communicate with you. How’re we going to coordinate our transfer back here?”
Leroy Bitterman politely raised a finger to answer. “We spent some considerable time talking about that. I think the only plan which makes any sense is this—and it assumes that you, in fact, disappear and that someone else from this other dimension, if that’s what it is, appears in your place: we’ll give you one week to the second to locate Dr. Loughty and bring her back to the exact spot where she emerged. And hopefully a week will be enough time for your Mr. Jones to find Brandon Woodbourne. Then we’ll re-run Hercules and if all goes well we’ll exchange you and Dr. Loughty with Woodbourne and whomever.”
John frowned. “What if I can’t find her in a week or Trevor can’t find Woodbourne in a week?”
Quint said, “We will repeat the experiment once weekly three more times.”
“What if a month’s not enough time? Then what?” John asked.
“Then you’ll be out of luck or long dead,” Smithwick said tartly. “The government will not permit this situation to linger beyond a month. MAAC will be shut down. Permanently. We’ll come up with a story to explain Dr. Loughty’s death and lack of earthly remains to her family. Woodbourne will disappear for good once he’s captured. As he seems to be dead already I don’t think we’ll be exactly violating his due process and civil rights. That will leave only you. Do you have any family, Mr. Camp?”
He thought about it for all of a second. There was only his brother, Kyle, and they no longer talked. “I won’t be missed.”
Smithwick smiled. “Excellent.”
The day arrived.
John left his dirty dishes in the sink and turned off the lights. He considered slipping a flask of booze in his back pocket but thought better of it.
He arrived at the lab early but Trevor was already waiting for him in his office offering a hot mug.
“I hope they’ve got coffee where I’m going,” John said.
“Among other things,” Trevor said.
“Like what?”
“Oxygen for starts.”
“You’re putting my mind at ease.”
“Happy to help, guv.”
John stopped smiling. “You’ve got to find Woodbourne.”
“I’ll find him.”
With time ticking down John cloistered himself behind his closed door and got himself strapped up with a loaded 9mm pistol on his hip, five extra fifteen-round mags on his belt, a tactical knife with a seven-inch blade, a Leatherman utility tool, his old military wristwatch, a Zippo lighter, a back-up metal tube of matches and a compass. His small backpack was stuffed with a plastic poncho, a few flares, plastic restraints, some rope and wire. That was it. There wasn’t exactly a guidebook to offer tips on being a prepared traveler.
The phone rang startling him. It was Matthew calling from the control room. They were ready.
Stepping off the lift at the control-room level, John was aware that everyone in the corridor was staring at him. He entered the control room and the stares continued.
Matthew greeted him. “All set?”
“I am.”
“We’re at the five-minute countdown. The synchrotron’s at full power. You should take your mark.”
An X of electrical tape marked the precise spot where Emily had been standing. John stood on it and looked up at the theater of technicians busy with their tasks but still sneaking glances his way. He felt queasy, like an actor waiting for the curtain to rise on a play in which he hadn’t learned his lines. Quint stood at the rear clicking his ballpoint pen. Suddenly the double doors opened and Trevor came in leading a phalanx of MI5 agents kitted out in full riot gear, sporting short-barreled assault rifles, sidearms on their thighs and Tasers on their belts. They fanned out, encircling the room and when they were in position, Trevor locked the doors.
He gave John a salute and told Quint that this time, no one was getting out.
As the countdown progressed John stood like a statue on his mark,
Leroy Bitterman politely raised a finger to answer. “We spent some considerable time talking about that. I think the only plan which makes any sense is this—and it assumes that you, in fact, disappear and that someone else from this other dimension, if that’s what it is, appears in your place: we’ll give you one week to the second to locate Dr. Loughty and bring her back to the exact spot where she emerged. And hopefully a week will be enough time for your Mr. Jones to find Brandon Woodbourne. Then we’ll re-run Hercules and if all goes well we’ll exchange you and Dr. Loughty with Woodbourne and whomever.”
John frowned. “What if I can’t find her in a week or Trevor can’t find Woodbourne in a week?”
Quint said, “We will repeat the experiment once weekly three more times.”
“What if a month’s not enough time? Then what?” John asked.
“Then you’ll be out of luck or long dead,” Smithwick said tartly. “The government will not permit this situation to linger beyond a month. MAAC will be shut down. Permanently. We’ll come up with a story to explain Dr. Loughty’s death and lack of earthly remains to her family. Woodbourne will disappear for good once he’s captured. As he seems to be dead already I don’t think we’ll be exactly violating his due process and civil rights. That will leave only you. Do you have any family, Mr. Camp?”
He thought about it for all of a second. There was only his brother, Kyle, and they no longer talked. “I won’t be missed.”
Smithwick smiled. “Excellent.”
The day arrived.
John left his dirty dishes in the sink and turned off the lights. He considered slipping a flask of booze in his back pocket but thought better of it.
He arrived at the lab early but Trevor was already waiting for him in his office offering a hot mug.
“I hope they’ve got coffee where I’m going,” John said.
“Among other things,” Trevor said.
“Like what?”
“Oxygen for starts.”
“You’re putting my mind at ease.”
“Happy to help, guv.”
John stopped smiling. “You’ve got to find Woodbourne.”
“I’ll find him.”
With time ticking down John cloistered himself behind his closed door and got himself strapped up with a loaded 9mm pistol on his hip, five extra fifteen-round mags on his belt, a tactical knife with a seven-inch blade, a Leatherman utility tool, his old military wristwatch, a Zippo lighter, a back-up metal tube of matches and a compass. His small backpack was stuffed with a plastic poncho, a few flares, plastic restraints, some rope and wire. That was it. There wasn’t exactly a guidebook to offer tips on being a prepared traveler.
The phone rang startling him. It was Matthew calling from the control room. They were ready.
Stepping off the lift at the control-room level, John was aware that everyone in the corridor was staring at him. He entered the control room and the stares continued.
Matthew greeted him. “All set?”
“I am.”
“We’re at the five-minute countdown. The synchrotron’s at full power. You should take your mark.”
An X of electrical tape marked the precise spot where Emily had been standing. John stood on it and looked up at the theater of technicians busy with their tasks but still sneaking glances his way. He felt queasy, like an actor waiting for the curtain to rise on a play in which he hadn’t learned his lines. Quint stood at the rear clicking his ballpoint pen. Suddenly the double doors opened and Trevor came in leading a phalanx of MI5 agents kitted out in full riot gear, sporting short-barreled assault rifles, sidearms on their thighs and Tasers on their belts. They fanned out, encircling the room and when they were in position, Trevor locked the doors.
He gave John a salute and told Quint that this time, no one was getting out.
As the countdown progressed John stood like a statue on his mark,
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