Sampson's shoulder, anxiously awaiting the latest 
news from the surface, too impatient to even wait for it to be sent through 
the intercom.



"They just found the unconscious cop on the perimeter, Huff," reported 
Sampson, who was monitoring the Placer County emergency communications 
system, of which Roseville PD was a part. "They'll know they got out now and 
they'll know to start looking for the police car."



"I'm down with it," Huffy said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out her 
thirty-ninth cigarette of the day. "Is our team in the clear yet?"



"For the most part," he replied. "Frazier dropped them off at another 
housing development in Granite Bay and then ditched the car under a creek 
overpass about two miles away. He says they won't be able to spot it from 
the air or from the road. The only way they're going to locate it is for 
someone to blunder across it. He's making his way to Folsom now so he can 
secure transportation in the morning."



She nodded, letting a touch of a smile come to her face. She hadn't been so 
sure about the common sense of allowing Frazier to descend to the surface 
for the mission. He was too attached to his past life and he was also 
untrained in many aspects of special operations, but Laura-damned if he 
didn't just prove himself down there. He had gotten them out of one of the 
hairiest situations imaginable-a situation that had seemed quite impossible 
to escape. "Thanks, Ron," she said. "How are the cops in charge down there 
taking things?"



"I've been monitoring communications between Lieutenant Michaels, the 
incident commander, and Deputy Chief Grigsby, the commander of the patrol 
division. It's pretty apparent that Michaels is uneasy about what happened 
down there, particularly about the bogus phone calls that drew their 
perimeter in. Everything else they can kind of half-assed explain to 
themselves, but not that. That's well beyond technology as they know it."



"Is there any indication that this Michaels suspects the truth of what 
happened?" she asked.



"No way of knowing for sure," Sampson replied. "But it goes without saying 
he knows something outside the range of his experience has taken place. As 
for what conclusions he'll draw... well, your guess is as good as mine."



"And the time stream?" she asked next. "How badly is it going to be affected 
by this little clusterfuck? Obviously none of this was meant to happen. What 
if one of those cops was supposed to intervene in something else while all 
of this was going on? What if the pedophile changes his habits or gets rid 
of evidence that will someday result in his conviction? What if..."



"Uh... excuse me, Huff," a timid voice spoke up from two terminals over. It 
was Slurry Frazier, who had been riveted to a computer terminal in the room 
for the past eighteen hours, disappearing only infrequently to use the head.



"What is it, Slurry?" she said, controlling her annoyance at being 
interrupted.



"This was supposed to happen," she said.



"What was supposed to happen?" Huffy asked.



"All of this," she said. "The police officer being taken down, the 
automobile fire, the search... everything."



"What are you talking about?" Sampson said. "Don't you think we would've 
known about it if a major incident like what we've precipitated down there 
took place on the night of our mission? There was nothing in the history 
about it."



"But there was," she insisted. "It just wasn't reported as a single 
incident."



Huffy turned herself around so she could stare at the young historian. 
"Start making some sense, Slurry," she said. "Are you telling me that what 
has happened down there was written into history?"



"I accessed the Earthling Internet for every conceivable source of 
information surrounding the hospital on this date and the next day before we 
left Mars," she said. "I've got articles from all of the Sacramento area 
newspapers and video clips from all of the news stations. The things that 
are happening down there right now were reported but significantly 
downplayed for some reason. A big deal was not made out of them. It will be 
made to seem like nothing more than a series of random events that are not 
connected. That's why I didn't associate it with our mission down there. 
Look here, I'll show you the entries."



"Please do," Huffy said numbly. Was it possible?



Slurry spoke a few words to her computer terminal and an entry appeared on 
the main screen at the front of the room. It was an article from the 
Sacramento newspaper. "This is a small blurb about the first police 
officer," she said. "It will appear in the Metro section of the paper day 
after tomorrow. As you can see, it's just a blurb that says an unnamed 
Roseville police officer was assaulted by an unidentified man with a stun 
gun near Roseville Community Hospital and that he was treated and released. 
The search for the suspect is underway. There was no other entry about it 
that I was able to find."



"Could it be a coincidence?" Huffy asked.



"The time matches," Slurry said. "And you've been monitoring police 
communications. Has there been any other Roseville cops attacked with a stun 
gun tonight?"



No one bothered to answer this. They knew there hadn't been.



"And this," Slurry said, calling up a new entry on the screen. "This is from 
the police and fire department log in the Roseville newspaper five days from 
now. This is a weekly section in the very back of the paper where the 
previous week's minor incidents are listed. It only says that the fire 
department responded to a vehicle fire near Sunrise and Roseville Parkway on 
November 1, in which a Ford Falcon was burned up. No time or exact location 
is given. It says arson is suspected but there's no suspect information. 
Again, I didn't see the significance of this when I downloaded the info so I 
didn't follow up by checking the investigation files."



"Understandable," Huffy said, feeling a chill running up and down her spine 
now. "What else do you got?"



She spoke and another entry appeared. "This is from the same police and fire 
log. It describes how the Roseville Police Department, with assistance from 
'allied agencies' set up a perimeter in the Sierra View subdivision early 
November 1 to catch a 'felony assault' suspect. The suspect was not found. 
There is no mention of the van, the fact that there was more than one 
suspect, or the assault on the Rocklin Police officer. There is also no 
mention that this is related to the stun gun attack on the Roseville Police 
Officer."



Silence ruled the room as everyone pondered this information and the 
ramifications of it. If what Slurry was saying was true, that meant they had 
not changed the time stream at all, they had merely affected what was 
supposed to have happened in the first place.



"What does this all mean?" Huffy asked. "How could those things have been in 
history when we hadn't come back in time yet?



"Because they're meant to happen," Slurry said. "They were meant to happen 
so they did."



"Does that mean that history can't be changed then?" Sampson asked. "Do we 
have any free will here at all? Or is it just an illusion?"



Nobody had an answer for that. But Slurry had an even better question. "Why 
did they downplay this incident so much?" she wanted to know. "I've been 
reading American and WestHem media reporting ever since I was in high 
school. My doctorate was based on studying how they report things. What 
happened down there tonight should have been front-page news on every paper 
across the nation. It's got all of the elements the corporate media love so 
much. So why did they virtually ignore it?"



"Because they were never told the real story," said Rigger, who had been 
silent throughout the entire discussion. "Someone high up-in the police 
department would be my guess-stonewalled this incident for some reason. 
Someone even higher up then instructed the various media representatives not 
to push too terribly hard for more facts."



"Who would've done that?" Huffy asked.



"There is only one logical explanation," Rigger said simply. "We told them 
to."



"We?" Sampson said. "What are you suggesting?"



"Slurry," Rigger said, turning to her. "You read all of these entries before 
we left Mars, long before we entered the time tunnel, yet the randomness of 
it never suggested to you that these seemingly isolated incidents were 
related to our mission down there on this night, correct?"



"Fuckin' aye," she said. "If I would have suspected they were related, I 
would've mentioned it. You have to know that."



"We do," Rigger said. "I came up with the same entries during my own 
research before the mission and I never suspected we would be a part of them 
either. That is what brings me to my point. As incompetent and unprepared as 
WestHem was for this mission, it is safe to assume that they too studied 
everything they could find in their historical files about this particular 
date, correct?"



"Correct," Sampson agreed.



"And what do you suppose they would have done if, when studying for this 
mission, they found newspaper articles explaining how two mysterious men 
were attacked outside the hospital entrance at 1:30 AM the day they were 
planning to perform their mission? If they saw extensive reporting about how 
the people who did this also disabled a police officer with a strange, 
unknown weapon? If they saw that those same people then burned down a car? 
What would they have done?"



"They would've known we were going to try to stop them and then picked a 
different piece of history to alter," Sampson said. "But it doesn't make 
sense that the story would already be in their history. It hadn't happened 
yet!"



"But it had," Rigger insisted. "This is happening in the past, remember? We 
are in the past and in our time, all of this has already happened, has 
already been recorded by history. The fact that these stories were already 
written before we even left proves that. It also means that it is we who are 
responsible for getting the reporting minimized. No one else on this planet 
or above it has the motivation to see that the details are kept vague enough 
so that no one in the future will be able to see that something unusual is 
occurring on this night."



"But how in Laura's name do we do that?" Huffy asked. "And do we know we're 
really supposed to?"



"We know we are really supposed to do it because we can conclude by looking 
at the historical records that it was done," Rigger said. "It has already 
been determined and, since we're the only ones with something to gain by 
doing it, we must further conclude that it was us and not some other entity 
or entities. As for the how, it is really nothing more challenging than 
pretending to be one of the so-called 'powers that be' and making a few 
phone calls to the right people. That is how things work in the corporate 
world. If the right people speak in the right ears, the story will be 
killed. The participants will still talk among themselves, a cover-up will 
be suspected, but in the historical record, nothing will be noted."



"The right people," Huffy said. "Who are the right people? Are we supposed 
to call the head of every news station down there? Every newspaper reporter? 
The chief of every law enforcement agency involved?"



"It won't be quite that complex," Slurry said. "We're well into the 
corporate take-over of WestHem here. All of the media down there-whether 
it's print media, radio, or television-is corporate owned by either Free 
Channel Communications, MasterCom Communications, or Chrono-Dangeson Inc. 
All we need to do to strangle this story is put in a call to each of the 
heads of the regional operations and pretend to be a higher-up in the chain. 
The regional directors are all far enough up on the ladder to know there are 
shady connections with the government. We tell them what Ken told that child 
molester-that this is a sensitive government operation, that they should not 
question too vigorously what's going on, and that they shouldn't speak of 
this to anyone. They will contact each media outlet under their command and 
pass on our orders."



"Will we be able to convince them we're sincere?" Huffy asked.



Slurry turned to Sampson. "The mouth's on your cock," she told him.



"We can convince them," he said confidently. "All we have to do is have the 
right name, location, and title and cross-reference it with the proper 
communications codes."



"But what about the cops?" Huffy asked. "They're not corporate owned, are 
they?"



"Not exactly, no," Rigger said. "But again, they will bend to the will if 
the order comes from high enough up and is directed at the right person. I 
think a phone call from the executive branch of the United States government 
to the mayor of Roseville would do the trick-if it could be pulled off."



Again, the eyes turned to Sampson, who nodded. "We can do it," he said.



"But what if we're wrong?" asked Huffy, who had responsibility for making 
the final decision.



"If we're wrong, then we might fuck up the time stream bad enough that the 
chain reaction destroys our own existence."



Huffy blinked. "And that's supposed to make me feel better?"



"No, that was a common sense answer to your question," Rigger said. "For 
what it's worth, though, I don't think we're wrong. This feels right. It 
feels like something we're supposed to do. I don't know if that's my own 
instinct telling me that, or if it's wishful thinking, or delusions of 
grandeur, or the guiding hand of some supernatural fate, but it feels like 
what we're supposed to do. Whenever I think about not doing it, my nerves 
jangle, like I'm considering a course of action that would be destructive."



Huffy considered this for a moment, pondering Rigger's words. Yes, as 
strange as it sounded, what was being suggested did feel like something they 
were supposed to do and the thought of not doing it did feel wrong, 
dangerous even. "Okay," she said, giving in and going with gut instinct. 
"Set it up and initiate it as soon as possible, within the hour if you can. 
Let's get it done so we can take that WestHem ship into custody."



+++++



It was 6:30 AM and Huffy was dozing in her command chair, sheer exhaustion 
having taken her an hour before. Her breath pulled slowly in and out of her 
lungs and a slight sheen of drool that had formed around her mouth drifted 
drop by tiny drop into the air where it would eventually be captured by the 
ventilation system. Those keeping stations at the various terminals in the 
bridge remained wide awake and did not begrudge their commander for nodding 
off. They worked eight hours shifts and were relieved. Huffy had no one to 
relieve her.



"Huff, this is Ron," Sampson's voice said from the intercom speaker.



Her eyes snapped open and then blinked a few times. She shook her head to 
clear it, looked up at the clock on the master computer screen, and said, 
"Go ahead, Ron."



"It looks like we pulled it off," he told her. "I've been tracking 
communications from the principals we contacted earlier and they've all 
ordered the story killed, or at least downplayed as much as possible. The 
press conference that Roseville PD was going to give has been cancelled and 
none of the media reps are even asking why. The newspaper reporters have 
been ordered to modify their stories. For the most part, no explanation was 
given or asked for. I get the impression this sort of thing is sadly common 
in this time period."



"There was nothing on the morning news broadcast then?" Huffy asked.



"Not a word," he confirmed. "We have monitored quite a bit of cellular phone 
activity between the various line cops who were covering the perimeter. They 
are certainly perplexed about the lack of attention this thing is receiving. 
Actually, perplexed is maybe a fucked up choice of words. They're rankin' 
pissed off and they are demanding to know why it's being covered up."



"And what kind of response are they getting?"



"Their sergeants are passing the requests up the chain of command and the 
lieutenants are jerking them off. This is, I imagine, pretty much what they 
would expect in such a situation anyway. Among themselves, they have all 
kinds of wild theories about what happened last night and why it's being 
stonewalled. Most of the theories revolve around a government or big 
business-related conspiracy."



Huffy nodded thoughtfully. "And are any of these theories even remotely 
close to what actually happened?"



Sampson barked out a laugh. "That time travelers from the future fought a 
battle outside the hospital over a ten year old boy in the surgery 
department? No, no one has come up with anything like that. My best guess is 
that Slurry and Rigger were right. We were supposed to do this. Everything 
is falling into place. The cops will be chattering about this among 
themselves in their after work bars for the next twenty years, but nothing 
official will go into the historical record that both WestHem and ourselves 
will study in preparation for this mission."



"So we pulled it off then?" Huffy said.



"Well, except for the WestHem doctor on the surface, we have. He is still at 
large down there and still capable of causing all kinds of havoc with the 
time stream."



"He's not just capable of it," Huffy said. "He intends to do it. But one 
thing at a time. We'll deal with him after we take the Rumsfeld down. Are 
Spankworth and the rest of the team stable?"



"As stable as they're likely to get for the next six hours or so. The team 
is standing by at the house where they were dropped off. The construction 
company is not scheduled to do any work on that particular structure for the 
next two days. The police still haven't found the missing patrol car and, in 
truth, they're not really looking for it all that hard since we blew all 
that smoke up their ass about downplaying things. Frazier is outside of an 
automobile dealer in Folsom. They open at 1000 hours. He's already destroyed 
all of his previous identification and we've activated the Kevin Freeman 
persona he was briefed on prior to deployment. He'll run the same bullshit 
about starting up a mobile coffee service and will purchase yet another van. 
With any luck, we'll have the team and the two WestHem soldiers back aboard 
the landing ship shortly after sunset tonight and back aboard this ship for 
the 0130 pass over."



She smiled tiredly. "It would nice if things went according to plan for 
once."



"Well, according to Slurry and Rigger, things did go according to plan. All 
of this was fated to happen."



She nodded. "Hopefully fate has no other surprises in store for us then," 
she rephrased. "Thanks for the update, Ron."



"No skin off my ass."



They signed off and Huffy undid the strap on her chair, allowing herself to 
float free. She took reports from the various helm stations, assuring 
herself that everything was as she had left it, and then floated over to the 
lavatory to relieve her bladder. After finishing her business, she stopped 
at the coffee machine and injected a fresh 350 milliliters of the potent 
brew into her vacuum cup. She returned to her seat, settled back in, and had 
a few sips. When she felt she was awake enough she looked at her bridge 
crew.



"What do you say, Dawgs?" she asked them. "Ready to kick some Earthling 
ass?"



A chorus of enthusiastic "fuckin' ayes" was their reply.



"Let's do it then," she said. She opened the ship's intercom system and 
sounded the general quarters alarm. "Battle stations everyone," she said. 
"All personnel report to your battle stations. We're gonna take down the 
Rumsfeld."



The crew was well drilled in their general quarters response. It took less 
than three minutes before all stations reported staffed and ready. Every 
person on the ship secured any loose objects, put on their emergency 
decompression suits and headed to their assigned battle stations. Airtight 
doors were sealed shut between decks to minimize decompression in the even 
of battle damage. The attack lasers and the anti-torpedo lasers were charged 
and swung toward the direction of the Rumsfeld. The torpedo crew, even 
though they knew they probably wouldn't be needed, loaded a decoy and a 
torpedo into two of the forward tubes.



"Good job, everyone," Huffy praised over the intercom. "I'll keep everyone 
updated on what we're doing. Huffy out." She flipped off the intercom and 
turned to the bridge crew. "Detection, let's let 'em know we're back here. 
Go active."



"Fuckin' aye, Huff," said Lieutenant Spammer. "Going active. This oughta 
jolt 'em a bit." He pushed a few buttons on his panel and Calistoga's active 
detection systems came to life. Detection lasers, active infrared scans, and 
radar beams washed over Rumsfeld, bathing it in electromagnetic energy and 
undoubtedly nearly overwhelming its passive detectors and ESM gear.



"Any response from the target?" Huffy asked after two minutes.



"Nothing," Spammer reported. "But you can bet your ass they know we're here. 
Probably too busy shitting themselves to try anything. Either that, or..." 
he looked at his screen. "We got something now. Their laser sets are going 
active. Looks like they're charging them up."



Huffy rolled her eyes. "It took them long enough," she said in disgust. 
"What kind of moronic crew do they have running that shitheap? They get 
active scanning from an obvious enemy from a range of ten kilometers and it 
takes them two fucking minutes to charge up their lasers?"



"Well," offered Sampson, who was monitoring developments from the next deck, 
"they sent a throw-away ship for the mission, it stands to reason they'd 
send a throw-away crew too. These are probably the biggest dumbshits in the 
WestHem navy we're dealing with here."



"Which makes them somewhat unpredictable, unfortunately," Huffy said. 
"Communications. Open a channel. Hail them on the Guard frequency using a 
directional radio beam. No sense having the natives pick up the 
conversation."



"Fuckin' aye, Huff," said Jason Goodbud, the communications officer. He 
fiddled with his panel for a moment and then said, "Channel open, Huff."



"Thanks, Goody," she told him. She flipped a switch, focusing the audio and 
video equipment on her. "WSS Rumsfeld," she said. "This is the MSS 
Calistoga, Commander Margo Huffy. As I'm sure you're aware by now, we're ten 
kilometers behind you, in your baffles. We have all of our attack lasers 
locked on your ship. Stand down your defensive and offensive weapons 
immediately and prepare to be boarded. Our orders are to take you into 
custody or destroy you."



"No response," Goodbud told her after a minute.



"Lasers are still charged," Spammer said. "The rear ones are probably locked 
onto our position by now."



"Nothing comes easy today, does it?" she said with a sigh. She let loose a 
moist fart and then pushed the transmit switch again. "Rumsfeld," she said, 
annoyance clearly in her tone, "ignoring us is not going to make us go away. 
I'm sure you've looked up the specifications on our ship by now and know 
that you're no match for us. Your lasers aren't even capable of burning 
through our hull. You have no chance whatsoever of escape. You will 
establish communications with us immediately and submit to boarding or we 
will burn that piece of shit you call a ship into a crisp and toss your 
asses into the sun on our way home. Respond immediately!"



"I'm getting a reply," Goodbud reported. "They're responding with 
directional on Guard."



"On the screen," Huffy ordered.



"Fuckin' aye," Goodbud said.



The image of a balding, middle-aged Earthling appeared on the screen. He was 
dressed in full naval uniform, per regulations aboard a WestHem ship. The 
expression on his face was nervous but controlled. "This is Captain 
Stanhope, commander of the WSS Rumsfeld," he said. "How dare you threaten 
us, Calistoga. You are in Earthling space in violation of the Outer Space 
Usage Treaty. I demand you pull back beyond the 100,000 kilometer 
territorial limit immediately."



Huffy rolled her eyes. "The Outer Space Usage Treaty was signed in 2058," 
she said. "It is currently 2007, as you'll recall."



"Don't mince semantics with me, greenie," Stanhope replied. "We are engaged 
in a peaceful, scientific historical research mission," Stanhope replied. 
"You are interfering with us in violation of international law."



"You are attempting to change the past, Stanhope," she told him. "We are 
stopping you from doing it. We have taken your special forces team into 
custody and we will now either take you and your ship into custody, or we 
will destroy you. I want those lasers on your ship powered down in the next 
twenty seconds or we will put a shot right through your bridge to convince 
you we're serious."



"That's an act of war!" Stanhope said. "You wouldn't dare!"



"You're not going to bluff and bluster your way out of this," Huffy told 
him. "I have my orders, they make sense, and I will follow them. You have 
fifteen seconds."



Stanhope continued to stare from the computer screen for a few seconds and 
then slowly he dropped his eyes. "All right," he said at last. "We'll power 
down our weapons."



"And submit to boarding," Huffy said. "That's the important part, remember?"



"And we'll submit to boarding," he agreed with a sigh. "But be advised, we 
will be lodging a formal complaint regarding this violation of the Outer 
Space Usage Treaty and the consequences are apt to be severe!"



"I'll be sure to keep that in mind," Huffy said, rolling her eyes again and 
making the universal jerking off motion with her right hand. "Now let's see 
those lasers powered down. You have ten seconds left."



Stanhope's image disappeared from the screen. Five seconds later, Spammer 
confirmed that Rumsfeld's lasers were powered down.



"Okay," Huffy said. "Now we're getting somewhere. She flipped on her 
intercom. "Special forces reserve team. The Rumsfeld has agreed to submit to 
boarding. Get your weapons ready and get aboard the tender. I want you dawgs 
on board that heap of shit in thirty minutes."



No sooner had Sergeant Bongwater of the reserve squad confirmed her order 
than Spammer announced a new detection.



"What is it?" Huffy asked.



"I'm getting a radio transmission from Rumsfeld," he reported. "Encrypted, 
burst signal, aimed at a com sat. The same code they used to contact the 
doctor earlier."



"Ship it to Intelligence," Huffy ordered. "Ron, give me a transcript as soon 
as it's broken."



"I'm getting it now, Huff," Sampson told her. "Should have it in a few 
seconds. We've already broken this code." There was a pause. "It's coming up 
now. He's hailing Doctor Lindley down on the surface."



"See if you can trace back any reply," Huffy ordered. "We need to pin down 
the good doctor's location."



"Reply is coming now."



"On speaker," Huffy said.



"Fuckin' aye."



"Lindley here," the cultured voice said from the sound system. "I copy the 
emergency signal. What's going on?"



"This is Stanhope," said the captain's voice. "A Martian stealth attack ship 
is ten kilometers behind us and has us pinned down. They're threatening to 
destroy us if we don't submit to boarding."



"I see," Lindley said slowly. "What are you going to do to counter it?"



"I've told them we're surrendering to buy us some time," Stanhope said. "We 
don't have a chance if we try to fight it out with them. Those greenie 
lasers are something to be reckoned with and this ship is so old they'll 
destroy us before we can even get a burn-through on their hull. I'm going to 
order the crew to abandon ship. We'll get in the lifeboats and use the 
emergency deceleration engines to bring everyone down to the surface."



"Won't they shoot down the lifeboats?" Lindley asked.



"That's a war crime," Stanhope told him with absurd confidence. "They 
wouldn't dare."



"I see," Lindley said. You could hear the doubt plainly in his tone. "But 
where would you come down at? Obviously you're not in the optimum window at 
the moment."



"I've already factored in the burn and reentry data. Starting in eighteen 
minutes we'll have a nine minute window that will bring us down in the 
Australian Outback," Stanhope said. "I'll get the crew to an isolated 
settlement and wait for them to... well, to submit to the effects of the 
inoculation. Then I'll program myself an identity and work my way back to 
the United States."



"And what about me?" Lindley asked him. "Do they know where I'm at? Or what 
identity I'm using?"



"There's no way they could," he said. "But I'd suggest you change your 
identity and go into hiding immediately just in case. Leave California and 
blend in somewhere without making any sign of your presence for at least six 
months. I'll do the same. We'll meet at 10 AM on June 1 of next year at the 
Washington Monument. By that time we should be in the clear and we can start 
putting our plans into action."



"Okay," Lindley said. "Good luck to you."



"And to you," Stanhope told him. "Remember, June 1, 10 AM, Washington 
Monument. A year after that, the world will be ours."



"The world will be ours," Lindley said with a chuckle.



There was a click and a hiss of static.



"Transmission has ended, Huff," Sampson said.



"So it has," she said. "Did you get a trace on the signal?"



"It originated from a government communications dish in the Arden Park 
section of Sacramento. That's the closest I could get. My guess is he was 
using a remote transmitter with a line of sight on the dish. He could be 
anywhere within eight square kilometers of it."



Huffy frowned. "And the population density within that radius?"



"Rankin' thick," he said sadly. "1254 private residential buildings, 234 
commercial buildings, eighteen major roads, 345 minor roads, and an 
estimated current population of 6453 people."



"So, in other words, there's not a chance in hell of finding him, even if we 
did have people in the vicinity?"



"Not unless he starts transmitting again and we can triangulate on the 
original signal," Sampson said.



"Which isn't very likely to happen," Huffy said. "Okay then. We've 
officially lost him."



"Sorry, Huff," Sampson said. "I tried."



"I know you did," she said. "Oh well, no sense crying over a wasted cumshot. 
We'll deal with Dr. Lindley somehow. In the meantime, I guess we oughtta 
send another transmission to Rumsfeld and let them know we're privy to their 
evil plot, huh?"



"I guess so," Sampson said.



"Goody," she said. "Open a channel on Guard again. I guess we're gonna have 
to get nasty with those folks."



"Nobody gets nasty like you do, Huff," Goodbud said.



+++++



Two hours later, Captain Stanhope sat before Ron Sampson and Huffy in 
Huffy's quarters. His uniform had been removed and he was now wearing a pair 
of Martian shorts and a half-shirt. His waist was strapped in with the 
standard Velcro fastener but he was otherwise unrestrained. Sampson had a 
police tanner clipped to his own waist in case Stanhope decided to do 
something unwise.



"I don't know where he's at," Stanhope said for perhaps the thirtieth time 
since being taken into custody. "If you heard the communication between us, 
then you know I told him to disappear."



"Yes, we heard the conversation," Sampson said. "We have a recording of it, 
as a matter of fact. We understand that you don't know exactly where Dr. 
Lindley is hiding out, but you must know something that will help us find 
him. Is there a general vicinity we should be looking? Is there a certain 
identity we should be searching for? Is there any means available to track 
him? How about we start with those questions and work our way forward from 
there?"



Stanhope looked at Sampson as if he were a moron. "I've given you my name, 
rank, and service number," he said. "That's all I'm required to give you 
even if you hadn't captured me during the illegal seizure of my vessel."



Sampson took a deep breath. He was by now quite tired of listening to 
Stanhope go on and on about the legal significance of the Calistoga seizing 
his vessel. "I can see," he said, allowing himself to float a little bit 
closer, "that you're not quite grasping all of the ramifications of your 
capture, Captain."



"What do you mean?"



"I've explained to you that we have a return wormhole scheduled to open for 
us and that we will be taking you and your crew back to Mars. You understand 
that, correct?"



Stanhope shrugged. "So you can stick me in one of your political prisons? Or 
execute me after some mock trial on your propaganda network? What of it?"



"Your fate is up to our political leadership," Sampson said. "Although I'm 
sure it is nothing like what you're suggesting, it is not for me to say what 
may or may not happen to you. That, however, is not my point. What I want 
you to understand is that you will be coming back to the present time with 
us. No matter what happens with Dr. Lindley, you will be going through that 
wormhole. Your little plot to use your knowledge of what will occur in 
history to take over the world and shape it to your choosing has failed. Are 
you down with that?"



He said nothing, but the angry downcast of his eyes showed that he was 
indeed down with that particular fact.



"Okay then," Sampson continued. "We are indeed on the same wavelength. Now 
let us take that thought a step further. What is going to happen if Dr. 
Lindley is allowed to have free rein down there on 21st Century Earth?"



"I don't know what you mean," he said.



"Then let me explain it in terms that even a moronic WestHem will 
understand. If Dr. Lindley is left to his own devices, he will destroy the 
time stream you and I both know. He will not simply alter a few minor pieces 
of it as your government planned, he will change everything we knew to his 
own bidding. You know that as well as I do. You yourself were planning to do 
the same thing, were you not?"



"I told you, we are here on a historical research mission," Stanhope 
repeated, as if by rote.



"Uh huh," Sampson said. "Let's just forget about the hows and whys here, 
shall we, Captain? Instead, allow us to consider for a moment the real 
dilemma we're facing with Dr. Lindley being out on the loose down there. 
What do you think is going to happen to us if everything we know is 
completely different in the present because Dr. Lindley has shaped 
everything to his advantage?"



Stanhope said nothing, although it was clear he had been given some food for 
thought.



"Let me give you our best estimate," Sampson said. "If your doctor is 
allowed to remain free, with all of his pre-knowledge in place, it is likely 
he will change the stream of history enough that the events that led us to 
be here in the first place will never occur. Do you know what that means?"



"It means we'll find a different solar system when we return," Stanhope said 
with a shrug. "One controlled by descendents of Lindley, perhaps and one in 
which Mars is probably still an Earth colony."



"Wrong," Sampson said. "I can see you're not grasping the big picture here. 
If Lindley changes things such as you describe then there will be no mission 
to the past. If there's no mission to the past, there will be no return 
wormhole to open up for us."



"No return wormhole?" Stanhope said, showing actual alarm for the first 
time.



"No return wormhole," Huffy said, taking a thoughtful drag from her 
cigarette. "Why would there be if there was never a mission for anyone to 
return from in the first place? So there we'll be, sitting out in deep space 
beyond Pluto, waiting for a doorway that will never open. And that's not 
even the worst of it. Do you want to know what the worst of it is?"



"What?" Stanhope said slowly.



"We only have enough propellant for one more acceleration and deceleration 
cycle. We will burn out our fuel tanks getting into position for the 
wormhole opening. If it doesn't open, we'll be stuck out there."



"Stuck out in deep space?" he said with horror. That was every naval 
officer's greatest nightmare.



"Well, not exactly stuck for good," Huffy said. "If the doorway doesn't open 
we'll have enough propellant left in the tanks to burn at a quarter of a G 
for maybe four hours. That's just enough to get us moving at around 145,000 
kilometers per hour. Not very fast, I'm sure you'll agree. Our wormhole site 
is 45 Astronomical Units from Earth. If you're remiss in your addition 
skills, that means it's about 6.7 billion kilometers away."



"That's a long motherfucking drive," Sampson said.



"Very long," Huffy agreed. "At that velocity it would take us almost five 
years to return to the only part of the solar system where civilization 
exists in this time. Five years, Stanhope. We have enough consumables on 
board to last maybe six months if we ration them, maybe eight if we ration 
them severely. If we resort to cannibalism we might make it another five or 
six months but of course by then we'll all be dying of scurvy anyway. You 
remember reading about scurvy in your history classes? A horrible way to go, 
I'm told."



Her speech was having the desired effect on Stanhope. The horror in his face 
was quite plain by now. "We need to stay here then," he said. "Accept that 
the wormhole isn't going to open and go down to the surface. We could live 
like kings down there!"



Huffy shook her head sadly. "Alas, that is not to be," she said. "My orders 
are quite clear and my common sense tells me I should follow them. No matter 
what happens, we are not to go down to the surface and start interacting 
with the time stream, especially not in the numbers we have on this ship. 
No, I'm afraid that we will depart Earth orbit in one week no matter what 
the outcome below and we will position ourselves at the wormhole as 
scheduled. If it doesn't open I will use the remaining propellant to aim 
this ship at the sun. Of course we'll all be long dead before it gets there, 
but what can you do?"



"You would commit suicide and kill your entire crew just to keep them off 
the Earth?" he asked. "Off an Earth that is already going to be changed by 
Lindley? That's insane!"



"You don't have much room to moralize to me about killing my entire crew," 
Huffy said sternly. "You were willing to do the same to yours, if you 
recall."



Stanhope didn't have anything to say to this. He could hardly deny his 
participation in that event.



"And, in answer to your argument, yes, I'm willing to do that and my crew is 
willing to accept that. They agreed to such a thing in advance, before they 
boarded this vessel back on Triad. They knew this mission might mean their 
lives and they all know their own lives are not nearly as important as the 
ninety million Martians we're here protecting."



"But the time stream will already be changed!" Stanhope shouted again. 
"Lindley is already down there and has already disappeared. If you go down 
to the surface to live you might be able to counter him. I can help you! You 
can't just kill us all! You can't!"



Huffy shook her head again. "Not to be," she said. "We are going to leave 
orbit in one week and we are going to be in position when it's time for that 
wormhole to open. That is all there is to it. So, my suggestion to you is 
for you to assist us in any way you can to get our hands on Dr. Lindley in 
that time period. If we get him, the wormhole will more than likely open as 
scheduled. If we don't, it's more than likely a slow, agonizing death out in 
deep space. You decide, Captain. How's it going to be?"