 
The Time Doctors' Chronicles... by J.E. Moore

ISBN-9781311270382 ©2016

Table of Contents

Dedication and acknowledgement

Prologue
Chapter One: The American Revolution
Chapter Two: The American Civil War

Chapter Three: World War Two

Chapter Four: The Apocalypse

Chapter Five: Armageddon and Beyond

A Bonus short story – 'Code name: Pandora

Dedication and acknowledgement

"I think I can do this."

"You can do anything you want," she agreed.

This book is dedicated to Joyce, my wife and soulmate who has loved and supported me in all my endeavors.

This is what she does.

We shall share this victory together.

And... a special thanks to my friend, Gary Chapman for his proofreading and analysis.

Prologue

Have you ever experienced Déjà vu, the feeling of your having been somewhere before but can't remember the details of why? Perhaps there is a valid reason. You may have lived in a different past or future which was altered by a Time Traveler's intervention. Do you really want to know who you are... or were? Read the story, then decide.

Chapter One: The American Revolution

The beginning, the year is 1990

"My name is Maxwell Bitterman and I still find it difficult to believe what I and my associate, Jean-Luc Debois have accomplished within the last six months. We have decided our discoveries, inventions and escapades shall not become known until after the last man standing of we two, has passed away into the Lord's promise and even ten years beyond. On said day, The Holy See of the Vatican will be presented our documentation which is currently being stored in a secure vault by Lloyd's of London. We do this in order to protect our fellow citizens and loved ones in hope to hold fast to this present system of things and be able to rest in peace. God save the King, President, Dictator or whomever is in charge of the American government hereafter, amen."

"In addition, we also choose at this time, not to continue the fight if there are further occurrences. Our current burden of knowledge and its possible consequences taxes us to our very souls and makes one wonder: Is any part of history real? Does there exist an unknown factor in the equation of the universe? Or is the ability to bend and reshape time to achieve one's desire the constant itself? I pray not."

"Therefore, based on our extraordinary venture the questions which now beg to be answered between Jean-Luc and I on a personal level are: Was the famous writer, H.G. Wells a visionary, a modern prophet or a time traveler? And... are visitors from the future among us here and now? Will today's or tomorrow's unexpected changes be known only to us again? Our journey began just outside Falls Church, Virginia. The year is irrelevant as you will see."

It was Monday morning and the two men were reviewing the newspaper after finishing breakfast then planned as usual to retreat to their respective underground laboratories in a facility built during the Cold War with the Soviet Union. Located in the rural countryside, their abode had been intended as a secret, bombproof shelter for a coalition of upper echelon, senior politicians in case of an attack on Washington, D.C. The facility never progressed beyond constructing a realistic farmhouse and barn atop a subterranean complex which hadn't become fully operational. It had concrete walls infused with lead to stop radiation, a purified, recycled air/ ventilation system, lighting, plumbing and a top of the line, regenerative power plant which had the capacity to run a small town. DeBois' great uncle bought the compound at a steal when the threat of its becoming known it was being funded by the U.S. taxpayer's dollar for a clique of Survivalist, blueblood politicians as a refuge after the enemy missiles had destroyed Greater D.C. Over the years Max, an electrical engineer possessing a Doctorate in physics, with his friend Jean-Luc, a biochemist and medical doctor, were able to establish large, cutting edge laboratories for each's expertise.

Both men were well off and single; their lives were filled with research, experimentation and applied development. The associates' blood lines included Albert Einstein and Louis Pasteur, although both Max and Jean-Luc's branch of the family tree had been removed and not officially recognized due to past, denounced lifestyles such as debauchery, adultery, illegitimate children, etcetera by their predecessors.

"Max," remarked Jean-Luc, "I wonder why this newspaper, The Colonial Chronicle was delivered here this morning instead of our daily Washington Post. It has a distinct British flavor and I haven't found any material presented with an American viewpoint."

"I agree. The A section keeps quoting the positions of the Parliament in London and the Sports is filled with soccer, rugby and even cricket," returned Bitterman. "Perhaps, it's a special edition to show how the English view us from across the Pond."

"I am not entertained," returned DeBois. "I have been following the U.S. Open tennis tournament in Flushing Meadows and there's no mention of it. There's a very good French player who has advanced to the quarter finals. Quite unusual, we are known best as clay court players and Flushing has fast, hard courts."

"I am aware. I hope he does well." A pause, "What say we treat ourselves to lunch today away from our usual café in the grocery store shopping center? How about a ride into town to find a new eatery and purchase a proper newspaper?" suggested Max.

Jean-Luc wholeheartedly agreed and the two friends and associates drove away from the barn where Bitterman kept his vintage BMW which he had purchased direct from the Munich factory twenty-some years ago while touring the olde country on Holiday.

"You know monsieur, I always get a little nervous when you drive this right-side, steering wheel vehicle. Why didn't you buy the standard American version?"

"I was so enamored by London's beauty and research opportunities I strongly considered establishing permanent residence," answered Max. "As for the BMW brand, I am German. I'm sure you sympathize. After all, you own a French car."

"Oui, except I bought my Peugeot in Philadelphia and the steering wheel is on the left where it should be," retorted DeBois. Neither man had noticed Jean-Luc's coupe, still parked in the barn now had the steering wheel on the right-side also.

They rode the farm's mile-long, asphalt driveway to the connecting freeway which went directly into the town of Falls Church five miles distant. "Traffic appears light today," commented Max and was about to turn right onto the four-lane, divided highway.

"Stop!" yelled Jean-Luc and seized Bitterman's shoulder. "Look." Coming toward them was an eighteen wheeler in the left lane – on their side.

"Oh my," Max mumbled. "Thank you so much. What is that fool doing there? He could kill someone... a lot of some ones," and leaned on the horn to gain his attention.

"He must have fallen asleep," assessed DeBois. Then unexpectedly the truck driver gave a friendly wave but made no attempt to pull off or crossover to where he should be after passing them.

"He must be crazy!" shouted Jean-Luc.

"Or maybe not," stated Bitterman as he pointed to four more cars coming behind him and the traffic on the other side of the four-lane flowing in the opposite direction. Finally after a little thought, Max said, "This reminds me of the traffic in England."

DeBois stared in puzzlement, "Do you think it has something to do with road construction or Civil Defense? What shall we do?" wondered Jean-Luc aloud.

"I can handle it," stated Max. "Let's investigate this anomaly." He smiled, "After all, we still have to eat, monsieur." His wary passenger just grunted.

After they had traversed a mere three miles they spied in the distance what appeared to be a roadside eatery and slowed. "I see a number of parked cars," commented Max. "Normally, that's a good indicator."

"Yes," agreed Jean-Luc. "This would be much better than roaming about the village in search of a decent establishment."

Bitterman turned into the parking lot – had they continued on the highway they would have soon encountered a sixty kilometer speed sign. "Check it out," said Max. "It resembles an old English pub. How quaint. Didn't there used to be a Denny's here?"

"I don't know anything about the prior establishment. As for this, it appears quaint with the possibility of providing palatable food, I hope," responded DeBois. "If this were a real pub in London town there would be no food, merely warm beer and deep-fried potato chips. Remember, the Brits are famous for drinking their lunch. Such Cretins. All of France knows a glass of fine wine and a few small, sweet cakes enjoyed outside under a veranda is the only civilized way to pass the noonday partaking."

Upon entering they noticed a periodical stand filled with several publications which appeared to be British or European. Max quipped, "Jean-Luc, did I make a wrong turn at the Atlantic Ocean or what?"

After seating themselves and reviewing the menus placed on the table, Bitterman noted, "Yes, it appears we're about to dine in an authentic English pub replica. Fish and chips, bangers and mash, kippers and that disgusting blood pudding for dessert. Yuck." A service person passed by and Max inquired, "Hello there. Is anyone going to take our order, sir?"

"Pardon?" with a pause. "Why no, you go to the counter, place your order and they will serve you when it's ready," answered the young lad wearing three-quartered length tapered pants and a ruffled white shirt. Eying the pair's frumpy, casual attire," Are you from another country?"

"Err, no... we don't get out much. We're out of touch with the current trends."

When it came time to pay the bill, they discovered all their currency had mysteriously changed into British sterling, the reason being they both kept their wallets in bedrooms above the insulated subterranean lab.] "Jean-Luc, I think it's best not to call attention to this oddity at this time," and paid with a question to the cash register operator. "Would you please tell us the location of the closest library?" and received directions which placed it next to the local post office.

"The library, Max?" asked his friend.

"Yes, something looks awful fishy and I don't mean the cod," answered Bitterman. "If I'm correct we're going to require a history lesson or two. [In 1990 the Internet's W.W.W. was not available] Think about my invention I've been working on over the last few years, now add the possibility someone else has already done it and altered the past which of course would impact the future, our present."

"My Lord," gasped DeBois. "Not that. Let's hope instead we've driven into a grand-style, British celebration or a massive European-themed amusement park. Those two possibilities are plausible considerations. After all, we haven't visited Falls Church for nigh on two years. Who knows what changes have occurred."

Upon arrival at the library they saw a Union Jack flag flying outside the post office and similar little flag decals on the mail trucks. Max gave Jean-Luc a I-told-you-so glance and received a sad shake of the head from his colleague.

Bitterman inquired where they may find material regarding the American Revolution. The woman appeared puzzled at first then replied, "Do you mean the North American Colonial Uprising?" Somewhat saddened, they nodded 'Yes' and were directed to its designated section. The men flipped through dozens of books embellishing the English campaigns, victories and military commanders' glory. Finally, they came to what they were seeking: The deciding defeat of the rebel colonist's Army of the Potomac at Valley Forge. As they poured through the pages they learned: English forces had captured and occupied Philadelphia, the largest American city, the fledging Continental Congress had fled to York, Pennsylvania only to have their temporary barn meeting place surrounded by Loyalists militia who locked and burned it to the ground. All perished in a fiery death – a fine example had been made. The Royal Navy had blockaded all the major ports on the eastern seacoast preventing any assistance to the disloyal Colonial rebels. The French attempted to help the upstart Americans by delivering supplies via Canada but it was too little, too late and too distant to be effective. After numerous skirmishes both enemy forces hunkered-down to wait out the impending winter. After the American general, George Washington fell ill and died from pneumonia at Valley Forge in January his eleven thousand man, rag-tag army dwindled to a mere four thousand due to infectious diseases, lack of food and cowardly desertions. The valiant British Army attacked and crushed the remaining rebellious mob in the early Spring then quick marched on New York and secured the city. The French offered a formal apology to England for interfering – stating they were misled by Benjamin Franklin and withdrew from the North American continent. They also ceased hostile actions worldwide against Great Britain in a gesture of penitence. The Uprising had been quashed and peace ensued under the rightful reign of the Crown.

It was nine p.m., the library's closing time and the attendant called to advise the only two remaining patrons. The pair having garnished enough information, shuffled out in a dejected mood. Hardly a word had been spoken on the return trip to their farmhouse. Jean-Luc made a point to look inside his auto after Max had parked the BMW in the attached garage to the barn and saw his Peugeot's steering wheel was now on the right side and sighed. They bade each other 'good night', knowing little sleep would ensue and a long discussion was expected in the morning.

The next day...

"I don't think my digestive system could tolerate a steady diet of that English swill they call food," bemoaned DeBois.

"I agree," returned Bitterman. "But I believe greater issues are at the forefront. For example, are we now to expect knocks on the door for inspections and permits? Are we at risk for our secret laboratories and especially the subterranean power plant? Who knows what our current status is? Are we going to be living on the street in a month or worse, have the Bobbies arrive and charge us with being some kind of public threat? I can just imagine us stating in court: Sorry, your Honor, we woke up one day and our world had been turned upside down. You and all these English types shouldn't exist. I don't believe we could find a barrister willing to present that type of defense. We would be locked away forever for being deep-cell terrorists or bound and confined in a padded room."

"Indeed, but what shall we do? We already resemble outsiders... foreigners to the general population. I guess I could return to my birthplace, France and you to Germany. Is that what we want? Is that our sole recourse?" DeBois fretted aloud.

"No... I don't think so," countered Max. "I tried to consider all our options last night; my head has not yet hit the pillow." Jean-Luc responded he had gone without sleep as well. "Statistically, we can't be the only people who remember our now former American way of life. I'm sure other unusual circumstances have insulated scores of people from being assimilated by this shocking turn of events. I suspect the lead infused into the bunker's concrete was our determining factor. If by chance, we so-called survivors were all assembled in one place we would probably be looked upon as a lunatic fringe by the rest of the world. This has happened before. And also, I seriously doubt the other unaffected souls possess the resources to facilitate a return to what we feel is the true past. No, I believe we alone have within reach the unique ability to correct this altercation in history. But first my friend, do we really want to? Is this apparent British government better or worse than what we had? That is the real question we must decide before planning or attempting a rectification."

DeBois gulped while in deep thought, "I didn't consider you and I becoming an instrument of change. We would be two against the world, history and Time itself. It is almost an incomprehensible notion... but tell me more."

"As you know," began Bitterman, "I have been working on my project a little over four years. Its function has been feasible on paper for quite some time. I have not previously attempted to assemble and test its validity due to the fact several key components didn't exist until a few weeks ago. I successfully invented what was lacking and tested each circuit pack separately. In theory, I have everything I require. The next step would be to put the total package together and give it a whirl, then proceed based on the test results."

"Ye gads, do you mean your transporter machine is almost ready for an actual test?" Max nodded his chin. "That's beyond amazing!" declared DeBois.

"Yes... and maybe not so amazing either," injected Bitterman. "From what we gleaned in the library it may have been done before. If so, it was probably by someone from the future. I have strong doubts an operational machine existed in the past. They simply did not have the technology available." He reflected, "Yes, I'll be ready for a trial run in about ten days. Would you be so kind as to assist me?"

"Of course, mon ami! I would be honored. Whatever you desire... except I decline in advance the opportunity to be a test subject."

Max smiled and consoled, "I think we can work around that." A faint look of relief washed over DeBois. "And on your side of the fence Jean-Luc, how goes the research on your project? Are you making progress?"

"Why yes, and thank you for asking. I also am nearing a test stage," he answered. "Isn't that quite the coincidence?"

"Indeed," commended Bitterman. "You being able to temporarily render a living mammal invisible and return it to its natural state unharmed is beyond amazing also."

"I have to confess, I had to make some concessions and adjustments," conceded DeBois.

"I found on a molecular level, visual dematerialization cannot be achieved without fatal consequences when returning to its original state so I developed an alternate chemical process which ironically has been right under our noses for thousands of years. It's the ability to adapt color-wise to our immediate surroundings such as numerous creatures already do, most notably lizards. Likewise, my formula exists solely on paper but I stand ready to mix the chemicals and begin trials."

"Wonderful. It should be very interesting, especially since a human would have to be naked to blend in," quipped Max. "I think I'll pass on being your guinea pig also."

"Oui, a minor complication but my project is still not as exciting as your time machine."

Taking a step forward, "Our tasks are at hand and it appears we're going to have to pick up the pace my friend," as he patted Jean-Luc's shoulder... "before the new civil authorities discover us and force a shutdown."

DeBois paced about then returned to stare face to face with his associate. "Do you realize we have inadvertently answered your previous question of, "Do we want to effect a change... a correction in the time line? Based on our presently stated progress reports, the answer appears to be a resounding Yes, or at least to have a proper go at it."

"You're correct my friend," agreed Bitterman. As he returned his friend's earnest gaze, "Our mission henceforth is to travel into the past and prevent the father of our adopted country, George Washington from dying at Valley Forge." They shook hands. "God save and direct us. Tomorrow we begin our journey."

The testing began and after many long work days...

Max explained to Jean-Luc the basics of his first procedure. "I shall begin by creating a molecular blueprint of my three test objects by using a specially designed spectrum analyzer I developed by combining and modifying four currently in-use hospital lab screening instruments. By mapping the subjects before and after then making a comparison, I'll have a concise picture of which materials or chemicals suffer distortions or deterioration."

"Are you anticipating a problem?" asked DeBois. "And, what are you using for test subjects?"

"I have no negative expectations regarding stability and frankly would be quite surprised if a fault occurs at this stage." He appeared confident. "For my first trial I'm going to use a crystal wine glass, a raw egg and a fresh-cut rose. Of course, all is predicated on the belief I am truly able to send them back in time and effect a successful retrieval."

"How will you be able to distinguish whether they simply disappear then reappear at the origination point without actually traversing back and forth within a time warp?" poised Jean-Luc.

"That will not be ascertained by this particular experiment. I am merely testing structural continuance and integrity. If all goes well, the validity of which you speak will be established on my second test when I retrieve an object from a known fixed site in the past and draw it into the future – being our present. Patience, my friend." Bitterman had previously placed the three selected objects on the floor under a seven foot high mounted apparatus which resembled a three-foot wide sun lamp. A six inch in diameter coax cable connected the lamp to a computer approximately in size to an SUV automobile. "Would you like to observe the first test?"

"Of course," bubbled DeBois. "I expected your apparatus to be on a much grander scale, at least comparable in size to our farmhouse above."

"That line of thought would have been logical ten years ago, but not so now. My invention incorporates hundreds of nano-circuit boards thus greatly reducing size," explained Max. "That being said, let's flip the switch so to speak and see what happens," as he typed in a series of codes. "You'll need to learn this procedure. I'll teach you later but don't fret; it's all documented in the instruction manual lying on the console."

The first test had been a success in every regard and the sequential two others were completed within ten days. Bitterman had been able to establish a rough time line and most importantly send and retrieve a small, live potbellied pig in what he estimated to be a seven day loop. This selected mammal had been chosen on Doctor DeBois' recommendation because of its similar anatomy to a human's and was easier to physically control compared to a jittery monkey. Jean-Luc performed the before and after molecular scans, physical exams and blood work. He also personally used a second pig for his own experiment because its skin was readily visible. His tests were also successful – the animal was able to blend color-wise with its environment. Both men were ready to commence with their final experiment. DeBois also served as his own test subject and it went as planned, all that remained was post screening and several days of observation. Max's test was to be a bit more complicated.

"I hope you weren't offended by my joke when you were naked and going through your color transformations," offered Max.

"Oh, are you referring to when you asked me if I had ever considered having a penal implant?" responded Jean-Luc. "The answer is, no. We French understand technique, not size is of essence. Please try to remember your little sarcastic humor when I'm typing the codes into the time machine for your transfer. We'll see who has the smallest weenie then, monsieur. Oui?"

Max's final test consisted of his being sent back four weeks with Jean-Luc at the controls. After arriving at the projected site which was still located within the laboratory and verifying his surroundings he would circle the date on a wall-mounted calendar and pencil in the precise time to the second of his arrival. He then would trigger a handheld transponder which activated a red light on the console, rang a bell and printed a message: Ready to come home! Upon receiving, Doctor DeBois was to input the return code sequence which would allow the time machine to zero & lock-in Bitterman's coordinates then retrieve the subject from any location within a hundred miles. All factions performed perfectly and Max's calendar time stamp was off only by five seconds which he attributed later to being 'travel time'.

"Jean-Luc, thank you so much for your assistance. I felt no discomfort. At first I was surrounded by an impenetrable bright, white light which quickly faded to reality in ten seconds. I believe it would be advisable to have one's eyes closed on future excursions. Now, I need you to check me out and in doing please pay special attention to my vision." Again all of Max's tests and examinations during the following five days passed with flying colors.

"My friend, I believe it's time to review our accomplishments and reevaluate whether we still wish to pursue the course we discussed two months ago," poised Bitterman. "How say ye?" Doctor DeBois gave the American 'thumbs up' with a sly grin.

"I concur," joined Max. "Let's sleep well tonight. We've earned our satisfactions. Tomorrow we shall devise a Game Plan to save George Washington from dying at Valley Forge!"

Max insisted on being the traveler. He was younger and in better physical condition but the overriding factor was if something went awry with his invention it would basically have been caused by his error or oversight and the consequences should fall on his shoulders.

"I wasn't able to determine the exact date of Washington's death," stated Max. "Were you?"

"Nor I either," answered Jean-Luc. "My best guess is it occurred between December fifteen and February first based on the arrival of the Continent Army at Valley Forge and the fateful Spring British attack which destroyed them. It was very possible an Arctic cold front with sleet descended within that time frame and he contracted pneumonia, after all he was susceptible to bronchial infections. He died of such a malady twenty-three years later in our recorded history."

"True," agreed Bitterman. "So, it would be best to immunize him before contraction. If I infiltrate the camp after he falls ill it will be much more difficult to gain access to his person and his chance of recovery would be severely in jeopardy. I'm sure he will be under heavy guard and have a doctor in attendance. Even if I arrive early it would still be a coin flip to intervene and save him." Max paced for a moment while remembering Washington's actual demise and mumbled, "I hope they didn't use those damn leeches in Valley Forge for treatment. That's the precise reason he died at home within three days of contraction in 1799."

"We should prepare for either scenario," advised DeBois.

"Quite so. Do you have any suggestions of what I should take with me?"

"Your provisions will be limited," stated Jean-Luc. "You'll need a potato sack to carry two changes of basic clothing, a coat, an extra pair of socks, undies and a few bits of silver hidden somewhere on your person. I leave its whereabouts to your discretion. Your trousers must have stitched inside pockets to conceal the transponder and medicines. A syringe would be wonderful but if discovered it would be deemed an unknown type of assassination weapon. Possibly even a mechanization of the devil... which then as their religious doctrine dictates, you would put to death in a most horrific manner. Therefore, you must administer the vaccines in secret without suspicion in a powdered form. Assembling the proper clothing will not be difficult: poor, worn and dirty will blend in just fine. For dialect, unless you have Shakespearean play experience to match old English speech and American ruffian slang I would advise you to be semi-mute or emulate a stutter to hide our present language structure and vocabulary. Another difficulty to expect, you're going to be quite uncomfortable on your journey to Valley Forge, especially after your arrival and duration in the encampment. The living conditions were extremely harsh: near starvation, lack of material provisions, typhus and probably several other diseases you may be exposed to which were not recorded due to their unknown origin. Oh, and not to forget the number four killer in the entire world during that period was Diarrhea caused by amebic dysentery. Bitterman frowned. "Moving pass that most unpleasant thought, did you know more than three thousand men died or deserted during that winter's bivouac? Let's return to desired qualifications, it would be most helpful you have experience with horses or the military regiment."

"I do," answered Max. "I was raised on a farm and served in Germany's National Defense Guard – Intelligence Division for a tour. I agree with your assessments and estimate we shall require two additional weeks preparation before attempting a time transfer. Please make sure I receive every immunization possible related to their conditions." Then in a feeble attempt to lighten the gravity of their venture, "It appears probable I may drop a few of those unwanted fatty pounds I've been trying to lose for several years. So, old chap, even if our mission fails and we don't attain the main objective... and I survive, it won't be for naught. I shall be slimmer and fitter. Ta Dah!" Jean-Luc didn't smile in approval of his forced humor.

The two scientists moved the time machine in a U Haul truck and rented a warehouse in the old industrial section of Trenton, New Jersey which was located within the device's 100 mile retrieval range of Valley Forge. Trenton had been selected due to its being the Revolution's supply center for Washington's troops. Food laden war trains consisted of wooden wagons drawn by horses which were dispatched monthly to wherever the American Army was encamped and as a result of the danger there was a constant demand for laborers, especially teamsters (wagoneers) – no one wanted to be working in a war zone. Bitterman's first task was to locate the supply depot, then hire on and attach himself to an outgoing train to Valley Forge.

Carrying his potato sack of personal items over his shoulder and wearing the proper clothing of the period - the hidden 21st century items sewn within, he stood poised under the transporter cone. "I believe I'm ready Jean-Luc. Let's do this before I develop second thoughts."

"Oui, I also am ready on your command," returned his friend. "Remember monsieur, you can always activate the retrieval signal device if the mission or your safety is in jeopardy. Your return is paramount."

"Is it?" wondered Max in silence. "No, I believe George Washington's survival trumps my own. Soldiers put themselves in harm's way every day; am I not a Patriot also?" With a raised chin he requested, "Type the sequence codes please." DeBois leaned forward, his fingers in motion. "Fire in the Hole!" shouted Bitterman.

Jean-Luc thought upon hearing Max's battle cry, "Perhaps the man has become a bit too Americanized from watching so many old movies," as his friend disappeared within a brilliant burst of white light.

Trenton

On this excursion, Max closed his eyes during transport and his sight readjusted faster without disorientation. He materialized undetected in a sparsely wooded glen a hundred yards south of the main road into Trenton. "Good so far," he assessed of the jump. "However, more research is required on targeting a safe entry point. I could have landed in the middle of a ditch or inside a tree. That aside, the first order of business is to trek into town and learn the current date and time so I can fine tune the machine's internal projection clock after I return." The settlement wasn't as large as he expected, if Max had climbed a tree he could have seen all borders of the oblong city built along the road passing though. Farm lands mixed with forests fanned out as far as could be seen. "Those homesteads are obviously where the army's provisions are generated. The supply company is the collection center where the war trains are formed." It didn't take long even on foot to find a general store and ascertain he had arrived slightly two days later than calculated. Max was pleased, "A minor correction." He also was informed the Trenton Supply and Shipping Company was located at the entrance of the far end of town and would take about a half an hour to walk it. "No problem," he reasoned. "I'll gain a lot of intelligence along the way"... and he did.

The people were cordial and didn't look down on his shabby appearance or stutter. He was directed per his request to the local barber shop; a never-ending wealth of information still today. Bitterman said he was seeking work and heard the supply company needed teamsters (horse handlers and wagon drivers) and basic laborers which the barber agreed to be quite true. He deliberately omitted the constant demand for those positions were due to the ever-present danger to the civilian workers being sent into camps under siege by a superior enemy force. In addition, the British considered all those nonmilitary laborers to be insurgent supporters and were to be treated (arrested) as such. In the town merchant's opinion, only the most desperate vagabonds willfully ventured into such a perilous situation. During his half-hour long learning stay he picked up on a few of their speech idiosyncrasies which could be invaluable during his expedition. He quickly determined the attitudes of the city folk varied greatly from the countryside residents. The merchants were in dire opposition to British army occupation and their strong-arm collection of the king's illegal, unwarranted taxes and sided with the newly formed American congress. The rural folk were more laidback with a wait and see attitude, after all so far there were no enemy troops stationed in their countryside or Trenton proper and the English sterling was still more valuable than the new, weak American currency. The most confusing issue between the two groups was that both sprang from British roots and had extensive relatives abroad. Neither side of the conflict seemed to be 'winning' the rebel war – was it due to the family ties residing on either side of the Atlantic Ocean?

The barber and his two patrons were correct – the supply company hired him right off, no questions asked. The overseer said he could work preparing and loading the provisions for the next scheduled run in three days. He also said Max could chow and bed down in the warehouse along with the other nine new workers – wanderers such as him. During each evening before sack-time Max heard many vagabond embellished stories, not quite as believable or factual as the more educated merchant's renditions – still all were valuable in learning the mindset of the new Americans.

Time passed quickly to the departure date and the men were assembled - ready to go at morning light. They were sorted into two man teams assigned to each wagon drawn by mules, not horses which met Bitterman's approval – those animals were much easier to handle and stronger. The journey of fifty miles to Valley Forge should take a slow, four days due to the rural road's poor condition. If by bad luck the English troops from Philadelphia set-up a roadblock and intercepted the supply train all provisions would be forfeited and possibly their lives also; it had happened before. During loading, Max learned they were transporting salt fish, bread, peas, beans, assorted preserved, fall vegetables, pepper, milk, rice, flour and Indian meal – no meat... perhaps an acceptable diet for a pencil-pushing, twenty-first century office worker but certainly not sustainable for a revolutionary soldier facing combat. Max assumed chicken, pork and beef were being provided by the local farmers – he was in error and the Continental Army was unknowingly entering into a near starvation period. Max also discovered the mule train was carrying an oxygenated, nutrient-filled crate of blood-sucking leeches and dumped them in the weeds along the roadside in the dead of the night without detection. Bitterman reflected, "In the fifteen hundreds mankind packed their wounds with farm animal dung which naturally increased the possibility of infection. Here today, two hundred years later leeches have been chosen as an acceptable medical treatment for who knows what ungodly reason." Satisfied with his course of action, "Well, at least I've saved a few souls from dying of malpractice. Jean-Luc would be pleased."

The weather was cooler than expected which could be a forerunner of a Canadian cold front moving down just as he and DeBois had discussed three weeks ago. The wagon ride was jerky and bumpy – springs hadn't been invented yet. There were no encounters with the British or their vigilante, Loyalists followers and the train arrived at Valley Forge on schedule. The first thing Max noticed were the dozen, manned, mobile, iron cannons pointed in his direction. These weren't the museum pieces he was accustomed to – they were real life killing machines. The reason for so many being aimed at this approach road was, as far as their scouts could ascertain the English army had moved from north of them and now were in the process of hunkering down in Philadelphia for the winter. The seized and occupied former Colonial capital was located twenty miles behind and southeast of the road the wagon train had traveled. Therefore, the camp's Colonial Light Horse regiments used for reconnaissance were now being dispatched daily to determine if the Redcoats were attempting to encircle or launch an attack on a different front. Bitterman also learned later these same horsemen were used to track down deserters and bring them back to camp for corporal punishment or hung as spies, an increasing problem. One of the army sentries boarded the lead wagon and directed the team to the cooking stations and food storage facilities which were the only large, wooden structures in use so far. Max saw hundreds of fifteen man huts under construction by their corps of carpenters/ engineering workers who expected completion prior to the hard winter's arrival. At the present, thousands of four-person tents lined several acres in neat rows and served as temporary shelter for Washington's eleven thousand men: the newly formed Army of the Potomac. The General and his staff were quartered in larger, connecting tents adjacent to an open, centrally located field used for training and drills. After the incoming supplies were unloaded and stored a lieutenant addressed Max's group and offered to have them stay on as paid laborers and food service workers – the army would return their wagons and horses to Trenton for next month's delivery. Four accepted including Bitterman, and joined two dozen others already there.

Max didn't expect to be so lucky and was quite pleased. He thought, "This may not be so difficult at all," and volunteered to join the food service personnel in order to slip his concealed vaccines into Washington's meals. A good, simple plan except he was unaware of the General's security detail to protect him against spies, assassins and embedded Loyalists. The leader was rarely without guards stationed between himself and his own infantry. In spite of his aversion to coming in direct contact with the rank and file for safety reasons, the troops loved him for his leadership and determination to win freedom from the oppressive British rule.

Bitterman toiled for a week learning the routine, helping regular army cooks, serving food on outside crates to the lines of soldiers, cleaning-up and whatever else required. He had little free time and had only seen his objective, George Washington, twice as he rode about on his white horse while performing inspections with members of his staff. Meals were delivered to their tents by trusted army personnel, usually a lieutenant, a sergeant and two infantry soldiers. The dinners were all made alike and it was rumored he utilized a taster.

One evening, Max was doing a walkabout and came too close to Headquarters. Two sentries rushed him with fixed bayonets, searched him for weapons then kicked him in the ass as they directed, "This area is off limits to your kind. Return to your cooking area forthwith!" and he did - post haste.

"That didn't go very well. I don't think I'll be dinning with George anytime soon. I'm going to need a plan," but before he could begin brainstorming he was called forward for a new assignment at dawn. He and five other civilians would be joining a three wagon foraging patrol. Their primary task was to go to the surrounding farms and buy provisions, especially meat; there was precious little in camp except for the horses and nary a one of these precious animals had been lost to enemy fire so far. Secondary, the soldiers were to shoot and gather wild game which would be a rare feat in Bitterman's opinion – wildlife usually bolt and scatter upon hearing men and heavy equipment.

There were a total of four Light Horsemen joined by two scrubby soldiers and two laborers per wagon – Max being one, plus a uniformed captain and corporal to lead the procession. The corporal wore a patched-up uniform, the privates were dressed in their own clothing, this being the norm in Washington's volunteer, makeshift army. Max had learned the Continental Army consisted mostly of common folk, there were few experienced fighting men and only the officers and proven veterans had full American military attire... these newly formed lower ranks were more or less an undisciplined, odd lot due to a lack of training. In the past the Americans had lost every skirmish due to the enemy's superior numbers, training and combat experience. Therefore, the question haunting the General Staff was: "How will these men respond if they are outflanked and attacked in force by the most professional and best equipped army in the world?" Having recently arrived at Valley Forge, establishing a good defensive position was Washington's top priority, food procurement and training ran a close second and third.

The mini-caravan halted in a glen adjacent to a wooded hammock. The four horsemen split into pairs and trotted away to circle and come up behind it. Our wagons with fifty yard separations, formed a straight broadside line toward the forest. The two soldiers assigned to Max's wagon climbed into the cargo bed, took shooting positions and readied their muskets as the laborers exited to calm and control the mules in case of gunfire. After a few minutes the horsemen formed a line on the hammock's far side and began riding slowly back toward the wagons while beating metal cooking pans together. They were flushing game and Max was impressed by their simple, yet effective method. Pretty soon several critters: raccoons, turkey and rabbits sporadically darted from their previous safe haven and were fired on. The marksmen didn't get them all because of the musket's slow loading procedure but in Bitterman's opinion they did a damn good job – these fellows had to be country folk. The scenario was repeated twice more which netted a total of fifteen various kills before moving on and coming upon their first occupied farmhouse. The residents had little to offer other than a few bushels of vegetables and one scrawny chicken. They refused payment from the captain and Max got the impression they were sympathetic to the cause but didn't believe the new American money was of any value.

The caravan continued and performed one additional flushing before encountering a second farming family who were poorer than the first and departed with practically nothing except a few eggs. At this rate, the team had been consuming more rations in their quest than procuring foodstuff for the soldiers in camp. They bivouacked for the night and resumed the next morning on their planned six day loop. The same routine ensued: two flushes, another farm except this time the captain was able to purchase three chickens, two small pigs and a goat. The husband, a homesteader said there was a large spread with amble livestock four miles further up the rut filled, dirt road but didn't think the family would contribute. He suspected they were Loyalists. Max noted the residences were becoming further apart and could easily envision these roads becoming downright impassible if a hard winter set in, except possibly by a single horse rider contesting no more than a light snowfall. "How would Washington's army forage then?" The next day's hunt produced nothing – had someone recently routed the game? Was a British regiment attempting to flank Valley Forge? The soldiers became more vigilant and the horsemen were dispatched more often to scout the countryside – thankfully to no avail. "I could be captured or killed and my mission failed," reasoned Bitterman. "How long would Jean-Luc wait after realizing he must escape to France before the authorities discover our surely to be proclaimed illegal underground facilities and arrest him? We didn't discuss that possibility."

The previous farmer was honestly and ignorantly incorrect about the breadth of the homestead now facing them. Max hadn't been in this time period long or seen much countryside but was still caught off guard by the farm's magnitude. First, it had been fenced-in and he could not even guess where its boundaries may lie. There were horses, cattle, goats, pigs and perhaps a half-dozen more unseen farm groups or herds of who-knows-what animals beyond sight. It reminded him of Texas ranches except here there were also crop fields... and at least three dozen slaves working them. His spirit rose and reasoned, "We'll surely be able to fill our wagons and return to camp in the morning. A decent meal tonight would be most welcome also. Then I can devise a plan to gain access to Washington and administer the vaccines... and go back home!"

Their mule train passed through the plantation's gates in silence as if they were crossing onto hallowed ground. Max saw a Great House far ahead, perhaps three quarters of a mile distant. The Light Horse riders galloped forward to check for British troops – this was the kind of place a detachment could camp inside a barn for the winter or set up an ambush. The enemy also could have a cavalry troop hidden in the woodlands they just passed through and trap the caravan with ease. Bitterman's eyes darted about even though he didn't know exactly what he was searching for: Charging, mounted Redcoats brandishing swords? then shivered. This was real, face to face warfare – not a movie.

It seemed to take forever before stopping in front of a massive, brick, two-storied English mansion. It appeared quite out of place, a distinct contrast to all he had seen. "Could it be a bit of royalty has moved here from across the Atlantic?" As he wondered, the house's oversized double front doors swung open and out strutted a chubby, fiftyish man donned in an elegant, tapered red suit with gold vest buttons, sporting a ruffled white shirt underneath, red leggings and a matching white, powdered wig. Two male Negro house slaves trailed behind then fanned out to the rear on either side. Max detected a fashionably dressed woman remaining inside in the shadows, his observing wife? The man appeared amused and cocky in his body language.

"Good day, sir. I'm Captain Whitman of the Continental army. We're here, hoping to purchase supplies if you would be so kind."

The plantation's owner's demeanor changed immediately. He sneered, "I can see that sir!" as he glared at our speaker. "But to use the word, purchase? Purchase with that worthless trash you call money? Are you making folly?" Whitman could not get a word in. "Believing I would accept it is more of a matter of you being a stupid dolt or buffoon." With a raised eyebrow, "Or do you dare take me to be as such?" After receiving no reply to his caustic berate, he demanded, "Can you fools not understand the obvious? I and my family are loyal followers of the Crown. You and your band of scrubby, riffraff are not welcome here," then spat on the ground. "Rabble... all wanted criminals no doubt. Worse... Traitors! You all should be whipped and hung. I shall report this incursion to the authorities when they pass through again. His majesty's forces will track you down and deal with you properly."

This told the captain there were no British troops in the immediate area and noted no one under this Loyalist's authority appeared to be armed. Finally he was allowed to speak, "Sir, you present yourself as a man of great distinction. How is it you are here in this rural county, away from the structures of power? If I may ask," and doffed his army hat.

Placated and filled with superiority the owner answered, "I am Lord Trumbill of Essex, England, sent by his Majesty King George himself to first, manage the Tax Collector's Office in Boston which I did most successfully." He paused for awed acknowledgment but didn't receive his rightful due. "Uneducated, witless peasants," he thought and continued. "The highlight of said tenure was when I alerted and directed the local Guardsmen in their confronting and crushing the illegal assembly at the Town Hall in seventeen-seventy. Crazed rioters attacked the English guards stationed there to maintain the peace for your protection!"

"The assembly to protest Taxation without representation?" questioned Whitman. "That was a small, local gathering to voice their displeasure about your king levying more unwarranted taxes. Yes, the people threw a few snowballs out of frustration but that is in no way a riot. Your soldiers panicked and fired, killing five unarmed civilians. We call it the Boston Massacre."

"It clearly was a necessary action to preserve order... and to validate who is in authority," countered Trumbill. "The particular officer in charge was tried without bias by a magistrate in a Court of Law and found not guilty of any wrong doing. The ruling was: Justified use of force. And, as a result of my participation and service to the Crown in quelling the peons' rebellious attack, I was transferred - a promotion I'm proud to say, to Philadelphia to serve in the same capacity. In addition, I have been recently appointed commander of all the Loyalist Militia in Pennsylvania and am already taking steps to locate your cowardly, in hiding, so-called Congress which fled to York. We will find and deal with them most severely."

Max remembered being at the library with Jean-Luc and reading the members were surrounded outside York, captured, locked in a barn, then having it burned to the ground - all perished in horrible deaths. "Is this the man responsible?" Bitterman felt appalled, yet he couldn't divulge his secret information.

"You worthless scum will be leaderless when I find your turncoat cronies you refer to as Congress," and laughed long and hard, taunting his trespassers.

The Captain's stomach flipped over, his eye twitched as he thought, "This man is pure evil. I don't have any 'standing orders' from the General to deal with this situation but I'm sure as hell not going to ride away without addressing this murderer... and I don't mean a mild rebuke." Whitman wanted more information and carefully asked, "And your presence here? We heard the British army was quartered in Philadelphia for the winter."

The Lordship swaggered about while explaining, "I am not part of the army. I far outrank all their kind and chose to pass the season here in my own personal comfort. The Tax Office is officially closed until spring. Besides, I can summon their commanding officer or whomever I wish whenever I please. But enough of this drivel. I need not explain myself to the likes of you."

"Enough indeed," agreed the captain. "Corporal, seize and bind this man. And try not to soil your hands." Two privates rushed the Loyalist and tied his hands behind his back. Two other soldiers took position between the flabbergasted Lord and his flanking house slaves. "Now retrieve a rope from a wagon and throw it over that big, oak tree branch," as he pointed to its location. "Make a noose," and they did. "Trot His Majesty over and have him stand on a vegetable crate under the rope. Trumbill went ballistic when touched by their low-life, unclean hands and a third soldier had been required for control as he was led and forced to stand on the crate. "My, oh my," mused the officer. "I would have never believed a man of your stature could spew forth so many profanities, sir."

"You'll hang from the gallows you filthy swine," screamed Trumbill, "after I have all your men bound to a post and used for bayonet practice while you observe."

Whitman ignored his threat, dismounted and casually ambled to the prisoner who was beet-red and winded. The Captain stated to his troops, "Men, this is my decision and I take full responsibility," as he placed the noose over the English Lord's head. Trumbill's eyes bulged and he became silent as his knees began to tremble. He wet himself. Whitman took note and reflected, "I hope he doesn't have a heart attack and die before I can hang him." Our leader then called us civilians to join him to hear a declaration. "Lord Trumbill of Essex, England, I find you guilty of murder and an enemy of the American colonies. I am making a battlefield decision and sentencing you to death in the name of justice and to save future innocent lives." He turned to his soldiers, "Hoist him and tie it off to the (tree) trunk, then he, the Captain kicked the crate out from under him. All stood hats off, at attention – in respect for the passing of one of God's souls.

Afterwards, "Corporal, search the house and have the occupants assemble on the front veranda so I may address them." There were seven family members and eight house slaves. The kinfolk were justly horrified upon viewing their benefactor hanging dead from the tree. However, several 'indentured servants' struggled to suppress an expression of satisfaction. Trumbill's wife stood stoic with a hand on her youngest daughter's shoulder. For never known reasons, the woman never shed a tear.

"Ladies and gentlemen, these are the conditions for your continued residence on this farm. First, let it be known the Continental Army is not commandeering or seizing this property unless you abandon it. If you do so, we will turn it over to the new American Congress for their management. You Loyalists are free to leave or stay. If you chose to remain you will sell us whatever provisions we require. If you choose to leave I suggest you make your way to Canada. You may not take your slaves; their government will not accept them." Addressing the servants, "You also have a choice to leave or stay. If you choose to remain you will work the fields and livestock as you do now... and you will be paid a fair wage. If you choose to leave and don't have a particular destination I suggest you consider New York City. It's rumored you can gain freedom and there's plenty of work available. Pass this information on to your kinsmen not present. We will remain here two days while you gather goods and livestock for us to take back to camp. We shall return in three or four weeks for more. Our army will appropriate from your abundance and not place you in jeopardy. Are there any questions?" No one spoke. "Make your decisions and inform me of such in the morning. You may lower Lord Trumbill and bury him at your convenience."

Bitterman reflected, "This was an extraordinary handling of a complex and life-altering situation. I must make certain to relay every detail to Jean-Luc."

Trenton, N.J.

"What if the equipment malfunctions or goes into an alarm?" pondered Jean-Luc. "I'm not an electronic technician and wouldn't have a clue how to correct the problem. Max has been gone for over two weeks and I am practically living inside the cab of a U Haul truck. Even though I'm out of sight in this warehouse I suspect I'll eventually draw the attention of the local police when I go on one too many food runs." He imagined, "Oh, Hi officers. I'm Doctor DeBois from France and am waiting for a signal to draw my partner back in a time machine from the Revolutionary War. Would you care for a Krispy Kreme donut?"

"I think Max's top priority after his return should be to extend the device's retrieval range. I'm sure this constant monitoring would be more efficient and less conspicuous being performed within the confines of our home laboratories." He checked the status reports for the thousandth time. The key ones being: System stability – no errors, Contact continuity response – AOK ( the machine 'pinged' Bitterman's transponder unit each hour ). "So, I wait. I wish I could be of more assistance. Perhaps next time if there is one, I'll be the one sent." He shuddered, "After all I am the most expendable and Max will have already proved his machine's capabilities." Jean-Luc calmed a little, "If our present endeavor is successful I'm confident this ordeal will never be considered or attempted again."

Valley Forge

A commotion erupted as soon as the returning foraging detail entered the perimeter of the campsite. Soldiers gathered and skipped about in excitement on either side of the provision laden mule train wagons leading tethered goats and cattle. They cheered and chanted, "Meat! Meat!" It made Max happy and proud to have assisted in their jubilation. As they rode toward the food services section for processing they had to pass the Headquarters and officer's billet. Several men of advanced rank stepped out to determine the source of the disturbance. Awed, they halted the procession and ordered the Captain to dismount and give an account of this unexpected bounty. Before Whitman could begin his report the man himself, George Washington emerged from his tent, gave one look and gave a broad smile. He walked slowly to the head of the column, enjoying their successful expedition and his troop's reaction. Max thought, "He doesn't bear the same resemblance as he does on a one dollar bill or the storied, pictured depictions in history books – only a vague similarity. He struck Max as being a real, military leader not a frilly mannequin. The General had the returning men line up in single file and addressed each person individually in gratitude. He instructed Captain Whitman to join him and his staff in the Headquarters tent for a debriefing afterwards. When Washington came down the line and said, "Thank you, well done," to Max, he nearly became overwhelmed in meeting the Father of the United States and blurted truthfully, "Thank you so much, sir. I am honored," as he shook the great man's strong hand. Then continued, "Sir, may I offer, if you would make a few simple repairs and reinforcements to the road leading to that particular farm, its abundant goods would be accessible throughout the winter."

The General glanced at Whitman who responded, "The man is correct, sir. With a few road improvements this farm could sustain our men the entire winter without creating hardships on either its owners or residents."

Washington shook Max's hand a second time in commendation, saying "Thank you again for your observations." He then turned to a staff member, "Major, dispatch a team of engineers to shore-up this essential route." Returning to Bitterman, "What is your name?" and Max answered... "You are a civilian? And, a learned man judging by your vocabulary. Maxwell Bitterman," he repeated, "sounds Prussian to me. Is that your heritage?" Max nodded assent. Germany had been formed later. "Good, you'll be pleased to learn a former captain in the Prussian Army, Friedrich von Steuben will be joining us in a few weeks to direct training. He doesn't speak English and we may need to call on you occasionally to back-up our designated translator. May I count on your assistance?" Max gave a weak nod, yes. "Splendid, sir. I want you to know we greatly appreciate your service and observations. Please speak without hesitation to any of my staff if you feel further improvements can be attained in our operations," then moved on to the next man waiting in line.

In Bitterman's excitement of the moment he had forgotten to disguise his voice with a stutter and it had not gone unnoticed by the two sentries who had previously rousted him for getting too close to Headquarters two weeks earlier. Later, after all had settled down the same two guards conferred with each other and discussed the incident... and their suspicions. Was this unknown civilian an English spy, an embedded Loyalist or worse – a dreaded assassin? They vowed to keep a very close eye on him in the future and to begin asking the other workers in the cooking facilities questions regarding him tomorrow.

Meanwhile, Max finally realized in dismay he had forgotten to change his speech pattern and even worse, a Prussian was on his way and he couldn't speak a single word in his language! What a mess and just at that moment, he accidentally caught a glimpse of the permanently mounted gallows on the far side of the field. Which prompted, "I've got to be finished one way or the other (complete the mission or escape) before Captain von Steuben arrives."

The Plan

Another ten days passed without Bitterman making progress. Washington remained inaccessible and it seemed all of his security guards were now giving Max the suspicious eye or roaming about the cooking area and asking questions. Even with this distraction the cooks were in an unusually good mood and he inquired as to why. "The General's wife, Martha is coming," the Chief cook answered. "She and several other staff wives are going to spend the winter's duration here in Valley Forge. They offer excellent company and always organize activities for the men, including you civilians. There'll be music, singing, plays, games..." he gushed. "And best of all," he beamed, "we now have meat to sustain us. Thanks to that English farm. Say, weren't you on the foraging trip?" Max nodded assent. "Well done, my man, well done!" and by his verbal reaction Max knew he had the fellow's full attention and appreciation. The large, chubby Chief of Cooks laughed and said, "We're planning a feast on the evening of their arrival. It could be the tide has finally turned on the bloody British." He rattled off with pride: "A battle-seasoned Prussian captain is coming to whip this sorry lot of well-meaning patriotic volunteers into a real fighting unit able to stand toe to toe and defeat the King's Redcoats. It's been said this particular European knows how to load and fire a musket faster than ever imagined! It shall be a huge advantage for us. There's more, it's also been strongly rumored the French are going to toss their hat in the ring with us! And now, the womenfolk are coming." He paused and reflected for a somber moment, "The situation could be a lot worse... even dire." He bowed his head, "Let us ner' forget our wounded and fallen fellow patriots."

"Yes, my good man, you have no idea how dire," Max thought as he recalled the library visit. "and all these things you are wishing for in anticipation will have been for naught if your Commander dies. The Prussian trainer will go home due to the following administrative turmoil and the French will withdraw their offer of assistance for the same reason. Everything rides on the Great Man surviving this winter campaign. 'The Plan' formed and Bitterman blurted, "Did you say a feast is to be prepared? A wonderful idea, but it sounds like a lot more work for your cooking crew."

"Tis true, it shall be," agreed the lead man.

"Perhaps I may be of assistance," offered Max. "I used to work in the kitchen on a farm and helped prepare meals for the field hands and residents... in all, about fifty souls. I have experience."

"Why, most certainly I can use you," he returned. "I will request the lieutenant for your immediate transfer." The Chief pondered for a moment then asked, "Say my good man, perchance do you know how to bake cakes?" He fretted, "Unfortunately, my Second baker has fallen ill with dysentery and my number One needs a competent replacement. Are you that man?" Bitterman assured him of his ability and cited a few old family recipes as reinforcement. "Wonderful to hear your creations but perhaps they would be better utilized at another time when we have more ingredients available and no one shooting at us. For now, we have to stick to the basics. My plan is to serve three hundred large, sheet cakes to the rank and file and one crushed chestnut, sugar-topped, two-layer cake to the General's staff. Plus, a very special cupcake made exclusively for the Washington's in celebration of their wedding anniversary. It's one of their family traditions."

"Their anniversary... here?" repeated Max. "What a coincidence! I would be most happy to assist in the preparations." He calculated: "This is my chance! I'll add my two, powdered potions to the cupcake batter. Both George and Martha will be protected from a killing flu or pneumonia. Then, I'll slip away and signal Jean-Luc... I hope he's still monitoring inside the warehouse. This should be a piece of cake." He smiled at his own witticism. "Cake. Aha, a piece of Washington's cupcake."

Martha's entourage arrived three days later. Two lines of soldiers stood at attention as the seven wagon caravan passed between them. They traveled two hundred yards to meet George Washington waiting atop his white horse with his staff officers on the sides. Behind, the regiment's drum and bugle corps played, 'Welcome home,' a marching song. The camp's clapping, civilian workers were assembled a respectful thirty paces behind the jubilant regular army troopers. Max was positioned alongside the number One baker, a Scottish immigrant who said, "It brings a tear to me eye every time it happens."

Bitterman glanced at him and inquired, "Pardon? This has occurred before?"

"Why yes, Laddie. His missus comes every winter and brings as many wives as she can. A fine woman she be."

"Impressive," returned Max. "I was unaware." Followed by, "They must be very much in love." The cook took a puff on his briarwood pipe in agreement.

After the fanfare had died down and the Washingtons were in private she said to her husband, "George dear, did the wagon train master give you the news regarding the British?"

He answered, "No, not yet. Is there cause for alarm?"

"There may be, my dearest. The English have set up a roadblock a mile from here to stop all provisions being delivered to Valley Forge. They also confiscated our escort's weapons but let us pass safely which was a bit of a surprise."

He contemplated their maneuver, "They must believe the more noncombatants we have here will deplete our food resources faster," then told her about the massive Loyalist farm they had under control. "Not a bad plan by the English but it shall be found fruitless." He had dispatched a hundred soldiers two weeks ago to occupy the homestead for the duration. "Everything is proceeding well my dear and... I've been informed we will be enjoying a sumptuous feast tonight to celebrate your and the other ladies' arrival." He chuckled and clapped his hands. "There shall be music and dancing!"

And, in the baking section everything had been going well also. The soldier's dinners - with meat, began at four p.m. before evening fell then soon afterwards the sheet cakes were distributed. The general's staff was running a little behind time-wise due to their celebrating with more pomp and flair, after all they were officers. Finally, it was time for the dessert to be delivered and three security guards arrived to transport the two-layer cake and Max's specially made cupcake. Bitterman removed himself from the transfer area and observed inconspicuously as far away as possible. Earlier, when he had made the batter, he secretly mixed in the two vaccine powders. The cupcake came out beautifully from the oven and he stuck too small candles in its top – one blue and one white representing the Continental Army colors. "A nice touch," he mused. "Their entire party will be all smiles when it's presented to the Washingtons. No one else would dare take a bite."

Within the hour there erupted women's screams from Headquarters. After observing a female patron's reaction to the food, the Sergeant of the Guard ran outside and yelled, "We've been poisoned!" He then quickly assembled his men and established a defensive cordon to ward off possible follow-up assassins. The army doctor, already in attendance rushed to the aid of one of the staff wives who appeared to be having a choking reaction and abdominal pains from the cake. George and Martha paled in fear. They had consumed their special dessert in a joyous reunion ceremony while the others were cutting their cake. Had the cupcake been poisoned also? Was their reaction moments behind? The physician could do little more than check her airwaves and punch her in the stomach to induce vomiting (an acceptable practice at the time) since his potions were in the medical tent and everyone was screaming, "Do something Doctor!"

The Captain of camp security began barking orders, one of which was: 'Round up all the food service personnel in the courtyard for questioning! One of those bastards may be an enemy agent!"

The two sentries who had previously challenged Bitterman weeks before rushed to the officer and relayed their suspicions. "This man, a volunteer laborer spoke without a stutter to the General when the foraging team returned. We've investigated and been advised the bloke is normally silent and hardly able to speak coherently... and when he does its difficult to understand because of his stutter, sir. We've been watching him but could find no fault... except he doesn't appear to fit in. His manners are different from the other workers or even our own soldiers."

The captain's eyebrows shot up, "Different say ye? He may be a European mercenary sent by bloody Redcoats. Sergeant, take a dozen men and search the cooking area. Bring this Max Bitterman to me! He'll be the first suspect we question," as he drew his bayonet and fingered the blade.

Max from afar, could not hear all of the conversation but picked up a few key words: "poison, cooking and bring him!" When the soldiers formed a unit and started in his direction he knew it was time to leave – fast. He grabbed a tray of sheet cake and began walking briskly toward the camp's entrance road where the cannoneers were positioned. He knew these men would be the last served and the most thankful to receive his offering. The path toward them was on the buildings' opposite side away from the advancing security detail and Max's back was toward them. "Quick and steady without drawing attention," he told himself. Bitterman was correct, the cannoneers were glad to see him and after setting down his tray of goodies he asked if he could stretch his legs down the road a little bit before taking the empty tray back. "Sure, why not?" they reasoned. After all, he was merely an expendable civilian worker.

Returning to the Headquarters tent: the doctor continued to work frantically to revive the woman who now was turning blue. Her wind pipe was near fully closed due to a chemical reaction – abet by something other than the usual assassin's poison. Unaware to all, she was allergic to nuts. The crushed chestnuts in the cake! Finally, an officer who had witnessed this type of reaction previously by one of his own family members created a makeshift tube and rammed it down her throat which restored partial breathing. The doctor then ran to his tent and retrieved a vial of medicine to counteract the nuts effect and reduce her swelling.

It was near sundown, the light was dimming and Max casually meandered away from the camp's guarded entrance. When he had traversed about a hundred yards he stole a peak back and saw the pursuing security detail questioning the cannoneers who soon began making pointing motions in his direction. The soldiers conferred more, deciding whether to fire on Bitterman then or chase him. The guard's leader chose pursuit and capture per his captain's order then dispatched a man to the Light Horse regiment to enlist their aid. Max looked about, there were trees – lots of trees but the usual underbrush had been cleared to eliminate hiding places for enemy troops. Bitterman could run into the surrounding forest but would be easily found by the horsemen or younger, fit, foot soldiers especially if they were led by bloodhounds. He knew he would be captured within ten minutes no matter what evasive maneuvers he took and it would be in a most hostile and violent manner. After all, in their opinion he tried to kill their beloved leader George Washington and immediate painful justice was due. Max envisioned being strip searched, beaten and dragged behind a horse then subjected to intensive interrogation of which he may not endure. Or, even worse than the gallows, if they discovered his twenty-first century transponder made of metal alloys unknown to their time period he could be judged and found to be an agent of the Devil and burned at the stake. The English church's tradition: Eradication of demons and worshipers of Satan was still actively practiced on both sides of the Pond.

Max decided to get off the road, at least out of their direct line of sight. What to do? Jean-Luc's powdered concoction was the easiest accessible item of the two sown within his trousers - the transponder was more secure being stitched behind a seam. Daylight was fading and the temperature was dropping. There was a front from the north moving in and the ground would be frozen before dawn. If he was crazy lucky and eluded the soldiers and couldn't activate his transponder fast enough or it malfunctioned he would die of hypothermia in a few hours. Suddenly he realized, "Where is my knife?" More bad luck, he had left it behind in his haste. "Damn, I'll have to take my pants off and gnaw away the stitching with my teeth." His homing device required four minutes to self-check and synchronize before being fully operational which made at least six extra minutes he didn't have!

Max jogged between the trees in a parallel direction to the camp – not further to the east on the road in hope his pursuers believed he would chose that direction to flee in order to put more separation between them. He hoped, "I may be able to add a couple of minutes before they realize I took a northern course." In the distance, perhaps a quarter mile he discerned the yelping of dogs. "So much for my trick to gain time. It won't fool those Bloodhounds." Shortly after, he heard galloping horses, six riders headed further east - beyond what Max could have traversed. He knew they would break up and a form a spaced, search line then return in his direction, creating a flushing-out similar to hunting wild game, except this time he was the prey. The Light Horsemen came from the east as tracking dogs and foot soldiers converged from the west: he was trapped.

Max removed all his clothing next to a shallow running creek, including his shoes and socks and placed them behind a tree knowing they would be found. He kept his pants. It was cold; he estimated forty-five degrees and knew he could only survive two to three hours before lapsing into a sleepy death. And, of course it was highly probable if captured he'd be swinging from a rope before then! There were no lawyers on the battlefield to draw out the length of deemed justice. Military decisions were swift and final; he saw its mechanism's with Lord Trumbill. Bitterman quickly broke the stitching, retrieved and swallowed DeBois's powered potion then continued on a brisk walk as he gnawed the more difficult threading protecting the transponder. He wadded-up and pressed the cloth close to his body so as its not being seen. Even if his body was able to camouflage itself similar to a lizard he still had to conceal the pants. Max wished against all odds the dogs would stop searching when they discovered the rest of his clothes. If not, he would at least know their distance by their excited barks. "It won't take long for the soldiers to realize my pants are missing from the lot and their fugitive is still on the run. Being experienced hunters they will soon begin searching on this side of the creek." Had Max bought enough time? Would the transponder function in this temperature? It hadn't been tested in these conditions. Would Jean-Luc still be in the warehouse, see the signal and yank him home before capture?

Bitterman continued walking and struggling with the nuisance stitching. "Almost," he cursed. Suddenly, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He froze. There was an advancing horseman about a hundred and twenty yards away on a slight angle to his right. Max took a few cautious steps and pressed himself against a tree trunk with his pants waded at his chest and his back to the rider. His skin immediately changed to match the pine tree which would act as adequate protection as long as the soldier didn't get too close. The horse came nearer and nearer... seventy yards... forty. The steed turned slightly, as if it had sensed the quarry and was now on a direct course to Max. Hounds howling – the dogs had found his clothing which prompted the rider to stop and listen. The soldier must have felt the assassin had been cornered or captured and took off in that direction. Max also saw two more horsemen break their search pattern and start toward the creek Max had crossed.

In a couple of minutes all the pursuers and canines were gathered at the clothing drop point. Max had been correct: "Bitterman's on the other side of the creek!" they declared. "Have the dogs smell his socks and find his exit point. Track him down post haste; it's getting dark. We still have enough time to drag the murdering bastard back to camp."

Another added, "After we soften him up a wee bit for the interrogator!" which brought hoots of approval and harsh laughter. The dog handlers rushed across the waterway and found Max's scent quicker than you could snap your fingers. The squad leader noticed heavy, snow-laden clouds approaching rapidly on the horizon. "Winter storm a-coming in! In thirty minutes we'll be stuck in wind and freezing rain. We've got to catch him fast boys." The horsemen didn't wait for the dog handlers and started trotting in the direction they assumed Max would be fleeing. They were seldom wrong. However, because of the weather it now became a race - the riders couldn't allow their horses to be caught in dangerous weather.

The soldiers weren't the only ones who saw the threating clouds. "Uh, oh!" muttered Bitterman. "That looks like a flash Artic snow storm barreling in from Canada. It'll be here in fifteen minutes or less. The temperature will drop into the twenties. Without clothing and shelter I'll be dead in forty minutes." He ripped into the stitching akin to a man possessed and finally created an opening large enough to be able to force the cigar shaped device from its compartment. His fingers trembled from fear and cold. Max pressed the recessed activation button and waited... and waited. He was cold, yet sweating at the same time.

The minutes passed ever so slowly as the transponder stepped through its self-checks. Finally, the green, ready l.e.d. lit. Max pressed the send button. Barking hounds clearly heard... a Light Horse rider passed by thirty yards to the east with more to follow. Bitterman's camouflage was still effective but would dissipate within two minutes.

Jean-Luc was jolted awake by a repeated audible alarm: Ding, ding, ding... He had just dozed off after eating another 7-11 day-old sandwich followed by a Tums. The machine's video terminal displayed: 'Ready to come home!' line after line as a red lamp flashed atop the console. "Oui, oui, finally! Where have you been my friend?" he asked himself as he typed in the Retrieval code sequence then pressed Enter.

"Oh, no," Max whispered. His flesh had returned to its natural tone. Abruptly, without warning there occurred a brilliant burst of white light and he disappeared.

The flash also startled the closest rider and his horse, prompting the soldier to stare in its direction. "Lightning? How can that be? I've never heard of lightning with snow. Is this the work of Satan?" he whispered in trepidation. He then noticed a small lump of cloth lying at the base of a tree and quickly gathered it. "His pants. The lightning bolt must have scared him and he took off running." He assessed the situation, "We're not staying out here chasing an unarmed, naked man in a snow storm with the Devil's lightning raining down upon us! We can't afford to lose a horse, nary a one, much less a man." He blew a horn which summoned all those in the pursuit detail and explained his assessment. "Bitterman is unclothed and on foot without available shelter. He'll be dead in less than an hour within this Unholy storm. I'm sure the General will understand and agree with our returning to camp to protect the horses and our mortal souls. Perhaps we shall return in the Spring and find what's left of him after the wild animals are finished with his carcass."

"Nice to see you again, Doctor Bitterman. Oh my, it looks as if you've been having a grand old time," DeBois joked upon viewing the time traveler's nude body.

Max opened his eyes and spoke through chattering teeth, "Not really, sir. And you Doctor DeBois, please don't assume something sordid from my appearance such as my being spirited away from a house of ill repute."

"Certainly not monsieur but you do bring to mind an old, vintage Seinfeld television episode involving a person experiencing significant shrinkage." Jean-Luc gathered and quickly tossed a blanket over his friend as soon as he stepped away from the Time machine transporter cone. "I suspect you have quite a tale to tell but first let's get you warm."

Max was exhausted and immediately fell asleep in the cab of the U Haul while Jean-Luc packed the machine's peripheral equipment into its cargo area. Within two hours they were on their way. Bitterman awoke when dawn's early light peeked through the truck windows.

"Almost home, sleepy-head. We're now entering into the town center of Falls Church where we discovered America's historical changes in the library. It seems like a life time ago does it not?" Max grunted agreement. Jean-Luc was just about to drive past the post office where they had first seen the Union Jack flying. He began to slow to look at the flag but then quickly slammed on the brakes – fortunately no vehicle followed close behind. DeBois turned on the truck's emergency flashers for safety as both men stared at the flagpole. They were witnessing together the first evidence of their arduous venture to alter history. With mixed emotions both men at the same instant realized they had been successful but wondered why in all its glory, flew the battle flag of the Confederate States of America.

Chapter Two: The American Civil War

6 a.m.

Both men sat staring in a perplexed state at the Confederate States of America battle flag in front of the Falls Church, Virginia post office. Doctor Jean-Luc DeBois turned off the U-Haul truck's emergency flashers and proceeded to drive slowly away from the site. Neither he nor his passenger Doctor Maxwell Bitterman spoke nary a word until the vehicle had been parked inside the attached garage to the barn of their farmhouse in the rural countryside.

"Good night, Max... or rather good morning," offered Jean-Luc to his friend and colleague who responded he just may sleep the entire day.

"I'm rather well spent, sir."

"I'm sure you are. You carried the yeoman's share of the load," agreed Debois. "If by chance you're up and about this evening, I'm planning to prepare pork chops. I hope you're recovered well enough to join me."

Max answered, "Sounds wonderful. Even though I had been assigned to the cooking facilities at Valley Forge, colonial fare in a war zone is somewhat bland and sparse to say the least."

"I'm sure it was and I eagerly await hearing your exploits," stated Jean-Luc. "See you at the regular hour, monsieur."

They both took a quick peek at their private vehicles to see if there had been any noticeable changes – all appeared well this time, then trekked to the farmhouse and their respective bedrooms, being overly tired neither noticed the variations in the building's structure.

The last six months had drained each and both required some serious down time before rehashing and evaluating their incomprehensible undertaking which had produced mixed and confusing consequences. The pair had developed and operated a successful time travel machine which transported Bitterman into the past where he altered history and the present in an attempt to correct past changes, but not to what they anticipated. However, tomorrow would bring another day or the next or next – not to worry. The Bobbies shan't be knocking upon their door and the good doctors needed sufficient time to gather themselves and unscramble their brains.

Later in the evening Max awoke at 6:15 p.m. and immediately discerned the delicious aroma of pan-fried, breaded pork chops being cooked atop the stove in the old-fashion, grandma way. "Wow, that's the best thing I've smelled in years! By golly, I'm going to start replacing those pounds I lost at Valley Forge forthwith." He freshen-up and quickly made his way to the kitchen to assist Jean-Luc with the dinner preparation. Upon entering he came to a staggered stop when he encountered a late to middle-aged, black woman removing the source of his olfactory delight from their oven. "Er, hello madam, I'm Max," as he wondered why Jean-Luc had ordered onsite catering.

"Good evening, Mas'sa Bit-o-mon. Dinna will be served shortly. Why don't you wander into the dining room? Mas'sa De-boys is waiting for you."

Max nodded assent to her request and backed his way out. He found his associate, Jean-Luc sitting at a beautiful, cherry wood dining table - capacity of ten and being overshadowed by a stunning crystal chandelier overhead. "My-o- my, I see there have been a few more changes other than your Peugeot's steering wheel being relocated from left to right on our prior venture." DeBois smiled. "You brought in a caterer. A nice touch for this special occasion – our first night being back home," as he raised a goblet of wine in a salute of approval.

Jean-Luc returned the gesture, "We have much to discuss Max." Just as he finished his statement the caterer/cooking lady clad in a white 'service personnel' dress sporting a light blue, flowered bandanna wrapped around her black and iron-grey colored hair brought in the main dish consisting of two, eight ounce bone-in, Southern style chops, collard greens with mashed potatoes and placed the plates respectfully in front of each man. DeBois grinned from ear to ear.

"Please don't be offended my friend," declared Max. "I know we are both fairly good cooks in our own right, but I suspect this will be the best meal I've had in a very long time! Don't you agree?"

Missy - the black woman's name, reappeared as soon as the last fork-full had been eaten, cleared the table and soon returned with two large, piping hot slices of pecan pie topped with homemade vanilla ice cream. "Caleb's brother brought these pecans fresh-up from Georgia yesterday. You knows they be the best. Ah sure hopes you likes my pie," and retreated.

Finally, after dinner was finished and Missy was busy cleaning the kitchen before departing to her very nearby home, Jean-Luc remarked, "As I said before, we have much to talk about preceding the rehashing our expedition. Please, shall we retire to the library for privacy?"

As they entered Max noted, "Even this room appears different."

"Yes, that's true," agreed DeBois. "But first things first, I was more rested than you and arose three hours earlier." He strode to a small table and poured each of them a brandy from its decanter. "You should take a seat, Max," as he passed the sniffer to his associate. "So, in my prior time of your awakening, I did a walkabout and ascertained much in regard to our current living situation. First: This abode no longer appears to be a farm with a barn which we have grown familiar; the property now resembles an old, southern plantation. I can only rationalize we didn't detect this upon return due to fatigue and our minds being elsewhere. That being said, you'll find many of the features within its walls reflect an American Civil War décor with a decidedly Confederate States of America perspective. I suspect more anomalies lie within the total estate, therefore I suggest we begin tomorrow with a jaunt about our proclaimed property for an in depth inspection. I feel it's most necessary and I believe you will concur. Secondly, regarding Missy our cook tonight, she is a bit more than just a hired catering food preparer she also serves as the maid. Missy and her husband reside in a small cabin out of immediate sight behind the barn... which by the way has two horses which we didn't notice upon return and are quartered within exclusively for our riding enjoyment." Max raised his eyebrows. "Yes, I know what you're thinking, 'DeBois never learned to ride.' Quite true, monsieur... at least not in the past as we know it. However odd, I feel I can do so now. Oh, and by the way, earlier Missy asked if we wanted Caleb to have the equines readied for our customary Sunday morning ride of which I declined."

Bitterman mulled over this information then remarked, "So, we now have farm hands... er, rather plantation workers. I don't see much difference other than phonetics. This will be a minor adjustment even though I was quite content with our prior privacy."

"It's more complicated than that," cooed Jean-Luc. "Missy and her husband, Caleb are slaves. Our slaves, or rather my slaves... I believe I own them!"

Completely taken aback, "Good Lord, no!" choked Max. He paused for a moment before continuing then said, "This is unacceptable. Due to my jump back in time I have seen actual slave living conditions. In Trenton, in the countryside and especially on the English lord's farm... even Washington's army had slaves. Granted, even though it was the norm back then, I couldn't bear being responsible for such now."

"Please remain calm, Max," coaxed Jean-Luc. "In the morrow you will find there have been many changes – most for the better, at least on our plantation. I can't speak for the rest of the Confederate States of America... or the world. That's something we'll have to investigate at a later time." Bitterman acceded and both decided to call it a night and get a fresh start in the morning.

They awoke and enjoyed a sumptuous country breakfast of sugar-cured ham, eggs, grits, biscuits and fresh strawberries. "Morrow's gonna be hot cakes, sur's," announced Missy. "If dat be all right wit you." Both men shook their head in approval and were in a very good mood before beginning their planned walkabout. First and foremost on their minds was the condition of the underground laboratories. Were they intact, operational and as they left them? After a thorough examination they ascertained everything had remained in order and unaffected by the history change and breathed a collective sigh of relief. The insulated, leaded walls had again protected the complex from distortion from their bending Time. As soon as they began the rest of their inspection, Caleb, who had joined them after they left the secret lab facilities, acting as their grounds guide, seemed nervous and wary as if he were being evaluated for proficiency or being investigated for wrongful doings such as pilfering supplies or hoarding, especially so when the two Mas'sa's stuck their heads into his and Missy's home. It was quite the opposite: the plantation owners wanted to be sure their resident 'workers' were without needs - comfortable and stated as such, to the man's relief.

As they returned to the house Max asked, "What are your thoughts concerning the horse drawn buggy in the barn?"

"Classic... vintage Old South, but I doubt if we'll ever have need of it," answered Jean-Luc. He gestured by waving his arms in a sweeping manner and reflected aloud, "There are far more diverse things here than I would have imagined, based upon my limited knowledge of the eighteenth century affluent lifestyle. I wonder, will we fit in?"

By midafternoon they were sipping mint juleps under a white, gilded gazebo. Max confided, "This certainly has been a relaxing recovery period, almost similar to a retreat at a secluded, high class resort... but I can't accept living in this manner day to day.

"Indeed," agreed DeBois.

"I need to return to work. There's still much to be done in regard to our past endeavor. I'm getting 'antsy' for its completion. You know the old adage: It ain't over til' the paperwork's done. And, after that phase is finished I want to delve into and make additional improvements to the Machine even though we may never utilize it again. It's a matter of crafting a device which functions at optimum efficiency. Creating a product to the best of my ability. Call it pride, I guess."

"I totally understand," concurred DeBois. "I also have had several ideas of how to improve my camouflage potion and hope to return to the laboratory for more research and experiments. And, since you brought it up, there's even another notion I've had setting on the shelf so to speak which seems viable now and wish to pursue it in tandem."

"Really, and what may that be, sir?"

"Extended range audio definition on demand," answered Jean-Luc.

"Sounds like Superman's hearing," quipped Bitterman.

"Yes it does... and a time travel machine sounds like who, pray tell?" countered DeBois.

"H.G. Wells," answered Max. "Touché, my friend." He then sat down his empty glass and rose, "All right, it seems we are of the same mind set, but what is our first course of action? Are we to free our slaves and try to return to our past living conditions? And, if so what else shall be required? I have no ideas regarding our present interaction within the surrounding community or civil authorities."

"Nor do I, and it may take a while to ascertain as such," agreed DeBois. "I believe we should maintain a status quo so as not to arouse suspicion and concentrate on finishing the George Washington intervention by chronicling the details. As you said: Tie up the loose ends. I also don't believe we should be considering another venture for a long time... if ever." Max concurred.

"Oh, one more thing about our slaves," said Bitterman. "How did they come to be here? I'm positive neither you nor I would have purchased them."

"Quite true," explained DeBois. "Apparently they were acquired by my great uncle when he purchased this property many years ago. They were part of a package deal which was a common practice prior to and during the Civil War."

"So, they've been here all along, and knowing you and I. Yet, we in our present day selves have no remembrances of them," determined Max. "Very unsettling I must say, I hope we behaved in a decent manner during our earlier lives."

Later that evening and all into the following day the two scientists narrated and recorded their respective roles in the expedition. Jean-Luc's input was decidedly smaller compared to Max's and laced with a discourse of his Tum's battle, digestive problems during his vigilance as he monitored the Machine. Bitterman described in detail his arrival, Trenton, Valley Forge, his work assignment, the ill-fated foraging detail, George and Martha Washington, the special cupcake and his flight into the woods from pursuing soldiers who believed he had attempted to assassinate the General and his Staff with poisoned desserts. And finally, how he had bought a few extra minutes by using Debois' camouflage concoction to elude the army trackers until the Time Machine's activation which retrieved him. Questions and more questions by each man – followed by in-depth answers, then agreed upon documentation which took an entire two weeks. After all, it had to be recorded even though no one in their present time period was to read it or would believe the tale. The outside world didn't have access to the true past – it had been rewritten and these men's version would be justifiably classified as outlandish, science fiction.

Returning to the present: The first task of their new course was moving the Time Machine back into Max's laboratory which was completed faster with Caleb's assistance, even though the man was not permitted access nor knowledge of the secret elevator which connected the topside quarters to the subterranean complex as he helped stack the Machine's equipment crates in a corner of the library. "Funny, I don't remember this fake wall of books which slides to the side when activated by a hidden button and allows access to this elevator," remarked Jean-Luc.

"Nor I," returned Bitterman. "I just knew it was here. I wonder what other tidbits are ingrained in our memories which we didn't actually experience, yet somehow know due to the jump back into a different time dimension."

"I can relate to which you are referring. It's rather unsettling," agreed Jean-Luc.

No one was to learn of the devices and works of the two doctors contained within their secret laboratories until the disclosure to the Holy See of the Vatican long after the two men's passing. Hopefully, the Church would send a team of technicians to dismantle and destroy all physical evidence because if the current Government or whatever authority which may be in power gained possession, the consequences could not be imagined.

Max and Jean-Luc decided to return the U-Haul truck together rather than have a company representative retrieve it. As they were driving, Bitterman in the service vehicle and DeBois trailing behind in his Peugeot, both noted the English pub they had dined at previously while travelling toward Falls Church was now a Barbeque restaurant with a cannon sitting in front. After returning the rental and getting into Jean-Luc's sedan Max suggested, "Why don't we stop at that country restaurant and check out what changes have been made?"

"I'm not inclined toward flavored pork but the reconnaissance may prove useful."

The décor was pretty much as they expected: wooden floors and matching bench settings, Civil War paraphernalia adorning the walls, piped-in country music, sporting contests without any black athletes participating being broadcast on wall-mounted televisions, etc. Max purchased several periodicals upon leaving with of course his now transformed C.S.A. currency. "Not many surprises presented therein except for the excessive depictions of Confederate artillery," he stated as they drove away. "Oh well, at least the roads are on the right side this time."

"I agree," returned DeBois. "We'll glean these publications and watch the news on television but so far I haven't observed any overt human rights transgressions warranting a possible intervention. However, researching an event as large as the American Civil War could take weeks, or months at the library to sort through the new history from our old vintage and its current impact. Thankfully, I haven't seen any Storm Troopers or lines of black men in chains."

"Again, let's stay our chosen path of research and development," added Bitterman. "We'll learn as we go and maybe this system of government has evolved to be the best."

It was not to be...

1991-93

Two and a half years had passed since their intervention at Valley Forge which saved George Washington's life. However, the course of history had been altered with unexpected results and the United States of America and the Confederate States of America were now independent of each other and separated by the Mason Dixon line with the usual, controlled, guarded crossing points which most foreign countries utilize. The two scientists have been immersed in their respective fields and pretty much let the outside world pass them by.

Doctor Jean-Luc DeBois had improved his camouflage potion to be effective for a full ten minutes and also invented a hearing aid which can be implanted inside the auditory canal. The device enabled the wearer to hear clear conversation at three hundred feet distant by pressing on the outside flap above the earlobe to turn it on or off.

Doctor Max Bitterman made significant strides also. He increased the Time Machine's range to two thousand miles by transmitting a control signal frequency which floated above ground level while hopping over obstacles and hugging the Earth's curvature. His early consideration of bouncing transmissions off the existing satellite network was deemed unfeasible because his signals could be intercepted, blocked or filtered, therefore nullified. Besides, there were no such orbiting devices in the past and his homing transponder would be rendered useless. The Machine's established Cloud over its site to collect the transponder's retrieval beam appeared to be working well. "Stick to the proven and increase its accuracy and speed," was Max's motto. He was also able to test and prove that two objects cannot occupy the same space during the final stage of a jump – thus eliminating a most extreme concern. Meaning, the traveler would not become embedded inside a tree or another object upon materialization, but he could bounce off an established structure. An uncomfortable hard knock received was far better than dual occupation - at least you wouldn't become internal plant food for the next twenty years. On the down side, Max realized belatedly his Machine could be used as a transporter device from one site to another and be able gain entrance within any modern, nonleaded, fortified facility by simply setting the Time Machine's calendar selection to send the traveler back for only one minute - wherein a hostile agent could easily perform a military-type mission then jump back. Thereby and now, making the doctors top priority to ensure the device never falls into the hands of any country's armed forces or criminal organizations. The assassinations and resulting mayhem would be unstoppable. The World would lose its constant – its history, and the present would be continuously changing... until mankind completed the inevitable - global destruction or rioting back into the Stone Age. Max and Jean-Luc spent many hours discussing whether or not to dismantle it and destroy all documentation but put it on hold pending an investigation of possible civil rights repercussion violations in the existing time line caused by the change in the Civil War's outcome. As with the British intervention similar questions arose: Was mankind's quality of life today better or worse? Was the price paid too great? Therefore: Is there a need to attempt to counter or nullify the C.S.A.'s accomplishment of fighting the North to a draw? Could Max and Jean-Luc effect such a massive, far-reaching transformation without causing worse consequences? Millions were involved and hundreds of thousands of people were killed or maimed.

The two men did agree on one thing: If they attempted another intervention and due to the drastic ramifications if the Machine were to be captured by Criminal or military forces, they may have to destroy it by remote control using explosives placed within the subterranean complex. As a first line of defense, cameras, automatic sensors and every known detection device was installed and placed inside and outside their complex which was being monitored by a twenty-four hour immediate, armed-response security service. Even with these extra precautions in place it did not prevent the present day supposedly 'good guys' from coming to their abode and asking pointed questions whenever they wished.

'Knock, knock!' Missy answered the hailing of two C.S.A. Special Agents. "Suhs, may I helps you?"

They gave her a quick once-over, paying particular attention to her left ankle by pulling down her calf-length cotton sock to reveal what they were looking for – the device appeared in order. "We need to speak to the Master of the House. Is he available?"

"Certainly, Suh. Mas'sa's De-boys and Bit-o-mon, they be in the breakfast nook reading the morning paper. I'll fetch em for you."

"That won't be necessary," they directed, "just show us the way." The two Labor Management agents entered the room then motioned for the house slave to stand aside in a corner. Both Max and Jean-Luc looked up from their periodicals in surprise. "Gentlemen, keep your seats," they ordered, then stated their names and displayed credentials. "Sorry for the intrusion, we have found being unannounced is more effective in these matters."

"Matters? Of what?" asked Bitterman.

"We received a report you may be concealing a runaway slave," stated the senior agent.

"What in earth are you talking about?" asked DeBois.

"The postman observed a fiftyish male negro on your property who was not wearing his mandatory ankle monitoring bracelet. Coupled with not flying the flag as required by your being an Owner, we must know the reasons for these violations. For your information, these are both common practices utilized by smugglers and criminal sympathizers of the Underground Railroad."

"My word, I have no idea of what you're referring to," returned Max.

"And you, sir, who are you?" questioned an agent. "Our records show Mister Jean-Luc DeBois to be the sole property owner of the land and slaves."

"Your information is correct," answered Bitterman. "I rent a room and am retained as an agriculture researcher to explore methods to improve crop production," he lied.

The agents gave them both a suspicious look then declared, "Yes, the Confederate States of America appreciates your field of expertise, however may we remind you that acts of homosexuality are punishable by castration and death by hanging on the gallows."

"We assure you that is not the case here."

"We'll see," commented the lead agent. "Returning to the subject, our records show you have one male and female slave dwelling on your property. Is there anyone else?" He pointed a recording microphone in Jean-Luc's direction and stated, "You are under oath. Have you had or still have an illegal transient under you protection?"

"Certainly not," sputtered DeBois.

"Where is the man slave named Caleb? We need to see him immediately."

"Missy, please bring your husband to the house," requested Bitterman.

He came quickly, double-time and appeared very worried. "Roll up your trousers and show us your ankle monitor," which he did as fast as he could. "Now show us your I.D. number under your upper right arm," as the agent consulted a note pad.

"The arm tattoo numbers match the bracelet," said his associate. "Did you illegally remove this monitor within the last week?"

He stuttered, "Yes, Suh. I got a mess o' red ant bites and they was gittin' infected. I took it off to have it cleaned and puts some ointment on. It be all right now and I put my bracelet back on dis mornin'."

"I see," said the lead agent. "This man should have informed you (DeBois) of his condition and let you provide medical attention. Removal of a tracking device is against the law and subject to prosecution. But, since that detail has been explained and moving forward, what do you have to say in regard to the issue of your missing flag? Anyone?"

"I took it down to be cleaned," answered Missy.

"Are you aware you are not allowed to raise or lower the flag or even touch it without your Owner's permission?" charged the first agent. She stood silent and stared at the floor. "You may leave the premises," he directed and she complied.

"It appears you have some major discipline issues here," stated the second agent. "But we believe these transgressions were unintentional and will be forgiven this one time due to the slaves' ignorance and diminished mental capacity. In as much, it will still be recorded in our files and forwarded to our superiors. Therefore, you may be subjected to unannounced inspections and or searches henceforth. Do you understand, Mister DeBois?" Somewhat satisfied he added, "We've observed this situation many times and I wish to inform you Caleb's Common Law wife probably had knowledge and assisted in his wrong doings. Keep this in mind when you administer proper corrective punishment. We wish you, a Good day, Gentlemen. We are always at your service," and they left.

Bitterman and DeBois stared at each other in disbelief, yet this confrontation had answered many questions.

Ten minutes later Missy returned to her two Mas'sa's with her head hung in disgrace and said, "Caleb and I will be waitin' for you in the barn."

"Hold up, Missy," called Max. "We'll walk with you." They entered the barn together to find her husband stripped to the waist and facing the back wall. Missy quickly dropped the upper half of her clothing and moved to stand beside him.

"We is ready, Suh's," whispered Caleb as he offered a coiled whip to DeBois.

Max and Jean-Luc were positioned within ten feet behind the pair. The two men noted the numerous crisscrossing, raised, red-purple, elongated scars on their backs – the man had three times more than his wife. DeBois moved close enough to touch them and did so. Max knew in an instant these were old scars from repeated beatings and lost the little bit of breakfast he had left. The medical doctor, Jean-Luc, stroked the ravaged skin gently and asked, "Did we do this to you?" He wondered, Could this horror be another piece of their present past they had lived, yet couldn't remember due to the Time jump?

"No, Suh," answered Missy. "You, Mas'sa's never struck us."

"My uncle?" of whom he had inherited the farm.

"No, Suh," explained Missy. "It was long ago, back when I was a sassy teenager dat needed correcting... and Caleb's was for his being picked to be the plantation owner's 'whipping boy'. He never did no wrong... but had to pay for other people's doings. Your uncle, God bless his soul, took pity on us when he bought us. He was a good, God fearing man." By now, both slaves were sobbing.

Max looked up and away from his self-generated puke on his shoes and declared, "Jean-Luc, I can not be a party to this," to which his associate vehemently agreed.

"Please go and rest from this ordeal my friends. We'll see you tomorrow," instructed DeBois.

"Don't be afraid," added Bitterman. "We will protect you."

Later that afternoon in the gazebo, the two doctors were discussing the morning episode. They had chosen this locale not for the mint juleps, but because it was isolated and they could speak in confidentially. "Jean-Luc, those allegations made today by the C.S.A. agents were most disturbing and I feel we should investigate their basis," said Max.

"Yes, I agree," returned DeBois. "But how so? Do we need to travel about the country to ascertain our particular confrontation has not been an isolated incident perpetrated by two overzealous government employees? Or hire a lawyer to find out if we are under suspicion from who knows what?"

"Lord, no," Bitterman snapped back. "That could prompt them to return with search warrants and bulldozers. No... we have an easier method at our fingertips to teach us how the current laws are being administered. I'm referring to our recently installed computer system which has a program called the Internet. (Only the most affluent citizens had access to the World Wide Web.) They placed their half-empty aperitif glasses on the table and left to begin research on the terminal in their library... and it became most enlightening, or rather, en-darkening.

One of the first things they saw in the 'News' section were reports regarding the bountiful cotton and tobacco harvests. Rows of smiling plantation owners mugged for the cameras with workers tending the fields in the background. Schedules, projections and prices headlined the articles beneath the pictures. But wait. Max gestured at one of the larger scenes and asked, "Jean-Luc, can you stop that picture?" to which he did. Next, "Can you enlarge it?" which his friend answered, no. "Very well, just hold it there, please. I need to retrieve something," and returned shortly with a magnifying glass in hand. Squinting through it at the frozen scene, he whispered, "I thought so. Here," handing the instrument to Jean-Luc, "behold the worker closest to the plantation owners"... who appeared to be about thirty yards to their rear.

DeBois looked for himself and as he did, he reflexively jerked his head back momentarily before continuing his inspection of the other laborers who were close enough to obtain a reasonable focus. He switched to pictures of different farms. "My word." In each cotton or tobacco display, the workers who could be distinguished were wearing chains or some other form of bondage. "Are they convicts doing forced labor?" he wondered aloud.

"I doubt it," returned Bitterman. "While you were checking the photos I read part of an article which contained the boasting of one owner who was proud of possessing so many slaves." Additional Internet searches revealed this was the norm in respect for using large scale manpower in agriculture. "In my estimation, if the owners were happy with their current production and the workers were still shackled then how cruel an existence would they have if there were a problem such as blight, crop disease or drought?" It didn't require much imagination – the little guy always bears the weight of poor results.

"This also is totally unacceptable," stated Jean-Luc, "but I feel we must learn more."

"I have two ideas to present for consideration," offered Bitterman. "First, since we have this tool, the Internet, we can learn of how the non-abolishment of slavery by the C.S.A. has affected the rest of the world. We know after our Civil War, millions were freed in a dozen other countries and the practice of trafficking nearly ground to a halt. What's happening now? And for the second item, I believe an onsite inspection would reveal much... say, in a city such as Savannah or New Orleans. There were over a million slaves in each during the War and yet in our known present, both are beautiful, thriving, free cities."

"Great thinking, monsieur. Let's begin immediately with this media device and follow it up with a jump to New Orleans. Perhaps I should take this one instead of you. I believe my speaking French would be an asset... your decision of course."

"I see no reason why not," agreed Max. "I have made great strides with the Time Machine's mechanisms. But I caution, let's not get ahead of ourselves in regard to history. Even if we decide to attempt an intervention, figuring out how to alter the outcome of the America Civil War may be impossible. There were so many overlying factors."

Determining the current status of the countries involved and affected by the War's outcome was not difficult. The Caribbean was essentially as it had been for the last three hundred years only with a few bits of upgraded communication technology thrown in. The islands from Florida down to the tip of Argentina still were driven by the spice and sugar cane industries and worked by African slave labor. Cuba remained the Sugar Capital of the world. However, the English and Dutch had backed off the slave trading business and adopted the established commerce systems of its neighbors in Europe. Britain maintained more shipping with the C.S.A. than the U.S.A. as they had exclusively provided during our War – probably something to do with the earlier American Colonies revolution. It's water under the bridge at this point. The South had semi-modern technology in comparison to its northern neighbor and most of it had been obtained (stolen) by sympathizing relatives on the 'other' side. The C.S.A. was similar to the proverbial stepsister but not quite far enough behind to be classified as a 2nd-world country. Each side's borders were more closely guarded than their neighbors of Mexico and Canada. The South had moved their capital to Atlanta to increase the distance from the enemy and the North had done likewise by moving theirs to New York City.

New Orleans

Max and Jean-Luc decided to have DeBois take a commuter train to New Orleans instead of making a Time jump. They were hoping to gather more information by his pretending to be a French national and conversing with the other passengers and railway workers during the two day journey. And it worked: Both the white riders and the black rail employees gladly accepted him without reservation or discrimination, in separate conversations of course – each feeling he was on their side. Jean-Luc learned a third of the Negro population were still slaves – nothing could change that, but no more were being imported by the foreign Traders. The amount of children being born here were more than enough to replace those dying or being sold off. Another third were indentured servants and became 'free men' after ten years of servitude then joined the remaining last third who worked menial jobs for less than the White men's wages. Yet, yes, the business of buying and selling slaves still flourished in Richmond, Virginia, Atlanta, Georgia, and New Orleans, Louisiana on Saturday mornings by the existing Owners marketing their 'stock'.

"Welcome to New Orleans, the First Lady of the South" said the conductor as he assisted Jean-Luc down the train steps. "I hope you will enjoy our fair city and remain many days."

"Thank you so much and nice meeting you, monsieur" to one of the several black men who had volunteered much useful info as he palmed the man a generous ten dollar tip.

The rail employee then waved to a particular porter – most likely a relative, who rushed to DeBois's assistance. "May I help you, sir?"

"Please, I am new here. Perhaps you can advise me on transportation and lodgings in this beautiful city."

"Of course. The French Quarter is where you wants to stay," and waved to one of his cousins - a taxi driver named Henrí, as he neared the transit pickup area with the Jean-Luc's suitcase. The rail station was located close to the center of town and the ride took less than five minutes. The driver pointed-out as many places of interest as he could with a nonstop barrage of the area's background. They arrived at the finest hotel the city had to offer on Bourbon Street. "Will you be staying long, sir?" to which Jean-Luc responded, he wasn't sure. "If you need a guide I am always at your call," and offered his personal card which DeBois accepted. "For anything at all," as he gave a naughty wink. Message received.

It was Thursday and Jean-Luc had a day and a half to get the feel of the city and perhaps take in a few sights to evaluate the changes from his known past in comparison to what he was viewing firsthand now. The most important item on his agenda was being present at the start of the Saturday morning slave auction. "I may very well take you up on your offer," as he pocketed the driver's card. "Au revoir."

That evening, the local cuisine had been delightful; he dined at an outdoor café which reminded him of Paris twenty years ago. The nightlife was vibrant, yet enchanting but he knew well enough to stay within the tourist's area - away from the seedier, dark side sections which were not very far removed from the Promenade's flashing lights and alluring jazz music. Jean-Luc was enjoying a coffee and reading the evening news in the hotel lobby before retiring when he heard, "Bonsoir" and glanced up at the hailing. It was the taxi driver who said he had just dropped off another traveler at that hotel and noticed Doctor DeBois. They spoke for a moment then Jean-Luc asked if he would be available for a pickup tomorrow morning, "Say, ten a.m.?" which made the man most happy. Adding, there were a few places he wanted to see outside the immediate city and needed a guide. After the driver departed a suspicious thought crossed his ever cautious mind, "Could this fellow be doubling as a government undercover agent assigned to keep track of the non-Southern-type transients entering New Orleans? Are the authorities wary I may be a spy sent by their old adversary, the U.S.A.? Does either side still do such things? The War ended many years ago... or did it? I should be extremely cautious making any sort of criticisms or comments about the South's current living conditions."

The next morning: "I would like to visit a cotton and a tobacco plantation. Are any nearby?" he questioned.

"We grows cotton down here," the driver answered. "Tobacco grows in Virginny and the Carolinas. There's a big cotton spread 'bout five miles from here," and Jean-Luc advised that would be fine.

Henrí was correct; they ran into the plantation's perimeter long before detecting any viable structures. "Slow down, please." As they traversed, they observed hundreds of workers scattered over thousands of acres picking and collecting the last part of a harvest. They wore large straw hats to protect them from the sun and plasticized rope leg bonds to hinder escape attempts. Overseers were posted under umbrellas throughout the fields at a ratio of about thirty to one and were armed with a club.

"Do you want to see the Great House where the Mas'sa lives??" asked his driver. "It's not far."

"Yes." Then DeBois wondered aloud, "Why is it necessary to bind them?"

"So's they won't try to run off and join the Underground Railroad," explained Henrí. "Don't make no sense though. No one can git away in the daytime. I think it really be the Boss showing he's the Boss."

Jean-Luc next noticed several men without fetters doing the same work and pointed to them. "They be indentured servants; they won't run. If they do and they gets caught then they becomes slaves too. No, sir. They ain't gonna run."

"Forget the Great House. I think I've seen enough, let's return to the city." He thought, "Apparently, the Internet had been accurate. I'm sure the more I observe here the worse it will become." They were about to make a u-turn when Debois spotted a group of people close to the highway in the distance. "Wait, what's that ahead? Please proceed a little farther." It was two bus-loads of County prisoners on a work detail. All the blacks were gathering dead cotton plant cuttings and stuffing them into giant plastic bags while being guarded by white Trustees. Four real prison guards with shotguns stood close by.

The driver mumbled, "Dat be a crime, a real crime."

"What do you mean?" asked Jean-Luc.

Henrí sighed, "The Master of the plantation is in cahoots with the Sheriff. The Sheriff supplies prisoners for free and gits a piece o' the money when the crop is sold." He snorted and spat out his window, "Dat's the way it is at all the farms, not just New Orleans... the whole state... probably the whole Confederacy."

"Really? I'm most certainly finished here now. Return us promptly to the city, please." The driver was definitely not a C.S.A. undercover agent. Next he requested, "I want to visit a typical black neighborhood which has shopping and a public school."

"Black?" repeated Henrí. "Do you mean, Negro or Colored people?" to which his passenger corrected himself. "I'll take you to where I's live," and showed Jean-Luc all he wished including the substandard medical facilities.

"Is everyone here considered to be a free man? What about education and military service?"

"Yes, we be free. We can finish High school if we wants to but half drop out to work and help the family. There's one college for us in each state and they're run by Whites. Negros ain't allowed in the Army likes they do up North... and we can't have no guns neither," explained Henrí during their hour long tour. Maybe the White leaders be afraid of an uprising."

"Can you vote?" asked Jean-Luc.

"No, suh... and I wouldn't if I could. They all be crooks."

DeBois said, "I see," followed by, "I believe I have completed my inspections for the day," then requested another pickup for tomorrow morning at nine-thirty a.m. – the auction began at ten.

Saturday morning at the River Street Auction:

The slaves to be bartered were being assembled into groups of ownership on a platform and were controlled by their respective Overseers. The sellers or their representatives were seated in the first two rows of the Square with the succeeding dozen rows behind them containing approximately a hundred potential bidders and observers – Jean-Luc and his guide were in row four. The slaves, male and female of all ages wore a light weight cotton blanket which covered them from their shoulders to their knees; there were twenty-seven in number.

"Do you know any of these people, Henrí?"

"No, I don't know none of the slaves but I recognize one of the Overseers and two of the cotton Boss's men in the front row. One man, he's made lots of trades."

It began: The Auctioneer had the first person trotted forward and spewed the product's basic statistics and price as an Overseer opened their mouth to display their teeth. Next he pulled the blanket off and had them turn slowly in a circle to have their naked bodies inspected.

"How humiliating," remarked Jean-Luc. "They must be mortified."

"You have to be hard and close your mind to the crowd and hopes a good person will buy you," informed his all too knowledgeable guide.

The older men and women of little value were presented first, then the youngsters – who were considered to be long-term investments, but not top dollar. The prime age males in good physical health were the most valuable and shown last with the most sales pitch. "I see they have given everyone to be sold numbers and don't call them by their names," commented DeBois.

"Dat because the new Mas'sa's may want to call dem by a different name. He might already have too many with the same name. Slaves only have one name. Some... a woeful few, don't have none at all. They just be Boy, Girl or somethin' else."

In between presentations, possibly for entertainment, other odd lot type individuals were bartered. One such person was a young girl – age twelve, soon to be thirteen. She appeared distinctly different, lighter in skin color with straight black hair and had one brown eye and one blue one. "She be Mulatto," explained Henrí. "She half White, half Negro. The colored folks don't want to git attached to her. No young man would want her for a wife. Everyone know she'll be taken away from her family sooner or later. She got no name I'm sure. The Mas'sa selling this girl must be old... too old to be funn'g her... or he could be wishing for a good price from another Owner who still wants to play with young women. The new buyer usually waits til she gets more developed... unless, he be one of those bad people who do terrible things with children. Either way, she gonna end up a River Angel."

"What pray tell is a River Angel?" asked Jean-Luc.

"She be a girl like we see up there," said his guide as he pointed to the selling area called 'the trading block'. "She has no hope. She'll have the new Mas'sa's babies or some from his family members who want to poke her. After she worn out – at a young age and don't look good no more she'll be tossed out so they don't have her around and be reminded of their sins. She'll be so sad and heart-broken, she'll go to the river and swim out as far as she can and drown... then she become a River Angel. We've known many."

"How awful," lamented DeBois.

Back in the underground laboratory where the Time Machine was assembled.

Doctor Bitterman inspected the updated model's new eight foot high overhead cone and the same length in diameter platform in which all matter was transported out or received. These particular improvements had been made to facilitate larger payloads, beginning with his associate Jean-Luc DeBois' planned return from New Orleans with luggage and who knows what else may be involved in future trips. As before, anything beyond the cone's perimeter would be left behind, which could be an irreplaceable electronic device, part of the payload or... even a hand or a foot! Max had also bettered the Machine's operating range to two thousand miles and the retrieval transponder's activation speed to fifteen seconds. He had been in contact with his partner every twelve hours via their existing conventional landline telephone during Jean-Luc's reconnaissance and spoke in the abstract in case there was a wiretap. They had become suspicious and cautious after their confrontation with the two C.S.A. Labor Management Agents who came to their home and threatened them. Considering their Storm trooper-type conduct, spying on them had become a realistic possibility.

Jean-Luc had called an hour earlier at nine a.m. New Orleans time and said he would be ready to return shortly. He had a few loose ends to tie up and would make contact just prior to transponder activation. The plan sounded good, controlled – on schedule.

Suddenly, an audible alarm sounded and the red light started flashing. The video display terminal and printer began repeating the message: Ready to come home. The transponder had been activated! DeBois would materialize under the cone within fifteen seconds - without the agreed upon final contact. Why? Was everything all right? "I'll know very soon," muttered a concerned Max. There wasn't enough time to don his shaded goggles so he shielded his eyes with his hands. A brilliant burst of white light flooded the chamber and quickly dissipated. Bitterman dropped his hands to gaze upon his colleague who appeared to have arrived without his suitcase. Instead, tucked close to his chest cowered a young, teenaged, light-skinned Negro girl covered by a rag of a blanket. "Oh, my. This will be interesting for sure," he whispered to himself.

"Jean-Luc, how do you feel?" Max asked as his associate stepped away from the transporter cone.

"I feel well," answered his friend. Being logical and a medical doctor, "We'll know more after the tests." (Always the tests – ain't that so true?)

"And?" pointing at his bewildered companion.

"Oh, her, sorry about that. I was not able to give the agreed upon advance notice of activation because the gendarmerie were closing in. We had to depart post haste. Seems, they are of the mindset it's permissible for the Locals to abuse the slaves but not visitors – especially those from abroad. We were about to be arrested in my hotel room so I had to escape ahead of schedule.

"I fully understand," remembering his venture in the woods outside Valley Forge," responded Bitterman. "However, why was she in your hotel room, if I may inquire with no disrespect or judgment?"

"She is a slave and was about to be bought on the trading block by a sleazy plantation owner for his prurient, sexual entertainment," then went on to describe how the River Angels came to be.

"We shall place her in the safeguard of Missy and Caleb. It is my understanding they have always wanted a child but it never came to fruition," stated DeBois.

Their resident grounds keepers were thrilled and grateful beyond words. They named her, Joy for what they felt in their hearts and swore to Jean-Luc and Max they would never lay a hand on her in anger.

Later, "It appears we may have another dangerous task at hand, but how to proceed?" pondered Bitterman aloud.

"First and foremost, we need to gather more information, or data as they say now," offered Debois. "Especially, how did the Confederacy achieve a draw with the U.S.A. who had superiority in everything? Manpower, industry, resources... every critical area involved the in the conflict and still forced the Northern armies to retreat?"

"Research, research!" declared Max. "Starting tomorrow, kind sir... but for the remainder of this day let us rejoice for Joy being brought into our lives."

The next morning after another sumptuous breakfast prepared by Missy who was so cheerful she seemed to be walking on air, the two men moved to their library to begin gathering information from the Internet. As they proceeded, the results were not exactly what they sought. The official documentation of The War seemed as if it had been prepared as a movie script. Eventful, but not truly believable. Too much had been embellished by excessive one-sided opinions without regard to a substantiated basis. The two partners striving for clarity couldn't disseminate the facts from the hype. "This is very similar to our old Cold War method of news reporting," stated Bitterman. "It's near impossible to differentiate the half-truths and distortions from the down-right lies."

"Some things never change," agreed DeBois. "I suggest we redirect our efforts to the local library as we did before. It's been proven to be more thorough and accurate." Max agreed.

They arrived at the same Falls Church library used for gaining information on the American Revolution. Structure-wise, it appeared the same but had two cannons in the front and a Confederate battle flag atop. The same female librarian was in attendance, dressed in old fashion civil war era clothing. As they approached her station to inquire the location of said material, the two men noticed a stack of flyers announcing the details of the next, upcoming Ku Klux Klan rally. They also noted the woman was wearing two, gold lapel pins – one a KKK and the second a Christian cross. Neither man made mention of any item, received their directions, then proceeded to sort through the books – numbering in the hundreds; it was the largest section in the building. The South was not shy in embellishing their exploits and victories which took a distinctly positive turn in 1863. Interesting enough, the records were abundant with photographs, especially in regard to their artillery. The two doctors spent an entire week sifting through the massive glut a hundred times greater than that of the Revolutionary War. They made volumes of notes and pictorial copies on the library's printer. Finally, after the fifth day and agreeing further time spent would be redundant, they decided to return home and compare findings.

Jean-Luc was driving his Peugeot when in the distance Max spied what appeared to be a chain gang of prisoners. "Let's slow down and take a look."

"I'd rather not," returned DeBois. "It could arouse suspicion and a guard may take down my license plate numbers then pass it on to who knows who. What you're seeing out there is a common practice. Some government agency may wonder why we were interested in observing the chain gang and come knocking on the door again. Then Jean-Luc continued and expanded on what he had heard and observed during his exploratory road trip with Henrí... concluding with: "and by my estimation, between twenty-five percent and one third of the Negro population are still bona fide slaves with an equal amount of ten year indentured servants. The remaining are free men living in substandard conditions. Sadly, about twenty-five percent of their race dies within a ten year period by suicide. They are basically, without hope."

"Oh, my," whispered Max. "I had no idea."

During the next two days of comparing notes and voicing their opinions, the two doctors' evaluations were essentially identical. They concurred the turning points of the war had been the Siege of Vicksburg and the Battle of Gettysburg which concluded within a week of each other.

"I possess an adequate rendition of these two particular clashes," stated Max. "I have an encyclopedia set in my laboratory which I read for relaxation and fortunately it has been shielded from the Time Shift alterations." He smiled, "You know I've always been a history buff. I already knew for a fact for many years these two confrontations had decided the course of the war and it definitely wasn't in the South's favor. The Union won decisively both contests with a great cost to each side. I suggest we research in depth these two clashes. I'll take Vicksburg and would you take Gettysburg? Let's determine how this flip-flop occurred. Even if we discover its mechanism, I would have no idea how to revert it. May I count on you again, sir?"

Jean-Luc kissed Max on each side of his face in the French loyalty custom and said, "Oui, monsieur, I am always with you my friend."

April 1863, the Vicksburg garrison

"General, our scouts have observed a large Union fleet coming down the Mississippi. They have scores of gun boats leading a yet to be determined number of troop transports, supply ships and barges carrying field artillery," reported John Pemberton's Chief of Staff.

"Finally, I've been expecting them," returned the former West Point graduate who married a southern woman, then chose to side with the Confederacy as did Robert E. Lee. The garrison, situated two hundred feet up upon a stone bluff overlooking the Mississippi River was known as the Gibraltar of the West. Even Abraham Lincoln declared this bastion must fall in order to defeat the South. Eliminating this stronghold would split the Confederacy and enable the Federal land and sea forces to develop a U-shaped vise.

"When do you estimate their arrival?"

"Two days, sir. Three at the most. We have them under constant surveillance."

"No engagements thus far?"

"No, sir, per your orders. I believe they knew we were watching but didn't fire at us."

"Good, I know they won't think we're asleep at the wheel but I don't want them to get their bristles up either... yet. I expect they'll make a challenge with their small, fast moving gun boats in the daytime and we shall respond with light, measured cannon fire. Maybe, we'll be fortunate and sink a few. That would be a feather in our cap. I anticipate they'll keep the rest of their fleet at a safe distance upstream and attempt to sneak pass us a few days later at night. I would. Are all our batteries at the ready?"

"Yes, sir. All our heavy and medium pieces have been activated from standby to combat alert. The light cannons are always at full readiness. They will engage the gun ships at first sighting."

The Federal fleet's plan was to fire on the Confederate fortress for two days to soften-up the enemy's batteries then sneak their convoy pass the fortress in the middle of the night during the New Moon's blackness. They calculated the crossing would take forty minutes for all their ships to clear safely and they would begin the operation at 3 a.m. After they had passed the garrison, they would off land the transports, form up their floating twenty thousand ground troops with their supporting artillery pieces and launch an attack from the southwest in unison with General Ulysses S. Grant's thirty thousand man army's assault from the opposite side. The Confederate fort had a thin five thousand defenders with an allegedly thirty thousand reinforcements en route from far away Jackson, Miss. who in Lee's calculations would arrive well after its fall... if they came at all! After capture, Grant planned to hide his own cannoneers inside the fort and blast the Confederate relief forces with their own guns while the other half of his army joined the naval troops and blocked their retreat. The enemy would be trapped and crushed if they didn't surrender.

It began: The Federal gun boats raced back and forth below the Vicksburg fortress as they lobed shells inside the fort's walls. At sunset they retreated upstream – out of range.

For two days and nights all went well as planned by either side. Harassment by the gun boats inflicted minimal damage and the returning 'measured' fire from the fort destroyed only four of the pesky runabouts. It resembled two heavyweight fighters trading exploratory punches to evaluate their opponent's defense. On the third night the Union began their 'second stage'- the sailing past the South's Gibraltar under the cover of the near pitch-black New Moon darkness.

"Sir, twenty enemy ships have come into range," reported the Captain of surveillance and defense.

General Pemberton then moved from his command post to the ramparts overlooking the black river. "Hold your fire until the lead elements are almost out of range. I will give the order."

The Federal flotilla came, and came... more than a hundred large, slow moving ships filled both sides of the split river below – all within range of the garrison's heavy guns which could sink a vessel with a single shell... and the Vicksburg cannoneers were the most proficient in the Confederacy – in the daylight. The spotters and fire control officers, (fifty teams controlled two cannon each), had never seen so many ships at one time; there were more enemy ships below them than the South ever had in its entire navy.

"Sir, the Republic's lead elements are less than five hundred yards from being out of range and there are more than a hundred transports now under our guns."

"Commence firing, Captain. Train half on the lead vessels and the second half on the middle group. The remaining ships in the rear will be in disarray as they attempt a turnabout retreat and be easy targets.

The cannons roared to life, spitting fire and plumes of blue-grey smoke. The skyline above flickered orange-white from the blasts of Confederate artillery. Moments later, the explosive shells rained down on the invading fleet and the Vicksburg fire control officers marked the landing coordinates and the vessels' relationships. The Federal fleet anticipated a possible response and assumed most of the fort's projectiles would fall harmless into the water – after all it had become very dark and their ships were too far distant to be revealed by flares. Having a couple of boats damaged or sunk by blind luck would be acceptable loss.

The lead naval crews and soldiers being transported braced themselves for rocky ride for the next ten minutes, until they were beyond the enemy's big gun's range. A splash... another and more followed. One ship sustained minor damage from a shell exploding underwater. A pause... one minute... two, three. Suddenly, over a dozen boats were being blasted to pieces by incoming, on target artillery strikes. Flames, exploding ammunition, shredded equipment and dead bodies flew about the perimeter of eight of the leading fifteen ships. The pattern was the same for the middle section of the fleet. A first round volley, a pause then a score of direct hits. The garrison's light cannons peppered the rear portion of the convoy who after witnessing the annihilation ahead went into a disorganized panic... and big ships turn slow and wide.

Six vessels in the lead portion finally traversed beyond Vicksburg's long range guns only to sail into the sights of a Confederate field artillery regiment waiting downstream in case any Union boats escaped the mayhem behind them. In the night's blackness the Federals couldn't see the ambush and were all destroyed in less than five minutes.

It was the same scenario for the last group in the North's fleet and a trap of Southern field artillery deployed upstream to their rear made quick work of the fleeing gunboats which had made a fast u-turn retreat. Both the fort's heavy and medium cannons then concentrated on the bulk trapped directly below them – it was akin to shooting fish in a barrel. The Confederate marksmanship had been uncanny and every Union ship was disabled or sunk. The Vicksburg local militia rounded up the survivors as they swam ashore.

General Grant had not received news of the navy's total destruction – the worse loss of the entire civil war and continued to lead his army overland to make an attack from the northeast as scheduled. He had been joined by another general's ground forces and now commanded seventy thousand troops including heavy weapons support. He reasoned: The garrison at Vicksburg could not stand for more than a few days. This will be the quickest major defeat of the South so far. As Lincoln said, "Vicksburg is the key to victory and I shall attain it."

Grant moved his troops into predetermined positions, digging battle trenches and constructing field artillery mounts six hundred yards from the garrison. He didn't suspect General Pemberton had repositioned his cannons to defend against his side of the complex since there was still a threat from the river in Grant's opinion. The Southern defenders were outmanned fifteen to one and his combined army had at least two hundred more cannon.

"Sir, the Union troops are digging a mile long siege trench about five hundred yards from our eastern perimeter," reported the Chief of Staff.

"Thank you, noted," returned Pemberton. "Fire a few volleys at them occasionally but more importantly determine where they're building pockets within the trench in order to assemble their soldiers. Also, look for reinforced mounds to place their cannons on during the night before a morning assault. Do not fire upon either the pockets or mounds. Give the artillery officers the coordinates. We want them to feel their positions are safe before we send them to Hell.

General Grant dug his trench with carefully spaced staging areas and constructed fifty rock and packed dirt platforms to accommodate three cannons each. The bulk of his troops and field pieces as well as the staff officers were kept far behind – awaiting the Corp of Engineers 'all ready' go-ahead. Grant reasoned the garrison's heavy guns were still pointed riverward, awaiting the Union Navy's return from downstream - anticipating a simultaneous naval and ground attack from the southern front. He was unaware both those elements had been neutralized. He also felt the current light response from the fortress was due to their having lower than expected ordinance reserves and the enemy was waiting for the real fight to begin and possibly surrender soon afterwards.

His engineers finally gave the signal the emplacements and staging areas were ready. Grant planned to move his army into position during the night and attack at dawn. He hadn't heard from the North's fleet but felt it wasn't necessary. Tomorrow morning was the agreed upon campaign date and his army had the overwhelming strength. He could storm the garrison alone if he had to. He eagerly awaited nightfall to begin.

10 p.m., total darkness. The Union army advanced and placed their field artillery on the newly constructed firing mounds as tens of thousands of soldiers assembled and readied in the secure staging areas within the connected mile long siege trench. All remained quiet, as expected. At dawn's early light the Federal cannons would bombard the fort and sixty of Grant's seventy thousand men would race a short six hundred yards, overwhelm the surprised Vicksburg sentries and secure a quick victory as the stronghold tries without success to repel a land and sea assault from two sides. By 2 a.m. his swift and well organized soldiers were in position and hunkered down to get some rest before the morning attack.

3 a.m. The garrison's guns roared to life sending a volley all around the trench line. Grant, who was not sleeping of course, wondered why the fort was wasting ammo shooting in the dark. A few shells landed close to their positions but no direct hits. "Could it be tokenism to say they fought all night then had to surrender in the morning because they ran out of munitions?" What did seem strange is he thought he heard the heavy river guns fire also, which was illogical in his opinion. Minutes passed, his artillery didn't not return fire; their cannon flash would reveal they were positioned for a morning attack.

Five minutes later: Another roaring volley from the other half of the fort's artillery. It didn't take long for the explosive projectiles to travel a mere six hundred yards and destroy a quarter of Grant's cannons. No volleys were fired at the nearby ground troops. "Lucky bastards," Grant cursed. Three minutes later, the other half of the South's cannons rained down almost fifty percent direct hits on the Union's remaining field pieces. The troops in the trench and staging areas were in shocked awe and awaited orders. Two minutes, the familiar 'Whomp' of mortars reached their ears and they immediately started searching the black sky. Down they came – sixty percent direct hits, followed by a third round of heavy and medium cannon fire into to previously safe troop pockets as the light artillery raked the trench's connecting paths.

"Sir, our spotters have located Grant's headquarters and reserves five hundred yards behind the front line."

"Excellent, retrain our Big Boys on his position. Fire the first round to learn coordinates followed by a second and third kill volleys – same as before, then return to firing on the siege line. We'll show their brass how it feels on the front lines." The results were far better than expected. One half of Grant's staff and reserves were killed or wounded, including the great man himself. He wondered, "How is this possible?" as he passed away.

After fifteen minutes, his crushed army was in total retreat without any artillery and the garrison's guns fell silent.

Two days later, the remnants of his army were confronted by the Confederate relief column sent from Jackson, Miss. A short, rag-tag battle ensued and the battered Union troops who couldn't muster a defense or response to the South's field artillery surrendered quickly.

"That's not the way I remember my Civil War history lessons nor my encyclopedia," remarked Bitterman.

"I either," agreed Jean-Luc. "Much of your rendition sounds similar to what I learned about Gettysburg, but on a greater scale. There were far more combatants at Gettysburg –hundreds of thousands. However, the Confederacy's tactics were the same. They traded fire with the Union during the day then blasted them to pieces at night when the North was regrouping for the next day's fight. The South owned the night and subsequently broke the back of a superior adversary in every way. It's uncanny. It was if they had a secret weapon."

"Did they?" Max wondered aloud.

"There's no mention of one as I can determine," answered DeBois.

"It strikes me the turning point was attained by their artillery," assessed Bitterman. "Let's examine the photographs. There's no shortage, that's for sure. It seems the winning side loves to have pictures taken of themselves."

The two scientists/doctors returned to the Falls Church library and inspected with magnifying glasses hundreds of photos. Max had been correct; there were volumes of pictorial documentation. "Let's see if there's anything unusual regarding the South's cannons. Something which would make them so accurate." After many hours of review, they couldn't find a single thing which appeared suspicious. In fact, half of the Confederacy's hardware had been acquired from the Union – captured in earlier battles. The South only had one weapons factory whereas their enemy had over a dozen.

"I find nothing evident here and highly doubt there anything special about their ordnance. To tell you the truth, I'm disappointed. Something of this nature should jump off the page or be recorded in some manner," reasoned Max.

"Perhaps the South's cannoneers were trained exceptionally well?" suggested DeBois.

"At only Vicksburg and Gettysburg... within a week of each other?" countered Bitterman. "And not during a hundred previous battles? It doesn't sit right." Both men settled into deep thought. Then, "I suggest we visit the Richmond, Virginia Civil War Museum and inspect their displays and artifacts. Incidentally, it also happens to be on the site of the Confederacy's only war materials manufacturing plant."

"Indeed, monsieur," returned Jean-Luc. "Perhaps, a hands-on visit will reveal the missing pieces of this mystery."

The following day,

Entry into the museum was free, stated a sign at the main entrance. 'Welcome, your admission has been paid for by the blood of our fallen compatriots.' The building was quite large, three double stories and all the guides and security personnel wore vintage/ replicated Confederate soldier uniforms. The gift shops and special services were staffed by southern hospitality-type ladies donned in stunning, puffy plantation-style dresses. Negro men and women sporting grey and white liveries handled the concession stands and the dining room. The visitor's brochure broke down the three floors into: The first contained current Administration offices, displays and statues of the C.S.A.'s wartime political leaders, chronicles and the common visitor facilities. The second floor was dedicated to the Army and the third to the Navy. Max and Jean-Luc came to inspect the army's cannon and proceeded directly to them.

"My great, great grandfather served at Vicksburg," boasted their proud, young escort who greeted them at the entrance. "He was a cannoneer, a very important position in the garrison's defenders. Please let me show you a detailed replica of the fortress, the Gibraltar of the South, and four of the artillery pieces used against the Union's flotilla and Grant's army. They are the actual guns, not replicas, transported here for authenticity." His voice swelled with pride, "My ancestor may have manned these very cannons!"

This was exactly what the two men were seeking. "Do you have munitions or any supporting ordnance?" queried Max.

"Of course, we have it all," beamed the guide. Standing next to the largest weapon, "This is one of the Big Boys. It weighs over four tons and in all likelihood, has sunk several if not more, invading Federal ships with just one volley. This baby can't be moved after installation, it's too big and heavy but it could be pivoted a hundred and eighty degrees. That's how General Pemberton was able to redirect these monsters on Grant after destroying the North's fleet." Next, he went to a medium gun, large but mobile with difficulty. "Half the size but more versatile. These were than backbone of the fort. Sixty percent of the firepower generated were these." Next came the counter equivalent of the enemy's heavy, field artillery pieces. "Even though they were the smallest, they were highly mobile and able to plug holes fast. And last but not least were the mortars. Are you familiar with their operation?" Both men nodded, yes. "Well, there we are. You've seen the hardware and its capabilities. Any questions so far? No, then I shall continue. Each cannon had a spotter, a fire control officer who plotted the target's coordinates by using a monocular, a telescope to you, and three to five soldiers to do the heavy lifting. The Big Boy shells weighed over a hundred pounds and the task of reloading and adjusting trajectory was critical. They weren't just firing blinding into the dark, gentlemen, it was calculated."

"Why do you say that?" questioned Bitterman. "The nights of the Vicksburg and Gettysburg battles had a New Moon. It was dark. The spotters couldn't have seen the ships or Grants maneuvers unless they used flares solely over the ground forces which at six hundred yards would have been completely ineffective. And, as far as I understand, the river targets could not be illuminated to any degree, they were too far away."

"Well, er... I don't know those exact details," he stammered. "I assumed the gunners were great marksmen... well trained... experienced..." as his voice trailed off.

"Either way, young man, the garrison's results were self-evident," added Jean-Luc, trying to soothe over the 'fact' challenge. "Thank you so much for your enlightening dissertation. It was most helpful. May we dwell here a bit longer and admire these artifacts of our brave forefathers?"

"Certainly, as long as you don't touch the equipment. It's against the rules. Even the oil from your hand or finger tips could cause future damage over time. I'll be nearby and at your call if you need me. Please explore the rest of our facility. Good day, sirs," as he strolled away to assist other visitors.

I feel the answer is right in front of us," said Max as he inspected the cannons. "I'm not a weapons expert but I just know something's amiss here." Both men poured over the weapon's mechanisms. No revelations. Standing back, Max noted and posed, "Why are there two tripod mounted monoculars - one astride each side of the cannon? Did they have a problem with targeting or their instrumentals being overly sensitive to vibrations such as explosives then becoming distorted? I would have kept my spares to the rear and brought them forward as needed. But then, I'm not a battlefield commander and must concede to their expertise.

"You know the South had a hodge-podge collection of weapons, perhaps they're displaying their own manufactured device and one captured from the Union."

"Possibly," considered Max. "It was a common practice." He went to the left one and peered through the eye piece – it seemed to be a standard field issued telescope. He moved to the second instrument on the right side and there was no vision. He couldn't see anything and the same pattern held true for all eight scopes. Blurred vision on the left ones because they were pointed toward an inside object too close to be focused upon whereas the four right ones were dark grey inside. "What the heck, what's the difference between these?"

"The right ones appear to have been made by a different manufacturer. They're shorter, I'd estimate them being two feet in length and fatter than the skinny, three-foot long, left ones," remarked DeBois.

"Yes," agreed Bitterman. "And look, even the metal casing in different. It seems newer or at least it didn't age as poorly over the last hundred and thirty years." The men began to inspect a right side instrument in earnest. "Look here, Jean-Luc. "Is that a seam around the fat part underneath?"

"I believe so... and see that tiny rusted hole?" pointed DeBois. "It appears to be filled with a dried-up, liquid discharge which came from a nearby seam. Rusted from being outside in rain?"

"Possibly," as Max wet his finger tip then rubbed the residue. He put it to his lips and his eyebrows shot up. "My word! Jean-Luc taste that." which he did and had the same reaction. They stared at each other. Bitterman spoke first, "Battery acid."

DeBois, a chemist, took a step back and confirmed, "Yes, it is battery acid."

Max traced the seam to discover it was the edge of a compartment door. He had been in the military as a young man and yet hesitated in saying the impossible. "This is a modern night vision, range finder, military grade telescope... which hadn't been invented for at least a hundred years after the Civil War." He then pointed at a small protrusion. "And that explains this little black, frozen button on the side which I thought was part of a grip. It's the on/off button." Mystery solved. "I think we need to ask the young lad a few more questions and waved him over. "Have noticed these monoculars are distinctly different types?" The guide looked at the instruments as if he had never seen them before in his life. "Do you have any idea from where they originated?"

"Er, no... but the Research library located on the first floor may be able to assist you." he redirected. "They have all the old records from the previous building on this site, the Richmond Weapons Factory and Supply Depot which existed during the war." They thanked the young lad who was entering the Virginia Military Institute in the fall and proceeded to the first floor.

"Do you have any dates in particular?" asked the attendant.

"It would be early eighteen sixty-three and the devices were called monoculars or possibly telescopes which were sent to the Vicksburg garrison," answered Max.

"I'll search both nomenclatures for that year. This may take a few minutes, these new computers are a wonder, but slow," she stated. A few minutes later, "Oh, this is an odd entry; I don't remember seeing this before. It says on February 15 of 1863 a European merchant by the name of Herr Vondergurt donated two hundred such instruments to the Confederacy with the stipulation seventy-five be delivered to General John Pemberton at Vicksburg and a hundred and twenty-five to General Robert E. Lee in Pennsylvania, who both became victorious over the North later in that very same Spring. Isn't that the strangest thing you've ever heard?" she laughed. "Of course our generals would have won anyway, but it's an odd coincidence don't you agree?" They remained silent. "The War Department did as he requested, after all everyone was in need of equipment and supplies and the monoculars were shipped February 29. Did I answer your question, gentlemen?"

"Indeed you have and you can't imagine how much so," then bade the lady, Goodbye.

Not much was spoken on their ride home – each were mulling over the glut of information they had absorbed in the last three weeks. Especially, the shocking revelation received at the museum. Could an inventor/scientist from abroad developed a battery-type device and weaponized a telescope then offered it to the Confederacy for a field test? Not likely, and also specifying for them to be used at Vicksburg and Gettysburg, the two key-most battles of the Civil War? Lee never lost another fight after obtaining the monoculars and continued to push the Federal troops back until Lincoln was assassinated two years later then everything went completely to Hell for the North. No, the placement of these instruments smacks of a time traveler intervention. We should know! We did it at Valley Forge. Obviously this particular time traveler had a different agenda. He didn't seek a return to the past, instead wanted to change the future. As previous, the men agreed to sleep on it and start fresh in the morning.

It was a happy morning, but now all mornings were cheerful and full of life with Missy, Caleb and Joy... and those wonderful breakfasts. They retired to the library to formulate a plan. "We have to go back and do something was understood. "What are our options," asked Max.

"Well, this time we know exactly where to begin, the factory in Richmond," stated DeBois. "As for the date, do we wait for the delivery or go afterwards then take action?"

Bitterman said, "At this time, I believe we only have two choices. We can number one, destroy Vondergurt's cargo or number two, steal it. Either, best be performed after his delivery since we don't know where he's coming from and can't effect an intercept."

"I'm not sure confronting the man face to face would be prudent. He could make a scene and have us arrested," submitted DeBois. "Or possibly recognize our intentions, call us a spy and us shot dead on the spot. The Confederate Army would surely side with him since he is the one bearing gifts to help their cause.

"What was the delivery date, again?" asked Max and was reminded, February 15. "Fine, one of us will arrive a few days later which is still well ahead of their transportation to the generals two weeks later."

"How will we gain access?" posed Jean-Luc.

"Hmm, how about if we carry a letter from Herr Vondergurt stating the monoculars require one additional inspection of the lens' accuracy and you or I were qualified to make adjustments if necessary," suggested Max. "We'll assert, sometimes the delicate glass will shift during a long sea voyage – there are days of roughness. The testing would have to be at night and we could learn more about its capabilities."

"Sounds logical," concurred DeBois. "That being the plan, I should be the one to go. I am familiar with optometry and have the gentler hand. Plus, the French had assisted the underdog South on many instances during the conflict." It was agreed Jean-Luc would perform the jump. "Now, at what locale shall I appear?"

"Almost anywhere in Richmond will suffice, then hire a buggy to carry you to the factory," answered Max. "You will be invisible when you arrive, thanks to your improved potion, then can move undetected to a safer location."

"Er, not exactly, Max. I would have to be naked and it would appear rather strange just to be standing there holding a tool case when the potion wore off."

"Yes, that was silly of me. We need to select a proper entry site," then chuckled when envisioning Jean-Luc reappearing in the city square a la nude.

"Let's hope you don't find a cracked lens and are expected to replace it," voiced Max.

"That could be awkward," agreed Jean-Luc. "If I actually discovered one I wouldn't disclose its condition and would hide the device in the bottom of the pile."

"Good thinking. Now let's do a quick review please. Plan A is to steal the entire shipment depending on its physical size," began Max. "You and the wooden crates must fit completely within the Time Machine's transporter cone parameters. We don't want to leave any pieces behind – especially yours. If the load's too large then it's plan B to destroy or damage the cargo beyond repair using any number of methods. Smash the lens, crush the on/off button or even setting the crates on fire. Merely scratching the eye pieces will not suffice and trying to burn them may not be feasible either. The instruments don't have any flammable parts. Let's hope for plan A or a combination of A and B. It will be your call, sir." He gave his partner a final inspection. "You have your magic disappearing potion and the new hearing aid?" and received assent. "Then, my friend I believe you are good to go."

DeBois smiled and mimicked Max's first jump and called out. "Fire in the Hole!"

Bitterman now wearing his dark, protective goggles, grinned back and quipped, "Engage," as in the Star Trek movies while typing the 'activate' command. Jean-Luc disappeared within a brilliant burst of white light.

Richmond, Virginia 2 p.m.

Doctor DeBois materialized in a spent tobacco crop field a half mile outside the city limits none the worse for wear. "Oh well, I knew to expect a bit of a walk." He checked his case of optical repair tools, the potion's vial and tugged on his earlobe to test his implanted, enhanced hearing aid. It properly amplified then switched it off. The hike had not been difficult. The two lane road leading into Richmond was packed hard from the volume of traffic and there were good dirt walking paths on either side. Before long he was within the city gates guarded by multitudes of soldiers with several detachments manning cannons. He was challenged many times and had to present his fabricated identification papers and the letter from Herr Vondergurt instructing him to proceed to the Supply Depot to perform tests on the monoculars the benefactor had donated. Jean-Luc didn't have to obtain a buggy ride, a military driver returning a supply wagon gladly gave him a lift when he learned the Frenchman was aiding the Cause.

Upon arrival, he requested to see the Quartermaster in regard to the delivery from Vondergurt. The man was away from the facility and his second in command, a major, came in haste – fearing there was a problem with the shipment. He didn't want to be found responsible for sending defective equipment to the troops. DeBois explained an additional examination and test was necessary because in Vondergurt's haste to return abroad there had been a mix-up which resulted in it not being performed at the seaport as it should have been. When he learned it hadn't been done he dispatched his technical aide, Monsieur Jean-Luc DeBois, posthaste to follow through.

The major and his assistant, a lieutenant stepped away from the visitor – substantially out of hearing range and conferred. "We've had a number of spies attempt to infiltrate our buildings to sabotage our weapons and equipment. How do we know he's not one?" posed the major.

"His papers and the letter from Vondergurt appear to be in order, sir."

"They could be fake. I need more proof before allowing him access. The monoculars are being stored in the 'outgoing' staging area along with numerous munitions and firearms. We have to verify his story."

"How, sir?"

"We'll ask him questions regarding the benefactor, Vondergurt which only a person close in his employment would have proper answers to." explained the major.

"Did you meet Vondergurt yourself?" queried his subordinate.

"No," the major confessed. "But I'll know if he's lying. I have a good eye for the sort."

Unknown to the Quartermaster's men, DeBois had activated his extended range listening device and heard every word they said. When the officers returned the major asked, "And how is Mister Vondergurt? He left in such a rush."

"Well, as far as I know. He should be boarding a transoceanic ship tomorrow- returning to his native Prussia. I believe to oversee another invention of which I know not, to aid you again in the Cause. Apparently, he was touched and very moved when he visited your country years before the War. President Jefferson Davis had him as a guest in his home on two separate occasions."

"Oh, really," muttered the major. Making his last stab at trickery he asked, "And, how is that bad leg of his doing?"

"Bad leg?" repeated Jean-Luc. "I know nothing of a bad leg. Did he receive an injury here? He made no mention to me. If so, that would be terrible; he's always been an outdoors man. However, have no fear, a physical discomfort or disability will not deter him from going forward with his projects, sirs."

The major smiled at his lieutenant. "Monsieur DeBois, you are most welcome to make your inspection. I'll assign two soldiers to assist with the crates. When do you wish to begin?"

"Now would be fine. I'll start the initial inspection while it's still daylight and with good luck be able to continue into the second phase after nightfall for the final tests. Thank you so much gentlemen."

DeBois was led into a warehouse which contained materials for the next outgoing shipment in ten days. The two soldiers brought a work table and bench to the room's open center. Next, they were joined by two civilian warehouse workers and then the four men moved sixteen wooden crates weighing between one hundred and one hundred forty pounds each to Jean-Luc's new work area. DeBois, for certain wasn't going to run out the door with this load. He wondered, "Sixteen crates... two different sizes? Eight of each?" One set was six feet long and the other five. "By their volume, that's too many to contain two hundred monoculars," he estimated. "What else is here? Did Vondergurt provide more telescopes than we thought or does one set of boxes contain a different secret weapon slated for another campaign? This could be a serious complication. I can't steal all of them even with the Time Machine. Also, I can rule out damaging or destroying the goods with two full time guards in attendance. What to do... but first I must identify the contents within the unknown set of crates."

DeBois requested to have one of the smaller containers opened as the two civilian workers departed. The soldiers had no problem prying off its lid and Jean-Luc warily peered inside and slowly removed the burlap insulation. These were the monoculars and took them out one by one and placed them on the work table. There were twenty-five, meaning the five foot crates had a total of two hundred. "This makes sense," he reasoned silently. "I shall begin with these," to the soldiers who couldn't care less what the foreigner was doing. Addressing them again, "However, I need one of the larger crates opened also," to which they complied. He peeked inside. To his relief there were tripods, wooden tripods. He collected himself and stated, "That's what I thought. I had to verify it was the proper supporting hardware." After removing one and setting it up next to the table he instructed, "You may reseal the container and thank you. I only need one tripod." Jean-Luc began making visual inspections of the night vision telescopes slowly and after completing the task, had all eight of their cases resealed and stacked in a tight pile measuring four foot wide and seven foot high.

One of the more astute soldiers questioned, "Why did you have us reseal the crates? Aren't you going to make more tests tonight?"

"A good observation on your behalf, young man," DeBois acknowledged. "Until I have completed the process, I must maintain a degree of sterility," to which the soldier was very pleased with himself even though he had no idea what the word sterile meant and decided not to make any more objections.

They all took a break for supper and when the men returned night had fallen. "Now I can evaluate their real capabilities," thinking to himself. Again, he only needed one device to learn what he wanted but would go through the motions of 'testing' as many instruments as necessary to hopefully gain an opportunity to be left alone with the entire shipment. Hour after hour passed as he made tests and determined these instruments were definitely from the future. Max had been correct in his assumption of the on/off button for a night scope equipped with a range finder. The device's range was approximately two thousand yards – well beyond anything the two doctors imagined and it displayed the distance in digital yards rather than meters with clarity which rivaled a modern television. The yardage measurements proved it was made for the American conflict even if it had been built in Europe. Or, were the instruments made in a future U.S.A. environment and the European inference was part of a ruse? Questions and more questions, perhaps never to be answered. DeBois momentarily faltered, "What would Max do if he were here? He served in the German military and has been in tight situations before, especially at Valley Forge with the soldiers bearing down on him in freezing weather." He recited a reassuring mantra: "I am a skilled professional... I am a complete person... and my associate has unwavering faith and trust in me. I will successfully finish my mission." Jean-Luc felt better - focused and confident.

The soldiers had made a shift change and now he had only one young private in his company. "Good, this should be workable. I'll wait until he takes a restroom break or whatever they call it here, then stack my crates and transport back to the lab." Mother Nature soon played her part and the soldier excused himself to seek relief. Jean-Luc had five scopes on the work table which he quickly returned to their crate. Speed, not neatness was the priority. He tossed the lid on and eyed the seven other monocular stacked crates of three and four – the tripods were separate. DeBois seized the wooden box to pull it to the pile and lift in into place to make a nice, tight four by four stack then sit on it and activate the transponder which was much faster than when Max last used it. He would be transported away in less than a minute. "Ugh,' he moaned as he yanked on the crate, forgetting it weighed over a hundred pounds. He barely dragged it two feet on the gritty, dirt floor. "It's too heavy, there's no way I can possibly lift it alone!" The minutes were ticking away and he began a nervous sweat in the evening coolness. Just then he detected movement out of the corner of his eye – the young man was returning. "That didn't take long; he must have gone out the door and peed on the ground."

The young soldier strode up to Jean-Luc, "May I help you with that, sir?" as he viewed the drag marks in the dirt.

"I was trying to move it closer to the table.'

"Oh, you're going in the wrong direction," he remarked.

"I planned to swing it around," and received a, 'What for' look in return.

"Do you want me to call some men over to help us?" he asked.

"No, no, that's not necessary," DeBois shot back. "I see now it's actually fine where it is. However, there is something you can do for me," as he wiped his brow. "Would you be so kind to get me a cup of cool water?"

"Yes sir, but it may take a little while,' he answered. "The drinking water is located in the food facilities a few buildings away."

"Sorry, I don't wish to inconvenience you," returned DeBois.

"It's no inconvenience at all, sir. I'm here to assist you."

"Take your time, monsieur. Take your time," and the young fellow departed at a casual pace.

"I believe I have an opportunity now," reasoned Jean-Luc. He quickly transferred the monoculars, four at a time to the base of the two stacks then carried the now empty crate weighing only fifteen pounds and placed it neatly atop the three stack to form two even piles of four next to each other. Next, he scooped the instruments into the open crate and plopped on the lid. He attempted to jump on top but it was too tall so he grabbed the work bench and placed it next to the pile to climb up. "Oh-no. If I sit up there I may exceed the Time Machine's eight foot high ceiling. I could arrive home without my head!" He frowned, "Mission accomplished, Max except for the minor detail of no head." Ten minutes had elapsed. "The soldier could return at any time, perhaps I should drink my camouflage potion and disrobe in order to trick him into leaving here to go find me. Nah... I'd never hear the end of it from Bitterman." He kicked the bench away and squatted down on the floor in the middle of the rectangle-shaped pile. "I'm surely within the eight foot platform parameter," and pushed the transponder's activation button.

The young man was a hundred yards away when he saw a brilliant white flash from the open building doors. "What was that! An explosion?" Followed by, "Wait... no sound?" He dropped the water cup and began running toward the warehouse to discover DeBois and eight crates missing. The boxes of tripods, the work table and bench remained. "This will be hard to explain," he fretted. "I'll probably get sent to the front lines."

"Welcome home, Doctor DeBois," gushed Max as he walked around the platform inspecting his associate and the cargo. "I hope these boxes contain just telescopes and not more slaves."

"Very funny, monsieur. Yes, the monoculars are contained within. Your expanded overhead and transport ground area proved most worthwhile. I don't believe we could have accomplished this with the older model," as he gingerly counted his toes and fingers. "We're going to require a dolly to move them; the crates are quite heavy."

"Yes, I can imagine," concurred Max. "It appears plan A was successful. Any problems or surprises?"

Jean-Luc described the verbal exchanges with the soldiers and the unexpected tripod boxes. "Other than that everything progressed smoothly and there was no violence. What shall we do with these instruments?"

"I thought about that while you were gone," answered Bitterman. "We could have a yard sale or give them as Christmas presents," he joked.

"Always the humorist," returned DeBois. "I fear you shall never change."

Max smiled. "No, I don't know what to do with them at the moment. Let's just stash the crates in a corner until we come up with something. It's a low priority item at this point. Number one in importance was your returning safely and number two, you secured the devices. Well done," and patted him on the back. "Were you able to ascertain their functions and capacities? In other words, could they have effected a change in the outcome of those two battles?"

"Indeed so, without question," answered Jean-Luc as he explained the details and his conclusions, finishing with: "These instruments are most assuredly from a different time line in relationship to the Civil War. They even could be from our future. I don't know the capabilities of our current military hardware, but I am certain these monoculars were responsible for the Confederacy turning the tide against the Army of the Republic and their Navy."

"Well then, let's verify your hypothesis by sticking our heads out the door." There had been no changes within their shielded, subterranean laboratories. When they exited the elevator into the library the men noted the décor had reverted back to the room's finishing's prior to their Revolutionary War intervention. It's obvious something occurred," stated Max as he pointed to the now missing computer.

"Hmm, let's check the kitchen. What time is it?" asked Debois and learned it was 7:30 p.m. Upon entering no delicious odors greeted them... therefore no Missy and they immediately were saddened. "They're gone... everyone must be gone," he whispered.

"Yes, I'll miss them," joined Max.

"However monsieur, we should rejoice they are free and hopefully living happy lives."

They looked outside and discovered the flag pole was missing. "Good riddance," said Bitterman then stared into the darkness to where Missy, Caleb and Joy's little cottage had been.

"You're right, Jean-Luc. We must put aside our own personal sorrow and be proud for all the suffering we eliminated." then unexpectedly said, "I'm hungry and we have nothing prepared here. What say we take drive, find an eatery and have a toast to our success?" They went into the attached garage barn to select a car and found Max still had his BMW but Jean-Luc's vehicle had changed to a Volkswagen. "Ah, well my friend, I can't say I'm surprised," and they chose the BMW.

Traveling toward Falls Church they encountered a different restaurant at the exact location of the previous two - it was now the Bavarian Village. Bitterman remarked, "This is most unexpected. Does this mean in the Time, Space Continuum these geological coordinates must sustain an eatery? I never considered such."

"I think it's merely a coincidence, Max," countered DeBois and they turned into the parking lot.

The service, presentation and food had been excellent and Bitterman should know, he being German. That's the best wiener schnitzel I've had since I was a young man. It and the side dishes were authentic in every detail. I would like to dine here as often as possible."

"I'm glad you're pleased... it was very good," replied Jean-Luc, "and I also would return again but I really prefer American or French, of course. Oui?"

It was 9:30 p.m. and the restaurant staff were scurrying as fast as they could to close for the night and handled the bill briskly. Max paid the bill with a credit card he didn't recognize, with no challenges and said, "I shall check out the origin and details of this card tomorrow, not tonight. Tonight is a celebration. It's not very late, what say we continue into town for some fun?"

"Fun?" repeated DeBois. "Is that your adopted Americanized humor coming to the fore again? I perceive you are in reality seeking to discover more changes from our recently imposed, post-Civil War environment. However, lead on, sir."

They rode about the town akin to a pair of new tourists, but found every business closed for the day and no other traffic. Before concluding their evening excursion they had planned to purchase petrol and bagels for tomorrow's breakfast, alas to no avail. "Egad, it reminds me of an Old West ghost town and it's only a little after ten," remarked Max. "We might as well return home."

"Why don't we pass by the post office and see what flag is being displayed?" suggested Jean-Luc.

"A capital idea," returned Bitterman. "I am curious myself and it's less than ten minutes away."

Just as they were slowing in front of the post office, Max saw flashing blue and red lights in his rearview mirror followed by a siren. Next, blared a P.A. hailing from the vehicle behind them. "Achtung! Pull der vehicle to the right and auf-halten," to which Max complied - he understood the German vocabulary and accent. They stopped directly in front of the post office.

Two military-style men exited their vehicle and approached one on either side. Bitterman and DeBois both rolled down their car windows. The 'policemen' had their right hands on Luger pistol hip holsters – their black jackboots shone under the street lights. "You are in violation of das ten o'clock curfew."

Max and Jean-Luc stared at each other, then turned slowly toward the post office to find a large, authentic, circa nineteen thirty-five National flag of Germany flying - complete with the Swastika. "Oh my God," whispered Bitterman. "Germany must have won World War Two."

"Papers, please!"

Chapter Three: World War Two

2 a.m. June 1, 1944

Four coordinated German U4 submarines of the 900 series - nuclear armed class, rose slowly from their three day hiding places on the ocean floor off the eastern American coastline. They reached periscope depth and scanned the blacken night for enemy warships. Cargo ships and troop carriers, the U-Boats usual first choice targets were to be ignored for this mission. One patrolling U.S. Navy sub-chaser had been detected a mere one kilometer (.6 mile) distant east toward the mainland. Boston's night lights twenty kilometers beyond loomed clearly as a backdrop. The German sub would have to wait until the enemy sailed out of range before rising to its firing position on the surface. The V4 missile launch tubes had been angled, set and locked-in two days prior for the intended target. The fact that all four subs may not be firing at the precise the same time was not required – the three American cities and one naval shipyard would all be annihilated within the same hour. This particular sub would surface as soon as it was deemed safe, point her tail toward a sleeping Boston, open her missile hatches, fire two atom bomb-tipped V4 rockets then dive and retreat east into the open sea to return home and reload. These four underwater war ships comprised the entire German nuclear fleet. The ship manufacturing plants of the Axis were under aerial bombardment and these stalwart vanguards had to send their message now!

There were three other U4 subs performing the same maneuvers; their targets were New York City, Miami and the Norfolk Naval Shipyard in Portsmouth, Virginia where a dozen U.S. warships were under repair and another dozen were being outfitted for combat. Striking that facility would cripple the Atlantic fleet in addition to killing more than twenty thousand military and civilians in the initial blast and ten thousand more later by subsequent radiation. The U.S. felt the east coast shipyard was unreachable in spite of the surprise attack on Pearl Harbor. The government had no idea the Nazi's had become successful in developing a U-Boat capable of firing their modified, existing, land based V2 rockets now equipped with atomic bomb warheads. The eight-foot long missiles were launched as easy as shooting off holiday sky rockets.

"Mein Capitan, the radio is reporting numerous strikes on the American coastline. They are in a panic and searching the skies for enemy aircraft to no avail. They are describing massive fireballs which are visible for more than thirty kilometers," reported the Signal Corp seaman.

"It has begun and we too shall soon join the fight," answered the Commander then quickly scanned the surface again. "Down periscope! Surface, surface! Hard about one hundred and eighty degrees. Remove the safeties on the V4 missiles." A few moments later, "Open the launch tube hatches. Master Gunnery Engineer, check the angle and range setting are still calibrated correctly."

"Affirmative, Captain."

"Fire number one!" and away it went into the black sky at 2:15 a.m. It's fiery, orange tail clearly showed the U.S. sub-chaser the missile's flight line and origination point six miles away but the U4 would be out of radar and sonar range before they could arrive. 'Fire number two!" Ten seconds later, nothing happened. "Engineer, I said fire number two! Is there a problem?"

"I'll check, sir!" he returned. "Do you want me to fire it manually?"

"Ja!" snapped the ship's commander.

Two long minutes later, "It can not be launched, sir. It appears to be an engine malfunction."

The Captain then rushed up the Cunning tower to observe a mushroomed shaped fireball in Boston. "At least we got one off. The mission will still be declared a Fatherland victory. After returning below, "Secure the overhead hatch! Re-engage the V4's safety and advise me when the launch tube hatch is closed and locked!" Shortly, "Dive, dive!" then "Full speed ahead!" and his vessel had cleared the area long before the American gunships arrived.

The three other double volleys from the nuclear Wolf pack were a complete success. Seventy thousand Americans were killed instantly. The message was loud and clear. "Surrender or die!"

1993... Alexandria, Virginia

The doctors' time spent standing before the District Magistrate had been short but certainly not sweet. Max and Jean-Luc had searched every inch of their home trying to find the required, Identity Papers to no avail. So, when called forth they offered their driver's licenses and birth certificates. The judge was unsympathetic and fined each one hundred marks then dropped the proverbial bomb shell. Bitterman was to obtain his official Resident papers at the Court Clerk's office located down the hallway immediately after the Hearing then return home if he so wished. Also, since Max had been born in Germany he was deemed an Elite Citizen in any country under the Reich's authority. On the other hand, DeBois had been born in France and was to be deported forthwith with all his monetary assets being confiscated by the State. The German High Command still imposed Martial Law in the largest cities of the occupied, hated French and he had to report once a month to his Probation officer. Jean-Luc was now declared a convicted felon. No lawyers or appeals were permitted; the Magistrate's rulings were absolute. The current ruling Fuehrer's justice had been served promptly and any and all violations, especially attempting to leave the country, earned life imprisonment in a stalag... or death by hanging.

DeBois was led away in handcuffs and put in a holding cell with four other foreign criminals captured earlier in the month – all pending deportation the next day to their countries of origin. Bitterman knew he could rescue his friend by utilizing the Time Machine but assumed correctly the authorities would immediately storm the farm house in his search and surely find the underground laboratories, then there would really be Hell to pay. Imagine what a Totalitarian Regime could do with his creation – it would become an unstoppable weapon! "No, that's not a viable option," reasoned Max. "I'll wait until Jean-Luc's settled in France which is presently out of the Machine's range or until he or I devise a way to get physically closer to retrieve him. In using either approach the first priority will be establishing a communication link which regretfully could take months or even worse case, years. Meanwhile, I'll upgrade the Machine's capabilities and gather information to learn how this system of government came to be. I'm reasonably certain Germany won World War Two, but how???" Max had a few notions and the first idea which came to mind was, "Perhaps, it was a similar scenario of the American Civil War... and surely many other world conflicts. That is: Whoever has the best or a super-devastating secret weapon will prevail!"

Bitterman's first modification was to enable the portable transponder to not only establish faster synchronism with the Time Machine's controls but also have the receiving scanner lock onto the incoming frequency and automatically retrieve the traveler without requiring a second person at the console. Max was very pleased he had been able to complete the additions in less than a month and two successful test jumps were made at different distances without distortion or detection. Now he could journey to DeBois's location if within two thousand miles and safely bring him home unassisted. Troubling, even though expected, he hadn't heard from his associate since that fateful day in the Magistrate's courtroom and considered he may have to travel to France to find him then together devise a plan to move him within the machine's range. In an effort to placate himself he stated, "I'm confident Jean-Luc will eventually contact me; he's a crafty fellow. And while I'm waiting I'll will begin my research on the war's turning point. Where? At the library of course, a tried and proven resource indeed. I see I also possess the Internet again however, there is no access permitted to other German occupied territories by my security level even though I'm a so-called Elite Citizen, do-dah. I would have to be a Political or Military constituent for such. Perhaps later I'll figure out how to fool the system but I fear if discovered I may lose everything and I do mean everything. The probable consequences are too great and I would be very foolish not to believe every type of communication is intensely monitored. All governments have and still do it, even democracies. I sincerely wish I had Jean-Luc's keen mind to assist me."

Max passed the Bavarian Village restaurant in his BMV en route to the library and reminisced for a moment their celebratory dinner a month ago which now felt like years gone by. "Extraordinary dinning and jubilation to be remembered always and hopefully altered in the future if we are able to correct this time line. But I shudder at the enormity of this possible undertaking. We'll be changing World History, hundreds of millions of lives, entire countries – half of the Earth's population will be affected! I truly believe an intervention of this magnitude is beyond even the power of our Time Machine."

The library's dimensions were essentially the same sans the Civil War cannons and confederate flag. Instead, on the roof flew an oversized German national ensign depicting its proud domination. Inside, behind the reception counter hung a large, framed painting of the current reigning Fuehrer, Arnold Hitler in full military attire, the son and successor of his father Adolf and Eva Braun – the prior mistress, then wife. Nailed to the wall, next to his picture was the red flag containing a white circle encircling a swastika, the banner of the National Socialist German Workers' Party (The Nazi Party) of which both father and son in turn served/ruled as the Party's Chairman.

Obtaining the proper history books chronicling the turning point of The Triumphant War proved to be much easier than he expected. The Germans loved records and documentation. Max sat and read alone in the complex the accounts depicting the chain of events which clearly detailed the steps to their victories and the domino surrender of the United States of America, England and France which prompted a hasty Soviet Union retreat, especially after the nuking of Stalingrad which was not followed-up with another campaign to take Moscow by the German High Command using conventional ground and air warfare. They had learned during their years of fighting the Cossacks they would never surrender and would resist endlessly against occupation. Their old enemy to the North had lost twenty-three million and never blinked an eye or lessened their resolve. The Reich decided they had enough foreign soil under control and were satisfied, if for the moment? Consequently, Japan who was also pulling back had never been A-bombed and the U.S. halted the Pacific campaign after four of its major east coast cities were nuked by U-boats. America's armed forces tried to establish a defensive cordon – it was quickly proven impossible. The aggressor announced via the Swiss Embassy ten more American cities would be destroyed within a week and a dozen in Europe, especially England. Thirty million Americans could die before evacuation. The U.S.'s development of its two big atom bombs flown by bombers was no match against a hail of V (Victory) 4 submarine nuclear missiles.

"A fleet of submarines firing V4 atomic missiles? I would have never suspected they could have developed such advanced technology so fast. Their attack was on June 1,1944 almost a year before the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki Of course, during that era Germany possessed the best minds in the world... researchers, inventors, scientists. That's why at the end of the war there had been a stampede to enlist their services by the U.S. and the U.S.S.R. America gained many by offering invitations with perks while the Soviets asked first and if refused, abducted all they could. Soon, there were no more scientists in Germany. As for the V4's emergence, apparently the blueprints for the big, bulky, inaccurate V2 rockets being deployed against England were redesigned to smaller, short-range, nuclear – tipped missiles which could be launched from a floating barge or redesigned U-2 submarine. Ingenious indeed." Reading more, "Hum'm, there were two, eight foot long rockets per sub fired from an angled tube built into the vessel which had a range of fifteen kilometers, meaning they could actually see their targets. If one of the weapons failed there was still enough destructive power in the other to kill thousands... and the U.S. had scores of highly populated cities directly on her coastline, the same as England. The sub commanders delivered their payloads at night, submerged then speed away long before the U.S. Navy destroyers could react. The German ships were headed back to reload while two more battle groups were headed in. There was no way to stop the shoot and run underwater mass destruction killing machines. Two or three cities would be devastated on each volley. Millions could have perished before evacuating from ground zero, not mention the ensuing years of deadly radiation. No wonder the Allies surrendered so quickly."

The magnitude of such an undertaking immediately began to weigh on his shoulders, "And, I'm supposed to devise a plan and method to halt the waves of attacking, nuclear-armed World War Two U-boats? At the moment I have no ideas, perhaps I or hopefully we, even with Jean-Luc, this task may prove impossible. Is this the end of the line for the old Free World for a thousand years?" Max rubbed his overstressed frontal lobes, "I believe my next step is to find DeBois and get him home. I certainly need some help!"

A few weeks earlier...

"Monsieur DeBois, you are a repatriated citizen are you not?" asked in verification by his probation officer. Jean-Luc nodded assent. The man in front of him was a fellow countryman employed by the German-run State. "Oui. Ah, it says here in my file you are a doctor. Is that true? There is a great need for doctors." He whispered, "However, the Reich cares not how many French die," and spat on the floor. DeBois remained stoic – it could be a trap. "What kind of a doctor are you?"

"I specialize in several fields of research," and when the officer's face fell in disappointment he added, "But first and foremost I am a medical doctor and gladly offer my services, especially to my country." Jean-Luc was sincere and certainly didn't want to be sweeping the streets instead of being useful.

The probation officer burst forth in delight, "Wonderful, wonderful. I shall assign you to a public clinic in the eastside of Paris, not far from here. It's not in very good neighborhood but we have to start somewhere. Do you know the area?" DeBois answered, Yes. It was a dump twenty years ago and probably worse now. "Bon. You will still have to report to me once a month but if you are delayed a day or two it will be forgiven. I grew up in that quarter; the people there need all the help they can get." In an attempt to sooth the harsh posting, "It will be temporary. You will get a replacement soon, (he lied) and reassigned to a better locale. Your accommodations will be Spartan but much better than prison. Oui?" then laughed aloud. "Vive la France!"

Riding a bike the next day, Doctor DeBois reported to the dilapidated medical facility located in a section of town which was so run-down he would be afraid to walk its streets at night or the daytime either. In a few short, busy days the locals learned he was the doctor and it was understood by all this man is an 'untouchable', therefore safe.

Jean-Luc quickly discovered the center had access to the Internet which was to be used solely for business such as ordering medical supplies. He could place his requests directly to Berlin for approval and shipping of desired med's and vaccines – not necessarily to help the French per se but mainly to protect the German occupational forces from contracting secondhand communicable diseases, as well as the expected S.T.D's. Therefore, the clinic's Internet security clearance level had to permit communication to all countries under the German command. "I wonder if Max has Internet service. If so, I'm going to assume he's using the same email address we had before except the network provider at its end would have changed to the current standard @Reichland.net. I'll give it a try tomorrow when I'm alone at lunchtime. Bitterman may not have the security level to create and send international messages but he certainly should be able to reply.

The next day. "I'll have to disguise my true content. I'm confident every message is monitored and read." He typed, "Greetings, this is Doctor Jean-Luc DeBois in Paris. Did the package of medical supplies arrive at the secure destination (Home - Falls Church, Virginia) a month ago? It appears I'll need a closer location for the next shipment (him). Do you know a location within in a feasible delivery range so as not to cause interruptions or delay further shipments?" He then clicked, Send and did not receive back an 'invalid address' response. "Well, here's hoping, my friend. I know Max's not a computer junkie and probably won't check his Email for a week but maybe I'll get lucky. (a favorite French expression)

DeBois had been correct, it took a week for his partner to check his Email. "Aha! What do we have here?" after reading he declared, "I knew Jean-Luc was a cleaver fellow. So, he's living in Paris and working as a medical doctor, good for him... I see between the lines he wishes to return home. I shall reply immediately and henceforth check my inbox twice daily." He typed, "The supplies arrived at its destination in good condition. Thank you for asking. As for that very sensitive future shipment we discussed earlier you may want to consider routing through Bermuda, eastern Canada, the Bahama's or Cuba. Let me know where a direct pick-up can be made. Sincerely, Doctor Maxwell Bitterman.

DeBois studied the reply, "As I suspected, I'm still out of the Time Machine's range. First, flying is not an option, it must be by sea. Bermuda? It's British or used to be and presently under German control. Also, it's very small and his or my detection would be highly probable. The Bahama's? It's now a country of uncontrolled chaos since the British vacated and the Germans didn't want to waste their time and resources trying to control the abandoned rabble masses. Besides, there's been hardly any sea traffic since the American tourism was quashed; it could take years to gain entry. Cuba? Still a communist state, even more so now. Canada? It remains independent with trade flowing low volume to Europe – including France and Germany. Canada it is. I must find my way to a northeast Canadian seaport within the Machine's range and inform Max where I am!"

Three months later:

"I want to be reassigned to Le Havre,' stated DeBois.

"What? We need you here," retorted his probation officer. "Le Havre is a seaport, a sailor's town. It's even worse living conditions than here! Why do you want to transfer to that hole in the wall?"

Not wanting to be drawn into an argument, Jean-Luc calmly answered, "Do you not have a need there also?"

The officer scowled and threw his hands in the air. "Of course, there is a need for medical services everywhere!"

DeBois countered, "Do you prefer I just quit... stop helping our countrymen?" Then reminded him, "I don't have to contribute in this capacity. I could sweep the streets and squander my talents. The State does not mandate I work at all. Is that what you want? However monsieur, out of consideration and if you must know, Le Havre is where my roots are. I spent my childhood in the countryside north of the seaport. My parents have since passed but I still consider that area to be home."

Reluctantly, the official verbally approved his request even though his home clinic would be without a physician until a replacement was found. He said, "Back we go to the nurse and she's not even pretty." He sighed, "But who could find fault with a man trying to return home? Vive la Republic," he mumbled as he signed the transfer paper.

DeBois arrived at the second clinic in the city of Le Havre three days later. The port was one of the largest in France and dealt almost exclusively in delivering cargo to northern Europe, western Africa and all the way across the Atlantic Ocean to Canada – his destination. Jean-Luc felt no regrets for lying to his probation officer that this region had previously been his home – he had never been there before. "A necessary falsehood, after all am I not an innocent, convicted criminal and prisoner in my own country?" After reviewing Bitterman's suggestions he determined Quebec would be the best entry point. The older freighters, not container ships, made the two month roundtrip journey on a regular basis. His plan was to offer his services free for a one-way passage. His Identity papers were in order and reasoned a ship's captain would jump at the opportunity of having a certified doctor on board instead of relying on the standard first aid kit then off-loading someone with a real problem at the next port of call.

Again, he was correct. His first offer had been declined by the ship's captain because he already employed an experienced male nurse who also served as a crewman but gladly referred Jean-Luc to another freighter captain, a friend, who would be sailing in four weeks. "Bon. I will make my required check-in with the P.O. and sail the next day. It will take the authorities at least six weeks to realize I've gone missing and then assume I've fled to points unknown but still within France."

DeBois arrived in Quebec a month later after making stops in Iceland, Greenland and Newfoundland for fuel, supplies and exchange cargo. There were no serious medical incidents, merely the usual lumps and bumps earned by hard working, blue collar seamen. Jean-Luc had made himself somewhat familiar with city by studying a local tourist map available on board. He needed to write a letter to Max advising of an exact date, time and location for his retrieval. The captain said mail flow between the German Republic of America and Canada was permitted but it may be inspected before being forwarded to its intended destination, so be careful what you say. He didn't want his ship seized for transporting spies. DeBois thanked him and soon departed to seek temporary quarters then recon the Parc de I'Amerique-Francaise which appeared on paper to be a good point for Max to jump in and take them both back home.

He found a Bed and Breakfast within walking distance of the park and paid for a week in advance. That afternoon he visited the site and saw it was sufficient in size to be a good incoming target but not so large they may not be able to find each other as what could occur at the city's largest facility \- he didn't know Bitterman had fine-tuned the Machine's accuracy to zero-in within a fifty yard radius by using the most precise g.p.s. coordinates.

It was 3 a.m., cool and clear on a weeknight; the same was forecast for the next day. The park was empty, still accessible and lit. Jean-Luc sat on a bench in silence watching an occasional car pass by in the distant perimeter. "Apparently, these Canadians live nothing similar to typical New Yorkers. They believe in retiring at a decent hour, therefore I deduce this location will serve quite well." A new thought, "I wonder who is the new man operating the machine's console?" He had not learned of Bitterman's additional modifications. "I'll draft and post the letter tomorrow afternoon. Hum'm, How about: Uncle Maxwell, I'm having a grand time in Quebec. Tomorrow night I'll be star gazing in the Parc de I'Amerique-Francaise at 3 a.m. Perhaps, I'll see a shooting star or another anomaly? Your nephew, Jean-Luc." He mailed it the next day, it would take at least a week to reach Bitterman, he returned to the park late that night.

A brilliant burst of white light...

Bitterman waited for his vision to return to normal and scanned the park in search of DeBois. "There he is, not far and sitting on a bench." He next glanced about – no one, they were alone. "Good choice my friend," to himself and casually strolled toward him. Jean-Luc rose and began in his direction. They met, smiled and shook hands.

"Have a good trip?" quipped DeBois.

"Yes, thank you," returned Max. "I saved you a seat if you would care to join me on the return."

"Why thank you, kind sir. I believe I will. Let's step over toward those trees; we'll be removed from the direct lamp lights," suggested Jean-Luc. "By the way, who's at the helm to bring us home?"

"Helm? Oh, you mean the controls of the Time Machine. No one, I've modified the transponder to send more command frequencies." His associate gave a sincere nod of approval. They found a suitable site. "Ready? Oh, wait. You've nothing to bring with you?" and looked toward the hedges. "Not even your customary slave or two?"

"No. Very funny, monsieur. You're not going to let go of that are you?" returned Jean-Luc. "But you have to admit the young lady, Joy, certainly brought much happiness to Missy and Caleb as well as ourselves."

"I wholeheartedly agree and hope they are well... where ever they may be," then pressed the transponder button.

A brilliant burst of white light...

A nighttime, Foot Patrol police officer, initially over a hundred yards away, had detected the first flash then observed in the distance two figures meet then move into the secluded foliage. He trotted quietly in their direction and could see them quite well at a mere forty yards. Then all of a sudden - another silent flash and they disappeared. He didn't hear a gunshot. "Could the two bursts of light been from a large caliber weapon with a silencer?" he wondered. He called for back-up then initiated a cautious search to no avail. "Where did they go? I saw them clearly... didn't I?"

Conversely, even though there were no other witnesses for corroboration, Bitterman and DeBois had now been observed making their magic. What consequences would it bring?

Doctor's Bitterman and DeBois materialized under the Time Machine's overhead cone. "Home at last," sighed Jean-Luc. "France was good for a visit but I wouldn't want to live there."

"Yes, thank goodness you're back," agreed Max. "You overcame some difficult obstacles. Well done, sir. Let's take a day off for your readjustment and R&R. However, there's a minor drawback you will have suffer through until you're back in the groove... which is my cooking. Sorry, but I don't feel our patronizing the local eateries would be prudent. I believe we must maintain a low profile or better yet, a degree of invisibility."

"I concur with your assessment and already sorely miss our former housekeeper and cook, Missy," reflected Jean-Luc. "She was magnifique," then kissed his fingertips. "I appreciate your efforts but please let me prepare the evening meal. I fancy Chicken Cordon Bleu. I haven't savored its delight since that fateful trip to New Orleans and returned with Joy." Bitterman smiled for many reasons.

A day and a half hence both deemed the acclimation was complete – it was time to brainstorm and get down to work. Max relayed the results of his library and Internet research. Jean-Luc was astonished. "That's unbelievable!" He recapped a portion, "So, the Germans were more than a year... possibly two, ahead of the U.S. in developing an atomic weapon. And, at the same time miniaturized their V2 rockets to carry the on-contact A-bombs. Initially they experimented with floating barges to be used for launch platforms but rough seas and high visibility led to their modifying U-boat submarines to launch them. It took America another twenty years to acquire a workable nautical delivery system. What an incredible collection of minds!"

"As I recall, Albert Einstein warned President Franklin D. Roosevelt about the probability of nuclear weapons being created," added Max. "That conversation generated the beginning of the Manhattan Project. At that point, the U.S. unknowing was in the position of trying to 'catch-up' with Germany."

Both men became silent as they began to ponder scenarios which could stop the attacks. After a while each offered suggestions. "I can't imagine we could alter any part of project developments in Germany or Austria; there're too far away and I'm sure the security was near impossible to circumvent even for the Time Machine. We're not talking about a handful of Confederate soldiers guarding warehouses anymore. Besides, there were three major enterprises in motion simultaneously at different sites and if one was compromised... well, we certainly wouldn't be able to get close to the others," reasoned Bitterman.

"Ah, yes," agreed DeBois. "But would it necessary to impact all three? The scaled down V4 missiles, their atomic warheads or the U4 Boats? Won't interrupting any one of them be just as effective to cause enough of a delay so as to retain history as we know it?"

Max tilted his head, 'Maybe'. "However, we have no expertise in any of those fields to induce delaying technical problems; their engineers could fix them faster than we could make them. So far, our only tools are the Machine of course, and your two contributions – the camouflage potion and a hearing device. My invention doesn't have the capacity for us to jump into a research facility and blow it up... and I can't increase its two thousand mile range in the foreseeable future, perhaps in five more years – it's pretty well max'd out."

"Is it possible for it to place us in a position which we could produce a detrimental event without placing our lives in jeopardy?" questioned Jean-Luc. "If so, what would be a viable target?"

More silence. Again, Bitterman spoke first, "Not being placed in a specific position, but rather to gather information on the submarines; the total deadly package. My understanding is there were U-Boats cruising up and down the east coast attacking cargo ships the entire war. The U.S. Navy was constantly chasing and sinking them – well over a hundred. Their subs were small, quickly built and Germany never fell short of volunteers to man them. Courageous souls, all."

Incredulous, DeBois blurted, "Are you saying to wait until the U4's are in launch position before we intervene? That's cutting it a bit close is it not?"

"Of course not," soothed Max. "I merely meant that by having them closer we could come into play."

"So, monsieur how could we learn their positions and by what method stop the attack?"

"The Time Machine can be upgraded to detect ships on the surface rather easily but not underwater but its range would be shortened to around a thousand miles... in theory. Alas, it's not a test I can make in advance," advised Max.

"But there were dozens of enemy warships out there. How could you distinguish a standard U2 from the newer U4 carrying nuclear-tipped missiles?" All of a sudden DeBois declared, "But wait! I believe I know a way. The uranium in the warheads! U235 has a distinctive signature. Do you think you could enable the Machine to detect its radiation? Even underwater?"

Bitterman pondered the possibility. "I suppose so... if I knew its signature which is actually another form of frequency and if it were strong enough. It would operating on the same principles of our existing transponder."

Jean-Luc, a chemist and self-made physicist asserted, "An atom bomb? I'm sure it would be strong enough to detect if your instruments were calibrated well enough."

"Assuming I progress that far, I now suspect there is a way to test it," offered Max. "We know the date of the attack therefore the Machine can search the coastline of the destroyed cities a week prior to June first and hopefully locate them. The U4 subs should be sitting on the bottom within a hundred miles, waiting for their final move into launch position... but if they're further out I'm confident the Machine will still find them. Yes, I have faith in my Time Machine."

"Then what?" asked Jean-Luc.

"We will give our Navy their g.p.s. coordinates and they'll hunt them down and be destroyed."

"I doubt they'll listen to a couple of men they've never heard of," countered DeBois. "And, I don't think it would be prudent to say we obtained the information because we're time travelers. They would think we're trying to waste their resources on a wild goose chase and lock us up for the Duration in a camp for being possible spies, a la Japanese-Americans."

"You're most correct, sir," concurred Max. "But I bet Roosevelt would listen to Albert Einstein. He had the President's ear on a regular basis and stimulated the initiation of the Manhattan Project which soon functioned under the direction of his appointed administrator, Robert Oppenheimer."

"Einstein?" repeated Jean-Luc. "Are you advocating bringing a third person into our fold?"

"Only if we have to. We're a long way from making that decision," answered Bitterman. "However, I trust he's one of the few people in the world who can understand the complexity of the mission and the danger of revealing the Time Machine's existence."

"Mind boggling, monsieur... truly mind boggling," murmured DeBois.

"Without a doubt," agreed Bitterman. "First things first – we must learn U235's attributes. We can gather a great deal of data from our two current resources - the Internet and library but eventually we're going to require a 'hands on' to get what I need to invent a precise long range detector to be built into the Machine."

"And where can we find weapon's grade uranium?' posed Jean-Luc. "Not the local hardware store, nor would the military be leaving it just lying about."

"Only two places I know of," answered Bitterman. "The research facility at Oak Ridge, Tennessee circa 1943 and Los Alamos, New Mexico, 1945 which is too far away and too late in the time line. After the German barrage in '44', the latter would have never come into existence. I'll begin working on the Machine immediately, I have a few ideas but sooner than later I'll need a sample of uranium, vintage 1944 or at least get close enough to obtain its qualities and parameters. Accessing a sample created in our current time frame would not be accurate, I'm confident there've been numerous 'upgrades' since the World War Two product. Which is where you'll come in. Do you think you could develop another magic potion – something which could protect me from its radiation while I'm making tests?"

DeBois smiled. He was more than happy to contribute. "Oui, my friend. Oui."

However, Max continued to pace about then frowned, he was not yet ready to move on. Bitterman didn't feel he could get close enough to or penetrate a guarded, research facility and safety make his tests or if necessary, steal a piece - returning it later, and lamented, "Jean-Luc, my friend, I regret we may need Professor Einstein's services earlier than I expected, perhaps right away with your approval of course." DeBois returned a questioning look. "Why, because he always had access to the uranium's development. Although his being a devout Pacifist and subsequently had not been invited to be a team member for the weapon's creation he was still allowed to review the program's progress whenever he wished. He could gain us entrance into the facility's underground, super-secret laboratories where one of us could jump in and out using the Time Machine without detection or altering a time line. It's complicated, but do we have any other choices? Please give me your opinion."

"Hum'm, I believe it's worth the risk," agreed DeBois. "If you can't trust Albert Einstein, who can you trust? Do you feel we would actually be able to access him... a man of his importance?"

"Yes, most certainly," answered Bitterman. "He spent those War years as a Resident Scholar at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton, New Jersey. His days were filled with lectures, teaching advanced studies and research without being constricted by military or police security."

"Well then, perhaps we should pay him a visit and plead our case," proposed Jean-Luc.

April 10, 1944 Princeton, New Jersey

Max had read an old newspaper clipping on the Internet that Albert Einstein had given a lecture regarding Time Travel on that particular date at Princeton University. "What a stunning coincidence," and decided it would be a perfect opportunity to transport in and hear his presentation before requesting a follow-up discussion in private. After learning the Scholar's routine for the day Bitterman could jump in or out at any point and confront him one on one but he didn't want the genius to be startled and alert Security. Max desired a calm intellectual exchange to prove he was from the Future and desired the great man's assistance for a most urgent task.

In spite of the Professor's notoriety the auditorium's attendance was sparse. Apparently the students and faculty were more concerned about the horrific, raging war against the evil Axis of Japan, Italy and Germany rather than speculating about the unbelievable fantasy of Time Travel. Max listened intently, asking no questions while instantly recognizing the parallel's and truths in his theories but at the end they lacked the technical superstructure or support for its creation within the speaker's lifetime. "Amazing, to develop such lines of thought without proven resources at hand," Bitterman commented to himself. "This may be the finest interaction of my life. I am so looking forward to this exchange of ideas."

"Herr Einstein, I'm Doctor Maxwell Bitterman. May I have a few minutes of your time to discuss your presentation?" in their native tongue, Deutsch.

Einstein, a fellow German, was more than happy to have a dialogue with another scientist who may have also escaped the fanatical Nazi regime as he did, then shook his hand and answered, "Of course, mein freund. In my office please and your being a fellow countryman would you call me Albert?" then led his visitor to begin the most astounding meeting of the professor's life.

After becoming comfortable and each receiving a cold glass of water from his secretary he asked, "So, what did think of my presentation?"

"It was exhilarating," returned Max. "It brought back many old, yet still fresh memories of research and formulated theories developed in years past," which caused Einstein to sit up a little straighter. He had never heard anyone seemingly respond on his own level, especially on a topic he felt he alone was the only person to broach it. Most listeners didn't have a clue about the subject, much less the physics, postulates or derived hypotheses.

"Indeed," remarked the Professor. "You understood the mechanics and formulations?"

"Certainly," answered Bitterman, "but there were a few tangents off course and your process won't work."

"Indeed again, sir. And what is your field of expertise?" parleyed the Professor.

"Quantum Physics like yourself Herr Einstein. Electrical engineer, electronic research and development and a host of related applications," he continued.

Slightly miffed, Einstein challenged, "You said, 'won't work'. Please enumerate." He had noted Max used those words instead of 'may not work' and began to suspect this fellow countryman had missed the intricacies or worse – didn't know as much as he thought he did. Patiently, he waited for this unknown expert to respond.

The world famous physicist had presented eleven theories of interlocking principles and Max reviewed each in detail and showed its flaws or pointed out a better method for incorporation. After the third rebuttal, Einstein realized Bitterman may be correct and sat transfigured – he had become the student. When Max had finished his assessment two hours later he asked, "Are you still with me, sir? That was a lot of material to digest and I sometimes have a tendency to run away with myself."

"Not at all, Doctor Bitterman," then asked a few questions for clarification which Max answered easily. Einstein was astonished. "Your prognosis appears logical and sound but could be impossible to prove. However, may I add some of your theories into my next presentation... or better yet, have you join me at the podium?"

"Regretfully, I must decline, sir," answered Max. "It would be an honor to do so but I have pressing matters to attend to. Perhaps in the future or the past." Einstein wondered what that meant. "You see I am here to request your assistance... on the behalf of the free world. Brace yourself my good man. I and my associate, Doctor Jean-Luc DeBois who is in our base of operations – our home located in Falls Church, Virginia, are Time Travelers from the year 1993." Max waited for a reaction and got it. The Professor was reaching for the phone to call Security. "And, I can prove it." Einstein stayed his hand and displayed a 'Go ahead' expression. "I shall and to your satisfaction," said Bitterman then retrieved his wallet from his overcoat's breast pocket. 'Here is my driver's license and identity papers, note the dates please – both were in the 90's. The teacher/lecturer raised his eyebrows expressing, 'Are you kidding me?' Next, Max extracted a German Republic of America five mark bill dated 1985. He saw no change in Albert's countenance and said, "Still not convinced? Neither would I be," then rose in his chair, closed and locked the open office door and returned to his seat. Einstein began to think he'd made a mistake by not calling Security or yelling for help. "Please, kind sir, I mean you no harm but the final act of proof cannot be witnessed by any other. You will concur later I assure you." Bitterman retrieved the newest version of his transponder from another coat pocket and displayed it proudly. "First, let me state: Not only did I 'fine tune' your theories but in addition, corrected and modified your ideas into a workable product... I built a practical application. A Time Machine which has transported me here for this confrontation. This is not our first venture; Doctor DeBois and I have employed it on other occasions." Einstein was all ears, even if it were a farce it was entertaining and grinned. "Ready" asked Max. "You saw me lock the door. We are alone, do you agree?"

The professor nodded assent and thought, "This demented fellow must think he's some kind of magician. Cleary, he's brilliant but obviously touched."

Bitterman held his device in plain view and keyed in a message. "Someday this will be called texting," he commented. "You may wish to shield your eyes," then pressed the Send button. The message read: Join us! There was a brilliant burst of white light.

"Good day, Doctor DeBois. Thank you for joining us. May I introduce the esteemed physicist and Resident Professor, Herr Einstein?"

Albert stared at his new visitor in restrained amazement, then rose and checked the door – it was still locked. "There are no tricks being employed here, sir," stated Bitterman. "We can provide even further proof if so desired. Next, we can transport all three of us to our origination point - the Time Machine itself. We call it a jump. There, I'm confident we shall win over your full acceptance and only afterwards explain the purpose for our visit... followed by our request of yourself. How do you wish to proceed?"

"I want to see your invention for myself," returned Einstein then corrected, "No, I don't want, I must see it for myself. Please carry on gentlemen."

"Excellent, now please step closer. We don't want to take a piece of your desk with us," warned Bitterman.

Albert shot up his hand and asked, "Excuse me, won't I be missed and thereby cause alarm?"

"Not really," answered Jean-Luc. "Only if someone enters this office seconds after the departure. You see, we plan to return you to this exact spot in location and time after visiting our home. You shall retain your mental experience, yet it will be as if it never happened to the outside world."

"Here take the five mark bill I showed you earlier as a visual, material reminder," offered Max. Einstein placed it in his tweed jacket pocket. "Just in case you thought you nodded off and had a bizarre dream. Ready now?" Bitterman and DeBois gave a reassuring smile, Albert appeared a tad wary.

Another brilliant burst of white light and all three were standing on the Machine's transporter platform. "My word," gasped Einstein. He was clearly astonished but not shaken.

"Home, sweet home," remarked Jean-Luc.

Max chimed in, "Watch your step down, sir," for the six-inch drop.

1993... Falls Church, Virginia

The resident duo proudly gave Professor Einstein the grand tour of their labs, their guest was justifiably impressed, asked many questions – all answered to and beyond his satisfaction. "Our living quarters are above and we hope you will stay with us for a while," offered DeBois. "We have extra bedrooms, you won't have to sleep on the couch... and I'm a pretty fair cook. Max is so-so, yet I have to give him credit for his homemade German concoctions.

"I may take you up on your offer," returned Albert. "It depends on what you are asking of me."

"Yes, I believe we are close to that point now but first let us adjourn to the Study and brief you on what's transpired from your 1944 to the present," instructed Max.

After a detailed presentation by both doctors Einstein asked, "What would you have me do? I am neither a politician nor military leader and I have already warned President Roosevelt regarding the probability of the Nazi War Machine developing weapons of mass destruction."

"We are aware of such and know the damning chain of events for both the U.S. and Germany. The Reich was much further ahead than America. The Manhattan Project began too late," explained Bitterman. "We have come to the conclusion we are not capable of interrupting their research in central Europe – it's too far distant. Doctor DeBois and I felt the most viable way to halt the Axis from winning World War Two is to neutralize the waves of attacking U4 submarines by utilizing a device to locate them prior to their launchings and destroy them. The Time Machine is capable of scanning the ocean for a thousand miles but it requires the target to have a distinct signal to lock on to. Our Machine is not a weapon, it would obtain the enemy's specific coordinates by utilizing a process we call Global Positioning System identification then we would in turn relay the info to our military. Meaning, if we could learn the properties or the signature of uranium 235 we should be able to locate the enemy prior to their attack, especially if their ships are close by, say within thirty miles of the coastline. We chose that distance because we don't feel the V4 missile's had a greater range and they didn't possess a sophisticated guidance system as we have currently. They were basically shooting atom bomb-tipped fireworks. We suspect they had to get close enough to visually see their intended targets which would be within ten to twelve miles."

"So, this is where you enter into the picture, sir," continued Jean-Luc. "We require a sample of weapon's grade U235 to learn its properties."

"I don't have any uranium, gentlemen," sputtered Einstein.

"We know, but you do have access to it," retorted Max. "Are we correct you are still permitted to inspect the Oak Ridge, Tennessee production plant where it is manufactured?"

"Yes, but the Government will not loan me a sample, you understand?" countered Albert. "I am not a member of the research and development team."

We are aware you were not chosen. We also know if you had been asked you would have declined... on well-founded moral and pacifist principles. We respect your position, sir," proclaimed DeBois. We don't physically need to possess an actual piece of the product, if we could - all the better. However, if we were your guests – accompanying scientists, we could take some very specific measurements with a few instruments Doctor Bitterman and I have devised. The retrieved data should prove to be sufficient."

"I believe I can arrange such a visit," stated Einstein. "You should anticipate your devices to be inspected as assurance they are not weapons to damage the facility and disrupt the program."

"We would expect nothing less and their personnel are more than welcome to examine our test equipment. We will not be carrying a transponder. We shall leave them in your office safe," answered Max.

Professor Einstein remained a week at their residence, mostly in the laboratories during the daytime and brainstorming with them in the Study during the evening. It had been magnificent for all three and highly productive. The two doctors did not enlighten their new associate of their previous escapades in the American Civil War or the Revolutionary War fearing they'd sound like braggarts or worse – overloading their new friend with too much information. Perhaps another day or year. Albert was transported back to his office within two minutes of his initial 1944 departure and immediately requested to set up an inspection at the Oak Ridge plant with two of his associates. The visit was approved for five days hence. Einstein waited, but not for long; time travel was more than just immediate.

New Jersey

Both doctors jumped back to Princeton and met again with Herr Einstein five days later in his time line then flew in an Army Air Force plane directly to the private landing strip of the Oak Ridge factory where a waiting staff car whisked all to the facility's main gate. "Delighted to see you again, Albert," said the Project's Director.

"Likewise, sir," returned Einstein. "May I introduce my two colleagues, Doctor's Bitterman and DeBois? They represent the government's newly formed department regarding employee workplace safety," he fibbed. "They test the environment for hazardous exposure to dangerous materials such as chemicals, electrical flux and a host of other items too numerous to cite."

"I see," commented their host. "I don't recall hearing of that particular branch but will certainly cooperate especially since you are vouching for their qualifications and integrity. What areas of operation do you wish to inspect, gentlemen?"

"We'd like to see a sample of enriched uranium 235, weapons grade," answered Max.

"You mean take a tour of the possessing plants and storage vaults?" clarified the Director.

"No," returned Jean-Luc. "All we require on this visit is a sample to run a few tests using the instruments in these cases," as he gestured toward their hand-carried tool boxes on the ground. "The sentries at the gate inspected them a few minutes ago."

"They are not explosives experts," informed the Director. "My lab tech's will perform another, a more thorough one before you are allowed to enter my facility." He paused, "Even so, I feel this is most unusual for a safety issue. Of course, uranium is dangerous and this a military weapons program..." He hesitated, "I'm not sure..."

Einstein stepped in, "It's all above board, I assure you, sir. I wouldn't be here if it were not."

The Director nodded his head and stated, "I assure you this request would not be approved if my old friend, Albert were not here to vouch for you. A new Government branch or not, I'm the man responsible for the operation and security here," he asserted then summoned a researcher and munitions tech to give the cases and contents the once over. Satisfied, he led them into a work area containing a large, wooden table and ordered a product brought. Two uniformed plant workers wearing radiation detection badges and heavy, rubber gloves, rolled in an eighteen inch square metal box on a wheeled flatbed. Using the handles on the side, they hoisted and set it on the table. "We prefer you not touch the material. This is not a sample. It is a finished product. Do you understand?" The technician opened the lid and all peered inside to find a six-inch in diameter, silvery-white metal, coin-shaped disk.

"Can it be removed?" asked Bitterman, and they took it out ever so slowly and laid it gently on the table.

"Do not touch it with any tool which generates a charge, even a voltmeter. Nor should you come in contact with your skin; you could get burned or suffer radiation poisoning," warned the Director. "And just what kind of doctors are you?" to which they responded, 'Medical and Physicist,' and he was satisfied.

"We need not touch it at all, sir," reassured Max then set-up and calibrated his home-made test equipment. He used them one at a time and read out the measurements to DeBois who had been standing by with pad in hand. From every angle Bitterman waved his test probes then repeated the entire process again without receiving any variations. Then, he had the U235 finished product placed back inside its shielded container and went through the same series of tests again. It took thirty-seven minutes. "Good, I have completed my tests and the results are within the Government's new safety requirements. Well done, gentlemen and thank you." On the way to the car he reflected to himself, "It's a good thing I didn't have to handle the uranium, Jean-Luc apparently never found time to complete the protective potion I requested. He has been working on something else. I wonder what it could be."

The following day all three were discussing their venture in Einstein's office then Max and Jean-Luc retrieved their transponders from his safe and forwarded home into 1993. They had advised the Professor that Bitterman would return with the U4's dates and g.p.s. coordinates then he could pass the info on to the President for a seek and destroy mission. "I wonder how Einstein's going to relay the information without sounding like a spy?" voiced DeBois. "Do you believe Roosevelt will act solely on Albert's word?"

"Yes, the President has always been known as a man of action, especially after the tragedy at Pearl Harbor. The military and government ignored early warnings there and paid a terrible price. He couldn't afford not to respond. I will begin immediately to build a navigation and search application into the Machine based on the signature data gleaned from our test results. There should be nothing in or on the ocean like it. It may take a while to sweep four separate quadrants of that magnitude but we know the sub's one week time frame of where they must have been to launch their V4 rockets. I have faith in myself, you and the Machine."

"Perhaps we should give it a name for good luck," posed Jean-Luc. "The Machine sounds so impersonal."

"Hum'm, you may have something there, my friend," considered Max. "How about, Destiny?"

Max and Jean-Luc toiled steadily on Destiny to install the ability to seek and locate traces of uranium. The first test consisted of aiming her sensors at a known source – the Oak Ridge facility and the Machine performed flawlessly, even in being able to distinguish between raw materials, samples and finished products stored in different sections of the complex. "Looks superb," voiced DeBois. "Shall we give it a go at the real deal?"

"Yes, indeed," agreed Bitterman. "Let's give it a go at Boston. I'll program the range to sweep two hundred miles to the east and start the time stamp at May 21, ten days ahead of the June first attack. Do you concur?"

"Oui, monsieur, a perfect place to begin." Max typed in the commands and the Machine began its sweep using her Cloud. Thirty minutes later Destiny generated a printout and displayed on the video terminal the date, time and g.p.s. coordinates of the U4 submarine when it rose to the surface to align and set the rocket's launching tubes.

"My word," preened Max. "Destiny found the enemy sub on her first attempt. This is much better than the military's surface radar. We'll be able to follow it well in advance of the June first launch date. This is wonderful, beyond my expectations!" The two men observed for a while and began to wonder why the U4 wasn't moving, unaware the crew was merely taking aim. Then all of a sudden it disappeared.

"What... what happened," stuttered DeBois.

Bitterman gave a 'don't know' shake of his head. "Perhaps an error or interruption occurred. I don't see any 'alarms or trouble encountered' messages. I'll run a full diagnostic," it returned, ATP (all tests passed). I'll redo the search using the May 29 date when it was first detected, shorten the search range and tighten the g.p.s. scan because we now know exactly where the sub was located at that time." The second test gave identical results. "I'll proceed further, I'll expand the sweep to incorporate the June 1 attack date." The sub reappeared thirty miles closer to Boston at 2:30 a.m. They observed a radioactive streak headed toward Boston then a few minutes later the sub disappeared again.

"Oh, no, Max!" lamented Jean-Luc. "Clearly, it moved closer underwater and we couldn't detect it after submerging. Apparently, Destiny can find it when it's on the surface but not below the water. What are we to do? The U.S. Navy would not have ample time to locate them, especially if the U4"s are sitting silent on the ocean floor not running their diesel engines three days prior to launch."

"Let's not panic just yet," cautioned Bitterman. "I'm going to sweep for the other three submarines." He did and the results were the same. "We can not detect the uranium while it's underwater!" they regretfully concluded. "Let's hit the books and figure out why," Max recommended. "You are the chemist, you'll have to take the lead and I will be your assistant."

"And you are the physicist, mon ami. Surely, together we shall discover a solution," but they didn't.

The wracked their brains for two days and came up with absolutely nothing. Finally, Bitterman commented, "I believe we require assistance." DeBois gave a questioning look. "Einstein, let's present our dilemma and request his opinion. I, frankly am out of ideas."

May 1944, The Institute for Advanced Study

When the doctor duo rapped on his office door Professor Einstein was not surprised – he had been expecting a follow-up visit bringing the data on the U4 sub's locations. Empty handed they described their fruitless efforts. Upon hearing their roadblock he responded, "Oh, that's most unfortunate. It sounds like you got half the job done but not sufficient enough to permit our defensive forces to eliminate the threat. I may have a few ideas. Would you allow me a few minutes to reflect?" then leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. His visitors remained silent. In a shorter period than they expected, Albert began, "You gentlemen weren't around to experience the early tests of lab created atomic fission detonation. It was determined seawater acts as a natural shield against radiation, that's why later for the larger blasts most were performed in the ocean, not to mention protecting the dry land masses. You're not being able to detect shielded, underwater radiation is a logical, proven fact. My conclusion is your Time Machine is searching for the wrong identifier. Isotopes are the key. They generate a signature... a harmless, specific signal frequency a thousand times stronger than U235. I'm sure you are aware they are combined elements at the atomic level embedded within the weapons grade product, no?" he didn't receive a denial or rebuttal. "I observed the fine instruments you devised and utilized at Oak Ridge, Doctor Bitterman. I'm confident if you filter uranium data from the sublevel isotope signal you can tune Destiny to zero-in on its stronger signature thus enabling your Machine to penetrate the saltwater buffer. Will you require another visit to Oak Ridge?"

"No," Max assured. "I believe the necessary data has been stored in the frequency scanner test set. As you suggested, I should be able to retrieve it by applying a subsonic filter." They exchanged parting pleasantries and departed with, "We hope to see you again soon, Albert and be bearing full and accurate search results."

Back in their labs they were able to do exactly what Einstein suggested – Max already possessed the necessary tools and proceeded to update Destiny's search engine app's. "Finished," he announced. "Let's try again," then pressed the 'enter' key and off she went – faster. The Machine locked on to the Boston U4 sub at three hundred miles out and never lost contact. The printed and visual data poured forth in a constant stream. Soon, Bitterman stated, "I'm going to tighten the parameters to three days prior to launch, we have too much data coming in. Knowing precisely where the sub's are hiding on the ocean floor when they're in close and still well in advance of the attack should be perfect for the U.S. Navy to respond."

"Let's find the rest of their Wolf pack," recommended Jean-Luc and they did.

With printouts in hand they returned to Einstein and explained the method of their success. "The ball's in your court, sir." Albert cocked his head. "It's an American basketball term," clarified Max.

"I don't follow sports," replied Einstein. "In my early youth I attempted football (soccer) and quickly learned I had neither the aptitude nor skills. I preferred to read or take things apart." He held the printouts and said, "I'll schedule an appointment with Franklin (Roosevelt) as soon as possible. Will I see you gentlemen again?"

"We don't know, monsieur. I sincerely hope so but the future is unpredictable."

Bitterman added, "However, if we encounter other challenges of this nature you may rest assured we'll come knocking upon your doorpost." Max paused, "You understand all of this must remain a secret. Knowledge of a functioning Time Machine would surely alter the future. I suggest you assert this data concerning the U4's was provided surreptitiously by an unidentified spy who disappeared a la ghost. Perhaps, he was someone who could have been acting as a double agent... I'm sure the intelligence community will devise some kind of cover story."

The doctors returned to their home base yet again. On this occasion, confident they have provided proper documentation to revert World War Two's German victory outcome. "Do you think the President will keep our intervention secret also?" queried DeBois.

"I'm sure he kept many secrets," affirmed Max. "One proof already evident is our home and labs are still intact. Apparently no group has hunted us down and stolen or destroyed our creations."

"Oui, but we haven't looked topside yet," referring to the upper level – their house and property.

"True, and we shall forthwith." Bitterman glanced about, he didn't detect any change. "Odd. I thought there would be some immediate evidence." He walked over to the Internet terminal which they had relocated from the study. He pressed the power button and the Home page still displayed the Reichland network. Max checked on a few presentations, there had been no change in format.

"Good grief!" lamented Jean-Luc. "This is impossible. I am certain we provided the means to destroy the enemy subs!"

"I agree," said Max. "Let's access the historical account of June 1, 1944 and determine what has transpired or rather not transpired and why. I have to give the Germans credit; they have always loved documentation." The details were easy to find. In all four incidents the U4's rose from their hiding places on the ocean floor to observe the U.S. warships in the distance altering their course to make an attack on them. Each submarine quickly turned their rears toward the coastal targets and launched their atomic missiles in spite of the eminent threat advancing. They had no time to evade nor did they attempt to, instead manned their single deck gun and engaged the American defenders who in turn blasted each U4 to pieces with their superior firepower. The German officers and crews were declared Fatherland heroes. The U.S. targets were destroyed the same as before which led to a domino effect surrender by the Allies who believed there were more unstoppable waves of nuclear Wolf packs en route - the American government was unaware the Nazi's had lost all their U4 submarines. The following bluff of more mass destruction being on its way had proved successful. "Of course, the sub commanders completed their mission as they should have. Their duty was more vital than their own safety which is totally understandable and expected in warfare."

"But with the g.p.s. coordinates in the possession the U.S. Navy they should have been right on top of them when the U4's surfaced, not a thousand yards away."

"Yes and no," returned Bitterman. "I noted on our printouts of the g.p.s. the locations were constantly shifting. I now realize it had been due to the ocean currents, therefore the Machine couldn't obtain as precise or steady fix as we do for land destinations. So rather than trying to find a silent enemy sub on a three hundred square yard swatch of ocean floor it was more like a half mile wide shifting patch. Our warships couldn't close in fast enough when the U4's surfaced. The German crews aboard were the cream of the crop – seasoned, highly proficient and launched their rockets in just a few short minutes then they accepted their fate at the hands of American gunners. Those seamen were heroes from military standpoint."

"Okay, now what?" fretted Jean-Luc. "Is this the end? Our... the world's destiny is to be subjugated by a Fascist government ad infinitum? I feel we have failed and it pains me to my very core. I don't believe even Einstein's great mind can help us."

"I don't believe he can be of assistance either," agreed Max. "As knowledgeable as he is, Albert doesn't understand the mechanics of the Machine. I suggest we give ourselves a break and sleep on it. Everything will be the same in the morning. I wish Missy were here to provide us with one of her wonderful breakfasts, I miss her," and Jean-Luc wholeheartedly agreed.

The next morning...

"Jean-Luc, I had a strange dream last night. I visualized I was continuously jumping to and fro different destinations and dropping my protective sunglasses in the process. The repeated flashes were hurting my eyes, they're very bright as you know."

He waited for DeBois's keen mind to comprehend and respond which he did in a burst. "The flashes, that's the answer is it not?" Max grinned at his friend's aptitude. "Oui, Oui! The flashes, Destiny can locate the sub and pull a piece of it back here thus creating an identifying signal to a surface ship."

"Er, not exactly, but you have the idea," chided Bitterman. "We can't pull a piece out of a steel ship underwater, even the Machine is not that powerful. However, it's not necessary to attempt an actual full transport in either direction which could prove to be a bit iffy, even dangerous. Instead, Destiny could find the U4, lock-on as best she can, and then I will send a retrieval command at half power. This will result in a flash and not dematerialize any physical matter. If I use two minute intervals starting at twelve midnight doing five flashes for each submarine it will tighten each of the U4's actual locations. The burst of light will act as an underwater beacon, the Navy should investigate and drop depth charges. Even if the sub-chasers hold back releasing their ordinance, as soon as the sub's start their engines to come up to periscope depth our warships would be right on top of them. 'Kaboom' a hundred thousand lives will be saved and our version of history remains intact."

"Sounds good but sorry to act as a spoiler, Max. What if the subs detect the American ships with their sonar and don't start the diesels. They will already be operating silently on battery power and will probably choose to wait until the U.S. warships depart."

Bitterman thought for a moment, then said, "You're absolutely correct, sir. It could be a coin flip either way of which we cannot afford to chance. We need a Failsafe. I'll transport a letter back to Einstein at one minute after we last left him. The message will read: Watch for the flashing lights, there's where the submarines are hiding. What is your opinion of said exchange?" Jean-Luc clapped his hands in delight.

Aboard the U.S.S. destroyer off the coast of Boston

"Commander, Sonar and Radar report still no contact. Do you think the Chiefs of Staff have been duped?"

"That's not for me to say, lieutenant. I just follow orders but the scuttlebutt is this assignment came direct from the top, Washington," as he and fifty other sailors panned the night ocean. "We're in the vector we were ordered to patrol. "Log the time."

"Aye, aye, sir. It's twenty-four hundred hours." The ship was on Full Alert – all batteries were manned by gunners and had night-vision equipped spotters. A depth charged laden sub-chaser cruised parallel three hundred yards starboard. "Sir, a lookout on our port side reports seeing an underwater flash at forty degrees north, range eight hundred yards."

The ship's captain consulted his navigational sea charts and stated: depth two hundred feet. That's a good depth for a sub to sit and wait with her engine off. Pass that info to our sub-chaser. Helmsman, change course forty degrees left rudder." Both ships realigned toward the anomaly and maintained battle line separation. Two minutes later at five hundred yards, a second flash occurred. "Sound Battle Stations. Prepare to engage! Have the gunners set their sights on that flash point. Be alert for a rising submarine. Sonar?"

"No echoes, sir. Whatever it is, it's hunkered down and quiet, sir."

"Not for long!" snapped the Commander. "We're going to light 'er up. This could be a new German secret weapon. It's certainly not one of ours. Fleet Command said to be on the lookout for strange lights, then seek and destroy. "Sub-chaser, prepare to unload your drums! Men, this is why we're here, let's blast those Nazi bastards to Hell." A third flash at two hundred yards. The depth charges were dropped directly on target, saturated and created a three hundred yard long, fifty yard wide stretch of exploding water. Whomp! Whomp!... a dozen barrels floated down and crushed the surprised U4 crew. In a few short minutes it was all over.

"Lookouts report a large air bubble and a stream of rising oil, sir."

"We've got a confirmed kill. Well done, men," commended their leader. "Keep watch for more flashes or subs attempting evasion." There were none.

Washington received three addition reports from SecNav (the Secretracary of the Navy's Office) of similar encounters except one submarine made it to the surface and was immediately sunk by a destroyer bearing down on its starboard side. No missiles were launched.

1946

The War was over. Albert Einstein sat in his office eyeing the framed five mark bill given to him by Doctor Bitterman two years earlier. He had been asked many times regarding its origin and always responded he had obtained it from a German friend who asserted this particular currency was to be used when and after the Axis had conquered America. Of course, it never came to fruition because the War progressed as he had always known it to be. This piece of memorabilia was all he had of his involvement with the Time Doctors, he labeled them. "They are in my future now and have also been in my past. I wonder if I shall see them again. Are they still fighting to keep history in tact? I wish them the best, they are men of true valor," which prompted the Professor to pen: "Physics is finite, structured and bound by its own laws, yet even so we cannot calculate what the future or past will bring. All must trust in the valiant warriors who safeguard our known existence." Scholars pondered his message for decades and finally accepted he must have been referring to military service. Only one person, President Roosevelt fully comprehended the hidden message within and he in his unwavering discretion and honor took it with him to the grave. Einstein passed away in 1955 and even though it occurred thirty-eight years in their past, Max and Jean-Luc grieved for him.

1993

All the lights in the underground labs went out and a small battery powered emergency lamp came on in each room. Ten seconds later a whine was heard and the regular lighting resumed at a slightly dimmer level, then the emergencies switched off. "Appears we have lost commercial power and our generator kicked in," remarked Bitterman.

"That doesn't happen often" agreed DeBois.

"No, it doesn't" added Max. "It's a good thing we perform a routine system check once a month. How was the level in the underground fuel tank the last time you checked?"

"Filled to the top," answered Jean-Luc. "We could run continuously for three months if necessary."

"While we're waiting for it to restore let's check the Internet again to see if there have been any changes in format," suggested Max.

DeBois pressed the power button and a 'no signal' message appeared. "There must be a rather large area without power. All our equipment seems to be functioning properly but then we are supplying our own juice."

"Let's go above and turn on the television, perhaps a news station will have an explanation," except they found a constant buzz and snow on all channels. "This is interesting. No one has back-up generators?" commented Max then walked to a window and peeked out. Normally, they would see a dim glow from the highway a half-mile away. "Hum'm, would you consider going for a ride, Jean-Luc?" After retrieving flashlights they walked to the barn/garage to select an auto for their field trip. The pair found a BMW and a Peugeot, the same as they had before their first intervention into the Revolutionary War. "My word," remarked Bitterman. There stands proof we indeed did create some kind of effect on World War Two."

"Oui. Perhaps all is well now and we are merely experiencing a power outage. It has occurred before even in large cities. Remember the New York City incident?"

"Yes, I guess I have become overly suspicious after all we have endured in the last three years. Let's take my BMW and proceed into Falls Church... to the post office of course. It seems to be where we usually encounter our initial revelations."

"Oui, especially to discover which flag is flying," added Jean-Luc.

On the way they observed most stretches of the road were unlit and all traffic signals hung dark. The roadside restaurant where they dined twice previously appeared abandoned with high weeds about and the empty parking lot strewn with trash and debris. "It has been my understanding the owners are still responsible for upkeep. Besides, it would be in their own best interest to keep it presentable, thereby easier to sell," asserted Jean-Luc.

"I have a hunch there's more to this than selling a restaurant," returned Max. "I don't see any lights in other businesses or homes in the distance and it's well after 9 p.m. In addition, we haven't encountered another vehicle since we left our farm five miles behind." Neither spoke as both searched the passing landscape for people movement. By the way, my friend and sorry to change the subject, how is the project progressing you have been working on for the last year? I apologize profusely for not taking time to inquire earlier; I obviously have been wrapped up in myself. I have no idea what you are engaged in, enlighten me please."

"Genetics and it also has become extremely time consuming," answered DeBois. "I lack any formal training or study in that field. It's been a learning process. As Thomas Edison once said during a newspaper man's interview, "I spent a lot of time proving what won't work."

"So, you're striving to create a better man? Cure cancer? All of the above?" Max chided.

"Something along that line," responded DeBois. "As always in medical research the goal is to better mankind's quality of life and in my particular instance it's by altering one or two genes. Even though I'm floundering on a few issues at the present, I plan to begin testing in two weeks."

"Bravo for you, sir. I hope you're feelings are not hurt by my declining in advance to be your Guinea pig."

"Not at all, monsieur. Obtaining suitable subjects will not be an issue," assured DeBois.

They arrived at the post office and to their pleasant surprise found Old Glory atop the flagpole... worn and tattered, but still displaying their nation's banner.

A lone figure huddled in a darkened alley watched the two men inside the only moving car he had seen in many years.

Chapter Four: The Apocalypse

1993, Falls Church, Virginia

"My word," remarked Max, "at least we have the proper flag being displayed this time. This is encouraging."

"Oui," agreed Jean-Luc. "But isn't there a federal regulation mandating it being presented in better physical condition?"

"I believe you are correct, sir," concurred Bitterman. "Not to change subject and in the same vein, have you by chance taken note of the shoddy, rundown appearance of our county's surroundings since we departed our property? I wonder if there's a connection."

"Your observations are on point, monsieur. To me it appears as if the whole town of Falls Church has gone to the dogs," as he noted a pack of canines clustered approximately three blocks distant.

"Indeed. Shall we step away from the car for a walkabout?" suggested Max. "I don't believe we'll impede the flow of traffic." A subtle joke since they hadn't encountered another moving vehicle or a single person for almost an hour.

"The grounds of this government facility are in complete disarray. The overgrowth is rampant."

"As is the entire town," added Bitterman.

They paced back and forth in front of the shuttered building and tried to peek through the cracks of its boarded windows to no avail. Their investigation was interrupted by a fearful scream coming from across the street. The two doctors scurried toward the source but still looked both ways for oncoming traffic out of habit. They rushed into an alleyway to discover an apparent street person wearing rags and covered by a worn blanket backed against a brick wall; he was half surrounded by five large, snarling dogs. Both men came to a quick halt as the canines switched their attention to the new intruders. Max said, "I believe we may have interrupted these animal's dining plans."

"Or, now added to it," countered DeBois. The beasts were between forty and eighty pounds, mangy and displayed ferocious dispositions.

Bitterman quickly glanced about then focused on a row of aluminum trash cans scattered on the ground a few yards to their right. He gingerly, quickstepped to them and retrieved four metal lids and gave DeBois two. The dogs remained in place observing these strange movements. "Surprise and noise are our weapons, sir," stated Max then slowly moved toward the now silent, curious meat eaters. The men yelled and beat the lids together – creating an unexpected loud, sharp, disturbing ruckus. The dog's ears shot up in unison, then the startled pack began a hasty retreat in the opposite direction. Bitterman and DeBois next established a defensive position in front of the shaken street person.

"Good thing none were rabid and became further provoked rather than frightened by our sudden antics," noted Jean-Luc. "I don't believe these trash can lids would have served as adequate weapons had they attacked."

"I agree. Forthwith, I suggest we equip ourselves with a few of those firearms stored in the barn. I myself, became quite comfortable wearing a pistol when I served in the military." They then each redirected their attention toward the stranger they had just rescued. "Good evening, sir. I am Doctor Maxwell Bitterman and this is my friend and associate, Doctor Jean-Luc DeBois. Are you all right?" No response. "What is your name? Do you reside nearby?" still no answer.

"Perhaps he doesn't speak English," tendered Jean-Luc, then said "Hello," in four other common dialects.

An apparent young man answered, "I speak English," while keeping his head and face covered by an oversized, black Hoodie. "My name is Jessie... and I lives wherever it be safe for the night... usually inside buildings or on top of dem so the dogs won't git me. I heard your car and came from over dat way," pointing to the north. "Dem dogs musta smelled me and followed me here."

"I see," returned Bitterman. "I assume you're not armed. Wouldn't early morning be your safest time to travel," calculated Max. "I always thought feral animals preferred to sleep during the morning and prowl at night, but I never had a pet so I not an expert on the matter."

Jessie nodded agreement then asked, "Dat be true 'bout dem type dogs." He appeared to be in deep thought then asked, "So, where you been hiding? I ain't seen nobody since I can remember. Not since the Before."

"The Before?" repeated Jean-Luc. "What does the Before mean?"

"You know," answered the young man. The two physicians looked at each other. "You know... before the End. The End when everybody died... the Before."

The doctors paused then replied, "Sorry, we have no knowledge of the Before or the End."

"What you say?" challenged Jessie. "Where you been? Everybody's dead... almost everybody... 'cept for people like me. Been dat way for a long time now. How come you White people ain't dead too?"

"First, in response to your question you said, People like you?" returned Max. "Did you mean, Street people such as yourself because you possess superior survival skills? And secondly, as for us being alive let's just say it's very complicated and difficult to explain at this point. Perhaps later if we have more time."

"No... not me being Street people," he stuttered. "It be because," as he removed his Hoodie and showed his hands. The young man was between 18 and 25 years of age and a full-fledged Albino. The doctor's jaws dropped; they were speechless. He continued, "Everybody else died... the Whites, Blacks, Asians, dah Spanish... all the people who had any kind of color in their skin. Yes, even the Whites. You know dey not really be white, dey be more like pink. I was being homeschooled when Daddy told Mama and me there was some kind of plague sickness going 'round. People was dropping like flies. Oh, sorry, in case you didn't know, all children dat have the Albinism disease are homeschooled. Most come from Black families. It didn't take very long for the regular people, not us Albinos to get the 'patches'... then in three or four months dey all be dead."

"Patches?" repeated DeBois.

"Yeah, dey got the patches... the big white spots, the color of my skin... 'cept dey never got all white like me. Then, dey die kinda fast. The only people dat lived through the plague was already true white like me. But now we're being killed by the wild animals... dey weren't affected. As you done seen, all the dogs 'round here are big and mean. Dey ate the smaller ones and da cats first den starting hunting for people. Dey got no fear. Dem dogs which ran away was just surprised... dey be back. Yes, siree." He stared at his two rescuers with his pink eyes and asserted, "Just the same, you all saved my life... for now. Thank you."

"Most happy to do so, young man. But, I believe you are still in peril," submitted Jean-Luc. "As you said, "For now." We don't particularly relish your chances of survival in these conditions."

"Are there more of you? Street people... family or friends in hiding?" inquired Bitterman.

Jessie gazed at the ground, "Nope, just me. I be the only one still alive in dis town as far as I knows unless dey be hiding real good."

"Shame," muttered Max then drew near to Jean-Luc to initiate a short, private conversation of which they soon agreed upon. Bitterman began, "Young man, we have plenty of room at our country estate if you would care to join us. We believe it's a safe environment or at least more so than here. You'll be free to leave if and whenever you chose. In turn from you, we could use some help about the grounds. We lost our friends and previous helpers in the last transition" (time alteration).

"Dat would be most kind of you," answered Jessie then looked north up the alley where the dogs had retreated and saw they were returning as he predicted but now the pack had swollen to more than twenty. Hunger had overpowered their earlier fear of noise. "I thinks we should go now," as he pointed in their direction. The three men took off in a trot which became an all-out sprint when they realized the dogs had also broken into a run. As soon as the last car door closed a drooling, seventy pound brute slammed into the vehicle's side and clawed at the window. Another leaped onto the hood and two more on the roof. A crack formed in a rear side window caused by a Pitbull's crashing skull.

"Uh-oh," voiced Jean-Luc, followed by an emphatic, "Hit the horn!" Max blew it several times which appeared to stoke their anger. All had arrived and there were a frenzy of blood thirsty killers beating and biting the outside of the auto. In an instant one side view mirror had been ripped off and a front side window cracked.

"Start the car!" shouted Jessie. Bitterman did so, threw it into gear, stomped on the gas pedal and ran over two dogs in front. Luckily, they weren't large enough to jam the tires. Max continued to accelerate and soon the pack was seen in the distant rear ripping the two fallen dogs to pieces and eating them.

"Max," hailed DeBois, "if we ever return to Falls Church I vote we bring guns... lots of guns..."

"I agree and I also recommend we carry a firearm on our person at all times, even on the estate. Five miles removed from town is not far for a ravenous predator," asserted Bitterman. "If the wind is blowing in their direction it will carry our scent and they'll find us without fail."

The trio returned to DeBois's farm and parked Max's BMW in the barn. Bitterman inspected its exterior for damage and remarked, "My, oh my, they did a number on it didn't they? Most items are superficial requiring only cosmetic repairs... but being a quality machine it still runs superbly. Quality always reigns supreme when the chips are down. I believe we all may have ended up as digesting bits and pieces in the canines' stomach had we ventured out in your tin can Peugeot, my friend."

"So noted, monsieur," returned Jean-Luc. "Better yet, even more so than your Quality vehicle perhaps we should obtain a military tank for our next foray. Hindsight is perfect. Oui?"

"Touche, my friend. Be that as it may, it appears body shop repairs are realistically out of the question. Let's apply duct tape to the cracked windows in the morning and be careful not to roll them down. They would fracture within the door frame." Max had already released the hood latch. He picked up the Trickle charge cable next to the auto and proceeded to connect it to the battery terminals. Jessie looked-on with curiosity and Max explained. "We leave these attached to the cars while they're in in barn. It keeps the battery charged... there have been instances when we have been absent for quite some time." (ranging from several months to over a hundred years)

With flashlights in hand, they proceeded to the farm house. "Observe, monsieur," directed Jean-Luc. "Our property is also lacking maintenance. In our haste I missed that fact when we left here earlier."

"I didn't notice either," agreed Max. "Jessie, it looks like you're going to hit the ground running tomorrow."

"Running... ground? Are there wild dogs here too?"

"Er, no, not that I know of. It's just an old-time, figure of speech. It means you'll be busy right away," clarified Bitterman.

"Busy? Dat be okay. I ain't afraid of work but I hafta stay outta the sun and wear my sunglasses during the daytime." Both doctors assured they would make his safety and comfort a top priority. They showed him to the guest quarters – its shower, provided fresh clothing, then after consuming a quick, makeshift meal of the week's leftovers they called it a night.

The following morning...

Max slapped together a basic breakfast of cereal with milk, toast and canned sliced pears. The three sat in the kitchen making get-to-know-you small talk. Jessie thought the meal was wonderful, ate with gusto and downed seconds of everything. "I'm glad you enjoyed my presentation, young man. Would I be intruding to inquire of your prior methods to procure daily sustenance?"

"Say what?" he returned.

"I meant, how did you obtain and what did you eat while living on the street?"

"Oh, dat. I go's to the grocery stores and supermarkets. Dey still have lottsa canned goods. It was okay... I got along. But the food weren't nowhere as good as Mama's or mine." The doctors furrowed their eyebrows in question. "Oh, I see," said Jessie. "Of course Mama's cooking be the best but I was home all the time and she taught me everything." Max and Jean-Luc tried to hide a crook of a smile. Visions of Missy preparing meals in the kitchen floated inside their heads. Could it be?

"I'd like to make you a proposal, Jessie. If we provided you with the necessary provisions, do you think you could help us with the food preparation? It would mean less work for you outside and be greatly appreciated by us."

"Sure enough, sirs. I likes to cook but I'm not gonna let you down by not doing my chores. As I said before, I likes to work. I likes to feel I'm helping out."

"Excellent, then it's settled and thank you. Moving on, next I believe we require a bit of evaluation and discussion," posed Bitterman to his associate. "Shall we adjoin to the Study and attempt to determine whatever the heck happened since our last Time Line intervention... and I believe we should invite Jessie to join us. I mean as far as security's concerned, who is he going to inform of our transpirations? We three may be among a very small survivor pool on the entire North American continent, assuming there are others!"

The trio settled into comfortable, plush loungers – Jessie had a big smile on his face. He had never experienced such opulence; all he had known was what he saw on television and considered its production to be a made for tv fantasy. Plus, he had been graciously invited by doctors, learned men who said they wanted to hear his experiences and opinions. He felt important for the first time in his life – not being hidden from the public eye for being deemed an embarrassment to his race.

"Let's begin with scenarios which could create consequences of such epic proportions," tabled Bitterman.

"Oui, monsieur. Then let us progress to determining its scope," added DeBois.

"Of course. What comes first to my mind are nuclear war, chemical warfare, a spontaneous unknown virus similar to the famous Black Plague, poisoning..."

"Or how about a collision with an intergalactic meteor harboring millions of unimaginable death producing microscopic organisms which originated in distant, unseen stars?" interjected Jean-Luc. Jessie cringed in his chair, being included in this meeting may be harder than he expected.

"Hum'm, sounds a bit farfetched," commented Max. "Let's save that one for last. Just remember mankind has a rather extensive track record of destroying itself, that's where I would begin. Jessie, do you recall when your father first informed you everyone was dropping like flies?"

"I think it be 'round 1987... but I'm not sure." You could see a thought had flashed in his head. "But it was in all the newspapers. Pa said it was too big for even the Government to cover up. After a coupla months the whole town was in a panic. Half o' dem was sickly and dying. The doctors didn't know why."

"Did the military attempt a quarantine?" queried Jean-Luc.

"No... Pa said it was happening everywhere, all over America. But I didn't see it for myself – outside the house, only a little on tv. Then dey stopped showing it but it was still in the newspapers which my Pa read. After a few more months there weren't even no newspapers. I guess too many news worker people were sick and gone. The major television stations lasted longer but after a few more months dey were gone too! Everyone went into hiding, trying to git away from the sickness. It didn't work. My Mama and Papa passed too... at home with me. There weren't no room in the hospitals. And it weren't long after dat I had no family at all, aunts, uncles, cousins... dey all be dead. I never got sick, not even a little bit. Why was dat, sirs? Why not me?"

"At this point we don't know, but we are certainly going to try to find out. We sincerely feel for your loss... everyone's loss and will try to correct this horrific consequence to mankind."

"Correct it?" wondered Jessie. "You gonna bring dem back to life?"

"In a broad manner of speaking which we can't divulge at the moment, but first we must determine the magnitude... the size of the area affected which we can do by using the Machine and researching public records like old newspapers."

"What's da Machine?"

"A device which enables us to travel about to gather information," answered Bitterman. "Its range is two thousand miles." He didn't mention time travel – no need to overload the young man at this point, or if ever. Jesse bobbed his head in understanding but he didn't.

DeBois spoke up, "For my part I require one, preferably two specimens for autopsies. But first, why do you think it could have been a nuclear war, Max? Such an occurance would be easy to determine... massive destruction and radiation."

"Again, I am reminded you are a man of healing, not of war," explained his colleague. "Over a decade ago the United States developed a neutron bomb which was many times more efficient than its atom and hydrogen bombs. It killed by dispersing radioactive neutrons without having a gigantic thermonuclear blast which destroyed everything within a twenty mile radius. Essentially, it killed enemy combatants, not structures and had a radius of less than a mile. You're going to find this difficult to believe, the reason the neutron bomb hadn't been placed into mass production and deployed is because it wasn't fearful enough to act as a deterrent. The U.S. wanted to continue their terrifying 'Scorched Earth' policy. I don't know if Russia fully developed the weapon also or not, but it's rumored their program had been abandoned for the same reason. It wasn't cruel enough... isn't that awful? Each of the Super Powers wanted to instill terror."

"My heart weighs heavy due to mankind's depravity towards itself," sighed Jean-Luc. Jessie understood and bowed his head as a tear came to his eye – such horrible intentions he had never imagined.

I can't say I in particular relish the thought of returning to Falls Church so soon but I agree you need specimens for autopsies and sooner the better," reasoned Max.

"We could jump to a different city," suggested Jean-Luc. "What do you think of that?"

"No," answered Bitterman. "I suspect the threat of wild animal attacks is prevalent most everywhere. At least we are familiar with the topography of this area. There is a large hospital on the northern outskirts of the city proper. It's semi-residential and I'm inclined to believe the canines will stay concentrated toward the center of Falls Church where they've had better luck obtaining food. We should be able to procure your subjects readily from the hospital's morgue. Regarding autopsies, it's my understanding any person who died less than ten years ago is considered still fresh." Jean-Luc nodded agreement. "Oh also, there may be a shop or newsstand on the premises which could prove helpful."

Not understanding the doctors' line of thinking Jessie cut in and blurted, "Can I stay here? I won't cause no trouble. I'll do my chores."

"Sorry, no," returned Bitterman. "We're going to need your help, young man." Max smiled, "Strong, young man. Besides, the old expression, 'there's safety in numbers' undeniably applies in this instance."

Jessie was delighted they wanted his assistance and didn't bother asking what Bitterman meant when he said the word, jump. Weren't dey going to drive? Or maybe it was a slang word, Papa used lots of them. He raised his hand to speak and the two doctors looked his way. "I be sorry," he stuttered. "I can't help you reading the newspapers. I never learned to read too good. Homeschooled for people like me really meant doing chores and staying outta the way," then dropped his eyes in shame."

"Not a problem, Jessie. We'll find plenty for you to do; you shall be of great assistance," said DeBois which put another smile on the young man's face. "And, we will teach you to read. It will take considerable time but you can depend on us... and in turn, we shall on you. Are you up for the task, sir?" Jessie nodded his head vigorously, Yes!

"Indeed, I second that," added Max. Their new boarder had never felt more important in his life.

"My uncle was a hunting enthusiast, said DeBois as he unlocked the large, steel gun safe in the barn. I've only peeked into this once or twice. I, myself have no interest in the so-called sport but he loved it and provided the family with fresh game year round. I give him credit for not killing more than they consumed." The double doors swung open to reveal over a dozen rifles and several hand guns. "My word, was he a secret member of a militia?"

"Let me see," said Max. After inspecting, he relayed, "You may relax, Jean-Luc. There are no military weapons present. There are several different types of rifles which are predicated by the nature of the quarry. For example, you wouldn't use a sixteen gauge shotgun to hunt squirrel, it would be blasted to pieces. Each weapon here is oriented for a specific type of game much similar to a fisherman who has a dozen rods with reels and a hundred lures. No, your uncle wasn't a secret, antigovernment, Minute Man, merely a hunter equipped for all seasons."

"Thank you for your expertise," said his friend. "I am relieved."

"I count three pistols, two with holsters and belts. I'll take one," advised Bitterman. "Jean-Luc, you carry the other one... on our person whenever we are outside these premises. Understood? Sorry to be so bossy but until we learn the scope of the animal threat, we must take extra precautions. Jessie, have you handled firearms?"

"No, sir. My Pa had a gun but he never let me touch it. All the families in our neighborhood had guns."

"That's understandable," commented Max. "A pistol is more difficult to master than a rifle; the easiest weapon is a small gauge shotgun." Max selected one of the twelve gauge shotguns and stated, "Now is as good a time as any for training. Jessie, this is what you'll be carrying," and in addition instructed him to put a twenty-two caliber revolver in his pocket to be used as a secondary weapon." He gave Jean-Luc a shotgun also. "Welcome to our Army, soldiers." Bitterman loaded the rifles with pellet shells and led the pair behind the barn. "This is what you'd call a crash course," addressing his two trainees, then set up various targets about fifty feet away. "I need to evaluate your skill sets. If you fail and I deem you to be a danger to us all, I'll take away your weapons and give you a bucket a rocks instead." He then smirked. "Just kidding, men. I'm sure you'll do well." Jessie, was a natural in spite of his weakened Albino eyesight and sunglasses; he hit nine out of ten targets. Jean-Luc tested as so-so but still acceptable.

"Bon!" cheered DeBois. "Ah, the marvels of youthful coordination," referring to Jessie.

"Yes, congratulations, my friends," echoed Bitterman then took their weapons and jacked in birdshot shells instead of the larger steel pellet types. "This ammo will improve your defensive position. The smaller sized b-b's inside will expand outward faster thus producing a larger shot pattern. It creates more pain and forces the animal to retreat. What happens to the creature afterwards is not our concern. They are uncompassionate predators even unto themselves. That being said, let's pack it up and be on our way to the hospital."

"Shall we use my Peugeot?" offered Jean-Luc.

"Not unless you've had a machine gun mounted on top recently," bantered Max. "A Pitbull could bite an entire wheel off your vehicle in one chomp, then we'd be in a heckava fix. My BMW remains far more durable. It's like comparing a warm, soft, French pastry to a German bank safety deposit box."

The parking lot was sparse, bearing only a handful of abandoned vehicles when they stopped at the valet drop-off, then waited and visually scoured their surroundings for movement before exiting with weapons in hand. "Watch for predators in the shrubs, that's where they would live or hide," warned Bitterman. "I'll take point, Jessie next, then Jean-Luc bringing up the rear. First sign of trouble, we form into a triangle." He had previously explained military patrol defensive positioning – some things you never forget.

They exited the vehicle slowly – in silence and assembled. Their eyes constantly darted from side to side as they entered the facility's double doors, one of which had been damaged and stood half open – tilted on an angle as if someone or thing had struck it with great force. Was the perpetrator man or beast trying to get in or out? The trio walked with caution to the building directory and discovered there were no listing for the Morgue.

Bitterman had a 'now what'? expression on his face. Jean-Luc pointed to a listing which read, Transitions Department. "That's it. Many hospitals have adopted this nomenclature. The Morgue listing made some visitors uncomfortable, especially close friends and family members. I see it's located in the basement... where it should be so people passing by the directory wouldn't become upset." He glanced about, "I assume the elevators are inoperative. I haven't noticed evidence of the power being in service. But before we continue, may I point out we have another choice of acquisition available. We could ascend upwards to the floors housing in all probability deceased patients left in their rooms. I'm reasonably confident there are scores of them, perhaps even hundreds, but either way for extraction we'll have to utilize the stairwells. However, I believe as I first suspected, we can retrieve the best specimens from the Morgue's cold storage lockers. Of course they won't still be chilled without electricity but their carcasses should have remained undisturbed from insects or animals because the cadavers couldn't have been detected by their smell which is an invitation to food. And, as for the upper levels of the hospital, there may possibly be several passages inadvertently left open and if so, it would have allowed more avenues of accessibility for numerous scavengers residing and lying in wait. So, again I vote for the Morgue. I just wanted to assure you I considered all possibilities... in case something regretfully goes amiss."

"It's your call, Doctor," stated Max. "Lead the way," as he readied his own flashlight.

Jessie was wary but had faster motor skills and more experience in sneaking around with potential danger lurking in every alley. This was how he had lived every day for years – minus the neat shotgun he now carried. "I'm ready, sirs. I won't lets you down," and flashed two rows of beautiful, white teeth.

The trio descended the stairwell slowly with caution and thankfully the short trek had been uneventful. Bitterman pulled open the door designated B4, denoting Basement, section four. The visibility was near pitch black after they entered – there were no windows. "Prop the door open," ordered Max. "Maybe we can get a little light in here to help us find our way back."

"I can see better in less light," informed Jessie as he removed his sunglasses.

"Yes, that would be true," concured Jean-Luc. "Jessie's condition places him on a level parallel to a cat's night vison. No, neither can distinguish perfectly in total darkness but both have increased visibility in low light. Meaning, he can see better than either of us even with our flashlights."

It didn't take long to locate the cold storage lockers. "Jessie, watch the doorways for unwanted guests while Doctor DeBois and I inspect the contents of these lockers," directed Max. "Jean-Luc, what are your needs again?"

"At this time, I desire a minimum of one adult male and female who display clear evidence of the splotches Jessie described... and two rolling tables for transport." Every locker was full – all fifty, some contained two if they were children. DeBois performed a quick assessment of each body, seeking those who met his criteria and soon selected two then returned the others to their resting place in case they required more specimens at a later date. Next, the doctors carefully laid the chosen on the gurneys and rolled them toward the hallway as Jessie remained vigilant. Moving the cadavers up the stairwell proved to be an arduous task in itself but they got it done.

"Perhaps, we should have gone to the upper levels instead," mumbled Jean-Luc. "Descending is easier than ascending."

"And have to roll these people down seven flights?" rebutted Bitterman. "I think not. Besides, we both could use a little exercise. It's been a while since I was toughened up by the rigors of Valley Forge." They were starting to make their way across the lobby when Jessie, who was in the lead stopped and pointed. A full grown, healthy Rottweiler had positioned itself in the middle of the broken, open door to the valet station. He was sniffing the air and observing the human's movement. "Uh-oh," moaned Max and reached for his shotgun lying on the gurney, Jean-Luc followed suit, Jessie was at ready on first sight. "Form up, men!" and they quickly made a defensive triangle. "Jessie, take aim at the floor in front of him. The birdshot will bounce up and create a larger spray pattern. Hold your fire until I give the order. I'm going to fire a warning shot at the ceiling to scare him off." 'Blam!' The monster's ear's shot up and he snarled then began lowing his body into a crouched position. His nostrils flared and his eyes burned with hate. "He's not afraid. He's going to attack! Now, Jessie. Fire!"

Without a second of hesitation, 'Blam!' Max and Jean-Luc stood at the ready to let loose a follow-up barrage on any other 'incoming'. Jessie's round bounced off the floor as intended and knocked him off his feet. Stung in the legs and chest, the beast rose slowly and limped away. The animal seemed to give a, 'it's not over yet' stare as he retreated. "It's almost as if he were intelligent... calculating and going to get reinforcements," assessed DeBois. "Who knows how some of the creatures may have evolved in the last few years. I know Mountain gorillas would make a counterattack."

"Wolves and hyenas also," added Bitterman. "Let's get these bodies into the trunk and away from this hostile ground. Jessie, stay sharp." They sped away and again Jean-Luc thought he saw a large pack of canines in the distant rear. Organized?

The trio had returned to the farmhouse and placed their specimens in DeBois' laboratory. Jessie had been rendered mute and near dumbstruck when they exited the secret elevator into the subterranean facilities. He couldn't stop staring in awe at all the technical and medical apparatus. Jessie felt for sure he had stepped onto a science fiction movie set. "This can't be real," he thought then changed to, "Maybe it be true. Pa said the United States NASA used some big rockets and put men on the moons and said someday they'll put a colony on the twin Blue planet. Ha, these here doctors are so smart, I thinks dey can do anything too. I must be the luckiest man in the world for them letting me see all this neat stuff."

"Jessie," hailed Bitterman, "please don't be overwhelmed by all the clutter," gesturing at the assemblage. "We'll give you the grand tour and explanations in due time but first we must return to the Study and formulate a plan of action."

"Gentlemen," began Max, "Our visit to the hospital was unexpectedly cut short by that vicious and perhaps intelligent Rottweiler and we didn't have an opportunity to locate newspaper or magazine documentation. It may have been present, maybe not. However, I don't believe returning to that site is a prudent consideration. So, where do we obtain our desired material? I have given this some thought and focused on two sources: The Washington Post newspaper which is headquartered in our nearby Capital and the New York Times centered in the Big Apple. The Post is close... oh, that rhymes doesn't?" then chuckled to himself. "In spite of its close proximity, to my knowledge their records storage is entirely digital and assuming they also lack power, we would have no accessibility. Whereas, The Times, established in 1851, has prided itself in archiving its damage-proofed, original newspaper publications in the New York City headquarters. I believe there is where we'll locate and retrieve the most accurate and current documentation... plus, we can evaluate to a degree the city's present condition. What do you think of my assessment, Jean-Luc?"

"Appears solid to me," he answered. "Are we going in force?"

"No, I believe Jessie and I can handle this excursion. I suggest you begin evaluating your specimens as soon as possible. I am worrisome concerning the disease's toxicity life. Could we also develop splotches and perish within the next three months as Jessie's father described? What if your initial calculations of its transferability was lacking or incomplete? Even if we are lucky/fortunate and it's benign now, how and where did it originate? What was its chemical composition? What was its attainable magnitude? How can we stop it before or after it begins? Our journey and challenges are just beginning." He pumped his fist, "Tomorrow we jump to New York City!"

A shiver ran up Jessie's spine. He had never been outside his Falls Church neighborhood.

"Stand close to me under the transporter cone, Jessie," instructed Bitterman. "Be careful not to have anything extend outside the perimeter base," as he pointed towards its edges. "Extremely dangerous." Max didn't explain the details of the Machine's time bending ability which would place them one minute behind this present when they reached their destination, just the act of relocating from their farmhouse to New York City would be amazing enough for now. If all went well and the doctors were able to nullify the Plague, Jessie would not have to experience an actual, true time jump - he would be returned to his former past with his memory intact and possess a story which no one would believe. If he dared relay his tale the ensuing ridicule would be most unpleasant.

Max looked at Jean-Luc and called out his favorite battle cry, "Fire in the Hole!" DeBois smirked as Jessie visually searched about for smoke or flames, but wisely remained in place. "Close your eyes, Jessie!" Jean-Luc typed in the command codes at the console.

There was a brilliant burst of white light and the pair opened their eyes to find themselves standing on a sidewalk in front of the twenty-story New York Times headquarters building on west 43rd street, downtown, Big Apple.

Max glanced about and commented, "That went well wouldn't you say, young fellow?"

His new partner was stunned and finally gushed, "Dat be... Awesome!"

"Indeed," agreed Bitterman. "It gives me an adrenalin rush every time. Your use of

Awesome is the perfect descriptive word." Jessie gawked up and down at the never-ending rows of giant buildings the same manner as any small town visitor would do. Max smiled in delight as he reminisced about the city's residents who always stared downward, fixed on their immediate footing as they traversed about, contrary to the tourists who gazed in wonder at the towering rooftops, which to their demise often established a sure 'tell' for the city's numerous hustlers. "Watching Jessie's many reactions could be entertaining to some degree," reflected the two man expedition's leader. "I'm happy we provided him with this 'adventure', abet under diverse circumstances." As his young friend marveled at his surroundings, Max searched the streets and buildings visually for movement. All was quiet, deserted, abandoned cars and no electrical power evident anywhere – what he had expected. "I'll take a few minutes for him to adjust then we must move forward on the task at hand." Finally, "Jessie, you should have seen this magnificent city when it was still alive and bustling with people going to and fro, even the crush of legions of noisy taxi cabs produced a feeling of vitalization. Perhaps, one day you shall experience its glory. I sincerely hope so." He waited another minute before saying, "Come on, son. Remember we are on a mission to save the world, or at least the U.S. and Canada." The full scope of damage was unknown at that point. Had an effective quarantine been established on the North American continent or did the Plague become global? Hopefully, the New York Times would have documented the range of infection before its presses fell silent.

Each carried a large empty suitcase and their shotgun as they entered the modern building's massive, front doors to find a spacious reception room still in good order. "I assume there's not much reason for looting and ransacking when you're faced with eminent death. Truly, what is there to be gained?" reasoned Bitterman. "Let's see if we can find a building directory," which they did between the elevators. "Archives is located on the Mezzanine deck, one floor below us." Again, with flashlights in hand they descended the stairwell and entered the Records Department with a single, sign-in desk located front and center. "Good, we haven't needed to blast any doors open so far." Before the jump he had switched the rifle's birdshot shells to the more powerful buckshot containing steel pellets. The doctors had decided to put confrontational, hostile animals permanently down in the future and secondly, they would have more fire power available against blocked or locked structures in order in gain access to critical information and/or material. "This appears to be the entranceway to the Archives." Citing the next possible obstacle, "Hum'm, appears we have a steel door with a horizontal handle. I hope it's not locked, our shotguns would be ineffective." He grabbed and turned it downward, then pushed – it swung open with ease to reveal a second door twenty feet further. "Well, look at this, they constructed an airlock. Great idea," he stated and had no difficulty in opening that one either. "I believe we've been very lucky, this section is similar to a fortress... or a prison. I strongly suspect if there were electrical power these doors would be magnetically secured and we would surely be denied passage." They entered to find a very large warehouse-type chamber compartmentalized by rows of closet-sized rooms designated by consecutive years beginning with 1851, the year of the famous newspaper's inception. "Astounding."

"Cool," whispered Jessie in wonder of its complexities.

"Indeed," agreed Max. "They are certainly well organized but I would expect nothing less from these award- winning publicists and world business leaders." Walking toward the closest storage site, 1987, he directed, "We'll fill our cases with their last publications... two to three months such do it. I'm confident their U.S. News and World Reports sections will be quite expansive and through." Bitterman's assessment had been correct: The papers - sealed in heavy, plastic folders in chronological order hung by clips on an overhead wire for easy access. "This overall experience feels like an old fashion Treasure Hunt from my childhood. Open the suitcases, Jessie. I'll hand them to you with the last edition being first. Stack them one atop the other gently, no folding. Even the newest publication is over six years old. We'll cushion them with the towels I placed in the cases for packing." They were finished and ready to leave in less than twenty minutes. "Good thing our cases are equipped with wheels, they must weigh fifty pounds apiece," which was not a problem for a strong, survivor-type young man such as his partner. Bitterman toted the shotguns and flashlights up the stairs at Jessie's insistence. At the top with a big smile on his face, he returned Max's case.

The two rolled their booty outside to the spot they had jumped in. Max, always alert, looked about for danger, especially ravenous canines. He retrieved his transponder from his pocket. Neither had detected the three Albinos who had snuck up behind them. Jessie's superior survival instincts sensed someone or thing was in close proximity and turned to find two men and a woman standing no further than twenty-five feet to their rear.

"Sir, behind us!" Max quickly spun about. These residents were dressed similar to Jessie when they first met – ragged in apparel, but with distinct differences. First, each were armed with a hunting knife on one hip, a pistol on the other and carried a handmade, six foot long, wooden spear. These people appeared aggressive, they weren't going run from a bunch of doggies – instead, they would most likely kill and eat them. Max saw all wore a necklace, not of real jewelry but loops of strung together teeth - a mixture of animal and gold filled human's.

They seemed to be more focused on Jessie than Max. The woman strode with boldness straight to him and took a stance two feet directly in front. She demanded, "What are you doing with that demon," referring to Bitterman. "Are you his slave or worst, a traitor to your people? Kill the Devil worshiper, Brother and come with us."

"I ain't no slave," sputtered Jessie. "I wants to be with him. Why you say these bad things?"

She peered into his eyes then called back to her companions, "He is under the demon's spell. His soul is lost." Then to Jessie, "Monsters like him made the Plague, caused the World to die and left us to live this way... walking dead with no future." He opened his mouth to begin a rebuttal and didn't notice she had removed her knife from its sheath. With one quick upward thrust she drove the steel blade under Jessie's ribcage and straight into the heart. Shocked, he dropped to his knees and in vain grabbed his gushing chest. The woman backed up between the two laughing men and joined in. "Now you be free, you stupid, little boy. Your false god, MLK will be proud of you!" and all three howled in delight when Jessie fell face first on the concrete.

Max stood frozen and speechless for a few moments which felt timeless. The two men were readying their spears, he was the next target. They grinned as if they were going to have a contest... a game. Egging them on, the woman shouted, "The best throw wins me!" as she wiggled her hips. Their arms drew back, taking aim and setting their feet.

In a flash Max dropped his shotgun which could not have put all three down at once, pressed the transponder activation button then grabbed Jessie's suitcase. He called to them hoping to create a stall, "Do you want to see a magic trick? I can do a really great one. Watch this!" and they held in place scrutinizing, unknowing as the transponder sync'd and soon reached 'ready' condition.

"He's trying to trick you," shouted the female. "Gig the bastard now!"

There was a brilliant burst of white light as Max materialized in the Time Machine laboratory with the two suitcases and Jessie's dead body between his feet.

"Sacré mére!" exclaimed DeBois. "What happened?" as he rushed to Jessie and checked his vital signs. "He's gone," he whispered.

"There were a few local residents who were very upset at our presence," began Max. "Two men and a woman who stole-up behind us. The female verbally challenged Jessie then without warning fatally stabbed him with a hunting knife... which was immediately followed by her two companions taking stances to impale me with spears. She goaded them on, making a game of it with her being the prize. They referred to me as one of the demons responsible for creating the Plague and Jessie was a traitor to his people, the Albinos. I successfully stalled for time and escaped."

"Albinos?" repeated Jean-Luc. "The three were fellow Albinos?" Bitterman nodded, affirmative. "This is insane. Is this to become the norm during our searches for supportive research material? Hostile confrontations on each jump? I could never have imagined this scenario unfolding." He glanced at the suitcases.

"The alteration transpired after we secured the newspapers," in answer to DeBois' silent question and added, "The acquired publications will never equal his loss."

Jean-Luc consoled, "I know your pain, I feel it also but it will lessen in time. Keep in mind, Jessie's sacrifice may help us save mankind as we knew it. Since the World's inception countless souls have given their lives for Love, God or Country. Let's make Jessie's passing meaningful, but not today."

The doctors grieved two days and buried their friend behind the barn, close to where Missy's, Caleb's and Joy's home had been in a different time line. "Perhaps, if we are successful he too will return to his previous life and remember our fondness for him." The next two night's dinners consisted of picked-at, mac and cheese on the first, followed secondly by pork and beans, both meals consumed with heavy hearts. On the third day they adjourned to the Study to review the newspapers.

"First," asked Bitterman, "have you made any progress with your specimens?"

"Yes, to a degree," answered DeBois. "I believe it was a result of poisoning, either by chemical or aerial ingestion. The splotches on the victims lack pigmentation, I have no idea why. I'm going to delve deeper into blood analysis and cell structure. On the positive side, as proven by the camouflage potion I created and you utilized at Valley Forge, this is an area which I am familiar and feel it will be only a matter of time until I determine its true source. So, no I don't have a solution yet but I am optimistic."

"Outstanding, Jean-Luc. I'm sorry I can't help you with your research but I can be of support... for example by bringing you coffee and sandwiches and whatever else you may desire."

"Monsieur, just your presence is a great aid. Procuring snacks for myself will give me a welcome respite."

"You're most welcome my friend and recommend I alone explore the newspapers so you may continue your work uninterrupted. Your gains are far more important than mine. Besides, I am rather proficient in sorting and gleaning data. Let's focus on our own particular vocations, but I shall remain at your call." He smiled, "I'll see you at breakfast and dinner if that's agreeable? Again, I must warn you, my version of cooking has not improved. I long for Jessie's, Joy's and especially Missy's culinary creations."

Jean-Luc grinned, "So, it's back to the same old slop of three years ago? Hamburger Helper made with bologna. Yummy, I can't wait."

Three weeks later...

The doctors had another progress report meeting in the Study. Jean-Luc led with an unusual question, "Max, have you considered what the outcome would be if a person did a time jump and confronted themselves? Or a transported innate object such as a test instrument which came in close proximity or even contact with itself?"

"Why, no, I have not envisioned those conditions. Now that you have brought it up, I suspect and fear some unknown Relativity, Physics axiom could come into play. There's no way of knowing if it has happened before or its consequences. Good thinking, your bringing forth this idea, expressly if we require numerous jumps which cross time lines connecting people or material within the same locale. Perhaps, I should test this situation before I inadvertently cause the planet to rip apart. Sorry, that was somewhat blown out of proportion, I hope. Whatever, I'm confident the results would be most unfavorable – Mother Nature and Physics sometimes can make quite harsh marriage partners. Each believes they are the dominate force."

"I regret to having thrown the proverbial monkey wrench into the works, monsieur. The thought just popped into my head. Do you think we should seek Einstein's opinion on this matter?"

"No, I'm sure he's had enough of us for a lifetime. I should have contemplated this earlier. My only defense is that our ventures were new and near overwhelming... I am still floundering somewhat. A poor excuse. Since my invention and our interventions to restore the corrupted time lines, our lives have been much more than merely frazzled, don't you agree? I sometimes wonder why mankind with its self-destructive nature hasn't devolved back into the Stone Age yet. Is this, what we are experiencing now, the foretold Biblical rendition of, I told you not to abuse Free Will... the prophecies of Revelations or numerous other world religion's warnings becoming evident?

A month later...

The doctors returned for another progress meeting and both were itching to get a plan of action in motion.

"Doctor DeBois, would you please begin?" requested his associate.

"Thank you, Max. I'm happy to announce I've made significant progress. Beginning with, my first inclination toward digestive corruption versus aerial contamination. Specifically, in that they were directed toward the planet's water sources but with a major distinction. The damaging agents were carried by both fresh and sea water... most unusual. And even more so, the salinity content didn't alter or diminish the Plague's effectiveness, only the speed in which it was carried from point A to B. Salt water is denser therefore slower in transit and vastly more dilutive. But in this case the destructive properties were resilient enough to not be diminished in efficiency or destroyed during the passage of long distances such as moving from the North American continent to all other destinations driven by ocean currents. According to my calculations, the 'shelf life' of this multiplying concoction was at least six months which ideally in such a time span could have infected and killed at least fifty percent of the planet's population before it atrophied and became harmlessly inert. As Jessie stated, the time between initial contraction to death ranged between two and five months. The variance was dependent on the individual's current health wellbeing. One sip of the contaminated water was all it required for the process to begin. Standard, even superior filtration and chemical cleansing agents were useless. The virus altered human metabolism on the gene's molecular level, preventing the DNA strands to produce varied types of pigments in the skin. When only the white ones were created the nonfunctioning splotches were generated, hence the body rejected and shut them down not allowing the epidermis to breathe. Similar examples have occurred in the past when people allowed themselves to be painted entirely with dense, plastic or metallic based applications. The same principle here. These patches never visually consumed the body's entire surface but in the subdermal level all the cells were in some stage of termination. The process would have been very painful, akin to an endless, expanding second degree sun burn which could only be soothed by painkillers as strong as and including morphine, always the last resort. Animal, aviary, insect and sea life were not affected." DeBois had concluded and took a deep sigh. "I would classify it as an Apocalypse which is not necessarily the 'End of the World'. According to the Bible, it is an end of, 'A System of Things'. For an example qualified possibilities could be: The collapse of the world's monetary systems, Famine, Massive population reductions, No government infrastructure, Chaos in the streets, Mankind reverting to the Stone Age and on... I'm sure you get the bleak picture."

Bitterman sat silent and pondered his associate's expansive presentation. "Impressive for such a short time and I am moved by your findings. You have made quite clear the How portion of the puzzle. The deaths of so many, and even a select few..." referring to the friends they had made and lost since they began their interventions with the Time Machine, weighed heavy on the doctor's hearts and minds. "We are striving to save lives and cultures although they have already perished. You and I had success before and with God's guidance and Science's resources we shall do it again."

Max then stood and presented a flow chart on an easel displaying the results of his New York Times research. "Before I begin, Jean-Luc, one question, please. Have you devised a method for determining the precise speed of the contamination? It is absolutely relevant we learn its point of origin."

"Yes, I have," answered DeBois. "By inputting the variables of flow-speed, temperature, current direction, water composition, – fresh versus salt or brackish, the atomic weight and density of the poison, the computer can determine the route and probable destinations with a high degree of accuracy. And, its geographical point of origin, similar to a Fire Investigator backtracking to a source."

"I hoped for such corroboration," returned Bitterman. "For my part, I also have gleaned much from the Times last publications. By placing aside the heart-wrenching human interest stories and concentrating on factual data, specifically regarding where and when the infection was first encountered in specific American locales. There had been some overlapping as to be expected, therefore creating inaccuracies in a few geographic sections but for eighty percent overall I have determined a pattern of placement from 'ground zero' outward. Someone or group has methodically created and seeded this Plague in an intelligent, planned operation."

"Sacre bleu! Do you mean a terrorist attack, monsieur?"

"May be, may be not... I'll explain," answered Max. "I don't have a concrete basis at this time but there appears to be a definite plan of distribution. I believe after being added to water, the product proliferates on its own per the data you have presented, sir." Jean-Luc nodded agreement. Bitterman next flipped over a map of North America. "I have derived a system of contamination based on the reports in the New York Times." Using his pointer, he directed Jean-Luc's attention to sections of the U.S., Canada and Mexico who all had reported incidents of the Plague which quickly morphed into epidemic proportions. "The Great Lakes, Lake Okeechobee, the Great Salt Lake and the Mississippi, Missouri, Potomac, and Rio Grande rivers formed a circular pattern between 1500 & 2000 miles from the first known infections reported in the Washington Metropolitan Area which in turn pointed to the Chesapeake Bay as the dump site. The Washington Post ran the earliest stories of an undetermined, new fatal disease running rampart with no known cure per the C.D.C. The configuration appeared to have spread outward from the Chesapeake Bay in increments of one week intervals, therefore I believe we are very close to 'ground zero' here in Falls Church. The perpetrators most likely dumped the toxins from the Bay Bridge, retreated, created more, then selected a new target in a spiraling outward array which suggests a single or very few participants as opposed to a large terrorist group who would have struck everywhere at once to instill maximum fear and damage. However, there was no mention of infection beyond these parameters which I shall interpret as: they ran out of chemicals, were apprehended by the authorities and held incognito or contracted the disease themselves, subsided and perished. Even though there were no reports from the West Coast, Western Canada or southern Mexico, I'm sure the affliction found its way there after the presses on the East Coast fell silent. Keep in mind, these are all my theories and please let us discuss it further – I am not infallible. I suspect with confidence, if we were able to retrieve Los Angeles' news documentation it would read pretty much the same as ours. Unfortunately, it is beyond the current Time Machine's range. If we ever acquire some free time for ourselves, meaning not during our efforts trying to save the world, I'll endeavor to expand the Machine's range to incorporate the entire North American continent. Sorry, I sound like a Whiney Butt. I'll strive to do better." He looked at the floor then posed a new scenario, "Jean-Luc, do you believe the C.D.C. or other world catastrophic agencies working in unison could have contained the outbreak to the North American continent?"

"I can't see how," returned DeBois. "The sea water would have been impossible control. It's not similar to an oil spill. The product flowed with ease and was invisible to the eye. No detection procedures or instruments had been devised. Sorry. Returning to your research, were there any mentions of a possible cure or anything to indicate they were on the right track?"

"Nothing, apparently it happened too fast," answered Bitterman. "Perhaps there are still scientists and researchers hunkered-down in a secret, sterile underground laboratory working on a cure somewhere but we have no way of aiding their efforts. All telecommunication links are down including Internet and satellite access. Going forward, may I now turn over my material for your evaluation and you to me likewise? Hopefully, we'll attain additional data, then put our heads together again. Agreed?"

"Oui."

Three days later...

"I concur with your evaluation regarding the targets and intervals of dispersion," stated DeBois.

"Thank you, sir," replied Max. "I reviewed your material as well but was at a loss. Chemical formulas, metabolism and cell structure are beyond my realm but your system of analysis appeared concise and didn't raise any red flags. Therefore, based on our cross-checking, where do we proceed from here?"

"I have been thinking about that, monsieur and developed a line of pursuit quite similar to our last intervention, World War Two," fielded Jean-Luc. "The key to turning that tide so to speak and preventing the Germans from winning the conflict by utilizing nuclear weapons first was contingent on our ability to identify and track their U4 submarines. Can the same principle be applied here? Your Time Machine has extraordinary scanning features. If I could isolate a unique element or chemical structure, could you program Destiny to find the dump sites?"

"Theoretically yes, the Machine is a wonder of technology." A thought popped into his mind. "But wait, if I can create a workable program why don't we try to locate the agent's production facility and neutralize it there before its introduction into the public domain? That would be much more desirable than chasing the product's dispersion all over North America. Let's squash it at the source!"

"A splendid idea," answered DeBois. "If... that course of action was supported by the potion's chemical composition. Such would hold true in 99% of applications, but unfortunately not this one..." Bitterman furrowed his brow. "I don't believe there are any distinctive markers present until the 'blend' is introduced to water, then they are created. Sorry, but we need to jump to a known toxic site and retrieve samples, then after I've determined whether or not there exists a distinctive composition or element, you can modify your machine to track it."

"Sounds like a plan," agreed Max. "I'm ready when you are."

"You said the Chesapeake Bay was the most probable first dump site and established a workable time frame. I suggest we gather three samples within one week intervals. They must be extracted from the exact same location each time. I'll be able to identify variations rather easily. We must guard ourselves from ingesting any form of the water, even a drop by being splashed by a wave. And, I strongly recommend not even letting it touch our skin, I did not have adequate time to study the absorption properties. So, treat it at all times like the lethal poison it is."

The two doctors took their jumps downstream in the daytime disguised as local fishermen so as not to arouse suspicion and didn't encounter any challengers or problems. After returning to the lab, Jean-Luc analyzed his samples: the first two were normal and the third spiked hard – the deadly toxin was clearly present. The sea water smelled and appeared as usual but tested off-scale for several chemical compositions. DeBois was able to isolate an unknown, derived metallic isotope and presented his finding to his colleague, Doctor Bitterman, who then developed a program for the Time Machine to scan and pinpoint the Plague producing contamination. The wheels were in motion. Destiny could locate the first dump site within a quarter mile radius and a twenty-four hour window. Armed with this data the comrades prepared to jump, stakeout and intervene.

"If we are fortunate to locate and confront these perpetrators, I don't believe proclaiming: "Stop, don't do that", will have much impact," assessed Jean-Luc. "This could be a bit dicey as the Brits say and I don't think attempting to enlist the assistance of the local authorities would be prudent. Are we mentally prepared to engage in physical violence, monsieur?"

"I know violence is not of your nature, Jean-Luc. Just keep in mind, we are saving hundreds of millions – possibly half the world, if we are successful. Worst case scenario, if you have them in your sights, remember these people are the vilest of terrorists. Conversely, I haven't found any proclamations or threats in the media from them declaring: These are our demands, submit or die. They are obviously members of a lunatic fringe who want to destroy the planet and have Nature start over. Don't hesitate to shoot without prejudice, we are at War. I'll be at your side and fire the first shot you may rest assured."

Spring 1987

The two doctors transported to the bank of the Chesapeake Bay two hundred yards from the south-side land/bridge connection at 6:00 a.m. It was cool and clear, they brought camping and fishing gear to blend in during their stakeout. Binoculars hung from their necks to scan likely drop sites which Bitterman guesstimated. "If the culprit steals in during the middle of the night we won't know it until we test the next morning," assessed Max. "But that kind of movement may arouse the suspicions of the local law enforcement. I wouldn't attempt it. I'd come as a fisherman; no one would blink an eye. He'd probably use something similar in appearance to a bait pail to carry the poisonous catalyst. Dumping contents in the water to empty or fill the pail is a common practice during fishing, especially at its conclusion."

"If that's true, how can we determine whether he is the perpetrator or just an ordinary person going fishing?" queried DeBois. "I have no experience to draw upon regarding this sport."

"You must have lived a sheltered life during your early years, my friend," commented Max. "I, on the other hand enjoyed many activities in and under my father's guidance which I shall always cherish. Alas, I was subpar in sporting skills and finally accepted the mindset to compete in classroom academics, of which I excelled. My father was most understanding his son would not be the next world class soccer super star and cheered me on in his own way. Regretfully, he passed before his due time, when I was just thirty-five and my mother faded two years later." He paused then, "Sorry to ramble on, memories... back to what you were saying. No, I don't have any tricks to sort out the real fishermen from whom we seek. Therefore, I believe we'll have to act expeditiously, without haste... in a manner such as being aggressive with false glee and rush to the newcomers asking what they are fishing for and the bait they're using. The perpetrator will tip his hand by acting puzzled or attempt a hasty retreat. At that point, we will have to become forceful to determine if he is the correct person. We must stop the fateful dump even if we have to shoot him, but it's not essential it be a fatal discharge or even inflict personal injury," as he patted the revolver in his deep pocket. "If the culprit surrenders to a warning shot, all the better."

After three long days of surveillance and not catching any fish because neither man thought to bring bait, Jean-Luc commented, "Are we going about this in the most efficient manner? Have we overlooked an obvious detail which could expedite the process of discovery?"

"I don't believe so," answered Max. "Sometimes it's just a matter of wait and see, similar to police detectives on a stakeout..." then held up a hand to stop the conversation. "One moment, please," as he focused his binoculars on a pair of men who just arrived in a pickup truck. "Our first visitors bearing the means to do the job? Let's wander over and say, 'Hello' and ascertain their intentions."

The two newcomers parked on the hard-packed sand and crushed shells beneath the bridge approximately two hundred feet from the shoreline and walked to the rear of their vehicle. They each wore a black flannel Hoodie with their heads covered – reasonable considering the chilly wind. The doctors began a quick pace in order to hail and intercept the pair before they could reach the water's edge. When Max and Jean-Luc closed within fifty yards the two men halted their unloading of a five gallon container similar in appearance to a large paint can from the flatbed and peered in their direction. The doctors were approaching unexpectedly fast. The possible perpetrators appeared startled and began jabbering to each other, then hurriedly with clumsiness reloaded the container into the truck and raced forward on foot to reenter the vehicle's front seats. Bitterman hailed, "Hello. We'd like to ask you a few fishing questions." The driver, who was closest to the incoming doctors, his Hoodie slid down on his back due to his sudden jerky motions to reveal a shocking, mind-bending countenance. The person was Maxwell Bitterman himself... different - clearly an older version! Based on this observation, DeBois realized the second man carried himself in his own manner. They were viewing upon themselves, who had travelled back in Time to this bewildering site of confrontation. Max and Jean-Luc closed within a hundred feet then there was a brilliant burst of white light and the visitors from the Future vanished.

"What?" stuttered DeBois.

"That, What was a Time Machine transponder," defined Bitterman. "We got too close, too fast and they jumped away before we could physically confront them. Those two older men were you and I, and they could only have come from the Future."

"Another, Why, monsieur," wondered Jean-Luc. "Jumping away rather than merely driving off in their vehicle without offering an explanation? Of course, I personally would have remained to explain my actions. However being such, I suspect they were on a clandestine mission to pour a neutralizing agent into the sea water to prevent the Plague's creation ahead of whenever the real terrorists were scheduled to make their dastardly move. If so, why not admit such to us, who are themselves and take the credit of which they richly deserve. Or, were they actually trying to evade us?"

"The neutralization would be logical to me, the evading not so much," agreed Bitterman. "But look over there," pointing to where the truck had been parked. "There's some liquid on the ground, the lid may have jarred loose when they grabbed the container to put it back on the flatbed. Let's collect a sample and test it in your lab, then we too will be able to duplicate the solution. Perhaps, we and ourselves from the Future working together may be able to halt this horrendous affliction."

"Oui, but still I don't understand why did they jump instead of driving away to avoid meeting their counterpart in time, us?"

"Yes, that is puzzling," as he searched the grounds. "Hey, look here, the driver – me, dropped his keys in their apparent panicky evasion and I assume one of them activated the transponder in haste or a last resort. Again, they obviously didn't want to contact us. There must be more to this which we don't understand."

After returning to their labs...

It was not meant to be, the sample tested identical to the previous known poisonous catalytic solution. Confounded, the pair realized they, their future selves were the culprits. "But why?" lamented DeBois. "Why would we commit such a heinous crime? I am beyond confused... totally baffled."

"I also," agreed Max. "I can only hope it wasn't intentional... an experiment that backfired? Have you been working on a side project of this nature... something which could mutate into such a nightmare?"

"Certainly not, monsieur. I have been dabbling into strengthening the human immune system, on paper – no live subjects or field tests. Genetics is not one of my strong suits. I cannot conceive creating ramifications parallel to the Plague's integration level. My product would essentially be a super strength vitamin pill... no altering capabilities."

"Hum'm, then I suggest we go ask the future ourselves a few questions regarding their intent and inform them of its unexpected consequences."

"We have never gone forward in time before, can it be done?" posed DeBois.

"True," returned Bitterman, "but I don't see why not. When we make a return trip it's the same principle. It should be interesting, not just for being a new mission but for the uniqueness in itself. A bit of H.G. Wells' classic, 'The Time Machine'. Hopefully, we won't encounter any humanoid monsters as his protagonist did."

Jean-Luc frowned, "We may already have." Max dropped his chin and gave a sour, grimace. "So, when do we begin?"

"I have to reprogram a few parameters and generators then make a minimum of two test jumps. I really don't foresee any problems but you know how that goes. You don't know you have a problem until it's in your face. Assuming all proceeds well, age-wise I estimate the future Us were at least ten to twelve years older than our present Us."

"I agree with your observation and what location shall be our destination?" posed Jean-Luc.

"Here would be my first and sole consideration and no further than ten years forward. If we overshoot, it would be after the fact per se – the Plague, they'll be warned of our coming and could relocate their labs if they were truly trying to elude us. We'd never be able to find them and could continue jumping in circles ad infinitum."

"So, it's paramount to confront them on the first attempt," DeBois paraphrased, "and hope for the best. I assume we're not going to injure or kill our future selves. I wonder how Nature and Physics would handle such a scenario?"

"I don't think I could comprehend it even if Herr Einstein elucidated," answered Bitterman. Within a week Max had modified the Machine's database parameters and completed three successful test jumps consisting of one day, three months and one year sequentially. As before, Jean-Luc checked him out medically after each trip – all results remained in the safe, normal range.

"I believe we are ready, I can' think of anything else for preparation." His associate agreed. "No weapons this trip. The year will be 2003, ten years from today, twelve o'clock sharp. Shall we proceed?" Both men stepped onto the transporter platform under its cone. Max did not give his customary, enthusiastic, 'Fire in the Hole' war cry. They stood somber, a bit sadden by the fact they were now on a mission to stop themselves. "What could have transpired during the next ten years for them to create such a horror," each man pondered. Both doctors carried a transponder, just in case. Max said and pressed 'activate' then closed his eyes. There was brilliant burst of white light.

The two colleagues found themselves standing on the future's platform according to plan except it had been expanded to a ten foot square with an equally sized eight foot high roof overhead. They were alone. "Plenty of cargo space in this version," noted Bittermann. His eyes swept the Machine's many upgraded apparatus applications. "I see I stayed busy. Too bad we won't be here long enough to learn their functions. I suspect the faster we conduct our business and depart the better we all will be. I don't know why but our being here gives me an unsettling feeling, creepy some would say."

"I know of which you are eluding to," replied Jean-Luc. "I also sense an out of place eeriness." He glanced about, "Appears we are alone for the moment. Lunch time perhaps?" He walked to his section of the underground facility – the medical labs. "There are many changes here also... to be expected of course. I don't recognize some of these chemicals or labeled solutions."

Before they became too engrossed in their findings the elevator door opened and their two future, older counterparts emerged heads-down – engrossed in reading the printed material in their hands. The door closed behind them and the car automatically returned to the first floor. For some unknown reason they both snapped their heads up simultaneously to view their visitors from the past. Shocked, they jointly, in unison uttered a sharp, distinctive, "Oh, no!"

The future Bitterman screeched, "You two from the bridge again. Do you know what you fools have done?"

The older DeBois followed with, "Run, Max, run! The Relativity, the relativity!" They both turned to the now-closed elevator door. "Aagh!" was the last sound from either... or the younger doctors.

All four felt themselves being gently lifted off the floor and none could move their extremities in the slightest nor speak. Totally helpless, they began floating toward each other. The older pair's eyes were filled with fear and the younger's with surprise and awe. Closer and closer they came toward each other in slow motion, directly in line to their twin counterpart. Within two minutes they were inches apart, face to face. Then they merged together: Max into Max and Jean-Luc likewise. They melded together akin to drops of quicksilver yet when joined retained the same size body mass of one. As they blended the room's illumination ran the spectrum's color range as if they were passing through a rainbow then all became an endless, black void. The younger pair awoke on the floor exactly halfway distant between the Time Machine's platform and the elevator. Neither experienced pain or disorientation and they were in normally lighted laboratories. The men stared at each other in dazed wonder then quickly scanned about for the older pair, who were absent. Had they escaped?

Outside the Apocalypse had vanished as if it had never occurred... which it didn't.

Chapter Five: Armageddon and Beyond

The conclusion of: The Time Doctors' Chronicles

Both men rose to their knees from their prone positions on the concrete floor and looked about the labs for the older versions of themselves to no avail. "It appears we are alone," surmised Jean-Luc.

"Yes, for the moment? Perhaps they recovered first and departed via the elevator," offered Max. "Did we blackout? The last thing I remember is being engulfed in a rainbow of moving lights."

"And then a black void which could have been a loss of consciousness... or an actual black void itself," added DeBois. "How do you feel?"

"A bit confused and disoriented," answered Bitterman. "I don't feel any unusual pain or nausea, how about you? I'm going to attempt to stand and check my balance."

"All right, but let's proceed with caution and use a sturdy object for support," advised Jean-Luc, then both dropped down on all fours and crawled to a table for their test.

All went well and they moved normally about the underground facility seeking clues or evidence of the two missing men. "Everything seems to be same as when we arrived," voiced Max. He then glanced toward the elevator and noted, "Oh, wait. There's the papers they were carrying lying on the floor. They must have been in a hurry to get away from us. Should we pursue?" A slight pause followed then, "Of course we should pursue; this is the reason for our jump here."

"I'm not so sure," challenged DeBois. "If we find them will it trigger another reaction?"

"I have no idea," returned Max. "Perhaps the incident we had more or less discharged the Physics incompatibilities which obviously came to the fore. We could take precautions by maintaining greater separation from them by using a buffer such as the telephone or be located in separate rooms. We only require to be heard in order to explain the consequences of their actions with the other time lines."

"Hum'm, interesting. I wonder why they wouldn't already know of them since they are the future us and have a more expansive access to the past?" pondered Jean-Luc.

"True, learning their reasoning is paramount," agreed Bitterman. "Could we be the ones in error? We should search the house and grounds above us as soon as possible."

"Yes, but with caution, calling out as we advance to avoid another disastrous confrontation," added DeBois.

They hunted with diligence though all structures without finding their future selves. "The barn still contains our automobiles, my BMW and your tin can Peugeot, therefore they didn't drive away and I doubt seriously they ran," assessed Bitterman. "Odd, I haven't discerned any notable upgrades 'round and about the house or grounds during our search. I guess we evolved into old fashion Pluggers as presented in the newspaper comics. As for their whereabouts, I believe there could be unknown forces at play here."

"Maybe they 'jumped' after the floating episode while we were passed out," offered Jean-Luc. "They could have been carrying transponders as we do."

"Of course, the Time Machine!" blurted Max. "Why didn't I think of that first? I'm a tad embarrassed. Especially after the confrontation at the Chesapeake Bay Bridge and their transporting back to the future. However, if they did such again, I can verify it with ease by retrieving the Machine's current history log." They both quickly returned to the subterranean labs where Max inputted the request information codes which thankfully had not changed in the last ten years. "There, done," and both stared intently at its video display which showed nothing had been transported in years. "What?" He rechecked his parameters and request message, then tried again... with the same results.

"Are you certain there hasn't been a format change?" suggested Jean-Luc.

"Yes, see this?' as Max pointed at the screen and its adjacent paper printout. "These show every jump made from the beginning. I remember the older ones and this report concludes with today's date and time stamp, proving they didn't utilize the Machine, there are no gaps in the data."

"Then they must have constructed and used a secret passage or tunnel built to elude capture by the current authorities if necessary," countered DeBois.

"Yes, another valid consideration," agreed Bitterman. "If it had been built in our future we would have no knowledge. However moving beyond this immediate obstacle we may need a second opinion regarding Physics properties... after we have thoroughly searched the premises for a secret escape tunnel."

"Should we explore more avenues here or return to our home in the past to assess its current condition? Was it altered? Or did we effect a successful intervention already?" posed Jean-Luc.

"I believe we should remain and learn of my Machine's and your medical advancements," said Max. "Frankly, I am curious as hell and since we are alone why not do so?" He glanced about the control console and stated, "Knowing myself, I documented everything in chronological order with thoroughness which is why it took so long in some phases of development. I believe you must record your attempts and failures as well as the successes. Thomas Edison said it best: Failures are important, they show us what won't work and what not to do again. Sounds a bit like History itself doesn't it? Except, mankind keeps forgetting what it learned and repeating the same mistakes."

"I concur," chimed DeBois. "But first could we inspect the kitchen and see what the future us are eating? I'm coming down from my adrenalin rush and getting hungry."

"Sounds good to me," as Max patted his stomach. "I'm sure once we begin our discovery research of the last ten years' work we won't stop for quite a while."

The kitchen refrigerator and cupboards' food stocks were basically the same as they had always consumed – a slight disappointment, so they scoffed down what was available and eagerly returned to the labs.

A month later.

Both doctors had found their respective ledgers documenting the work done and the improvements made to their earlier projects, plus the progress made on newer endeavors. Normally, the volume of material to be reviewed and absorbed would be staggering to most but to them it flowed smoothly since in actuality it had been penned by their own hand.

Bitterman determined he had expanded the Time Machine's capabilities and operational speed. The transponder functions were nearly instantaneous and the Machine's range had increased to eight thousand miles – more than half the circumference of the planet due to the improvements in electronic circuitry components, especially the power supplies and distribution. Although Max didn't create these phenomenal additions he was able to integrate them from other sources thereby upgrading the Machine's abilities. He often mused, "Does anyone suspect they too can construct a Time Machine by using parts from electronics and hardware stores?"

DeBois attained his Super Vitamin to strengthen resistance to invading diseases thus producing a longer, better quality of life. He did not find a cure for cancer, but did create medications which could have dramatically bettered the treatment of several diseases including the most prevalent and feared, congestive heart failure. His endeavors became Could have only, because on one particular day he decided to make a radical change in direction then devoted his aspirations and dedication into a totally moralistic course of medicine. After an extensive degree of explanation he convinced Max of the purity of his new intentions and that his current research was in the better interest of mankind... even more important than finding cures for the most pressing diseases. Bitterman was skeptical at first but then favorably persuaded and agreed they (being the future doctors) should 'team-up' again on another mission to save the masses of the world - this time by ending Crime and War.

"Jean-Luc, I've discovered the Time Machine has even more features than I thought possible in addition to its expected upgrades and increased efficiency. One in particular is to the transponder, I shall explain. As you know we have two units and they are identical, not so anymore with the future devices. The newer versions each have their own identity chip so it can be located and retrieved without requiring an on-site synch-up which sends a request for an extraction back to the Machine." DeBois raised his eyebrows in interest. "What a wonderful feature," gushed Max. "This will enable us to find our future selves no matter where they are geographically located or even within a different time period." He happily strode to the control console and began inputting the commands to search for the now designated T1 transponder. "There," as he finished then stood by for a reply. "Once we have their locations we'll set up a secure perimeter around the Machine's transporter platform to insulate us from another Physics' incompatibility reaction. I'm confident after we have explained our findings and reasoning, and they theirs, we'll be able to return safely to own our time period and the Plague crisis will have been averted." However, to his distress, "Oh, no, not again..." as his voice trailed off in disappointment. He then quickly initiated a second search, this time for T2 and received the same message.

"Could the devices be turned off, similar to a cell phone?" questioned Jean-Luc.

"No, The Machine should still be able to detect the chip, it has its own power supply. It has been designed to be tracked even under the severest conditions in order to retrieve the carrying traveler, us. The Machine's message didn't say they couldn't be located or retrieved, it stated the transponders didn't exist. Quite the difference." He thought for a moment then, "A cloaking application? Maybe. If so, that would lead me to expect a, 'Can not be found' message instead. Either way this is a dead end."

"You mentioned desiring another opinion regarding the Physics aspects," posed DeBois. "Are you referring to our old friend Herr Einstein? I thought we were to leave him alone."

"True, that was our intention," returned Bitterman. "But the stakes have become too high. We can't have people disappearing when we make a jump. It could happen - many times, and with greater consequences. Let's transport back and visit the Professor. I think he'll be glad to see us."

October 1944, The Institute for Advanced Study

'Knock, knock', on his opened door frame. "Hello, Professor, we have returned again. May we please have a few minutes of your time?"

Albert Einstein glanced up from his desk and broke into an ear to ear grin through his bushy mustache. "Gentlemen, what a wonderful surprise! Please come in, come in." He rose and moved as quickly as he could to greet them; he was a little slower today, his arthritis had flared up in his knees. Albert shook their hands vigorously, offered a seat then returned to his own and broke out his pipe to celebrate. "Doctor DeBois, Doctor Bitterman it doesn't seem that long since your last visit and my 'jump' as you call it, to your wondrous abode containing so many fantastic creations. Has it been two months, three?"

"Ah well, actually it's been several years in our time," answered a smiling Max. "But then again, we can pick and choose where and when we want to be thanks to the Time Machine."

"You are correct, sir. In fact we hadn't planned on returning at all," added Jean-Luc. "We figured we had burdened you with our project and stolen too much of your valuable time."

"Nonsense gentlemen, nothing could be further from the truth. The pleasure of the venture was all mine... especially since you were able to attain a successful time line correction."

Max and Jean-Luc looked at each other in surprise. "How did you know the correction was successful? We haven't told you of its outcome. Or have we? Did we visit you any other time?" They were trying to determine if their two future selves had met with him also.

"No you haven't. The last time I saw you was when we all jumped back here from your laboratories." Albert smiled and added, "As for this visit, I'm really a pretty good judge of character and have a lot of confidence in you. Not to mention you're demeanor and stress levels appear to be a lot better than when you explained your first problem. I assume a new wrinkle has popped up and you returned for another opinion. I hope you know I'm always happy to help out."

"Why thank you, kind sir," responded Bitterman. "You are right on point as usual and because of your assistance we were most fortunate in restoring World war Two's outcome." A pause in the discussion ensued, the Professor never pressed for nonstop dialogue – thoughtful considerations were far more important than senseless tongue wagging.

"Well, monsieur, we've been quite busy. It appears there have been multiple people who came to the fore since that intervention who took actions which proved to be extremely detrimental to the welfare of mankind," informed DeBois without making reference to themselves. "We had an unexpected Physics type incidence when trying to challenge two perpetrators which we believed caused a worldwide plague."

"A plague deliberately created by fellow human beings?" questioned the Professor as he grimaced. "Sounds like Germ Warfare being employed... something I fear even more than nuclear weapons. Germ Warfare is a slow, agonizing death."

Both doctors agreed then continued with their account, relaying the details of the jump into their own future labs and confronting themselves. "And when we awoke they were gone and we haven't been able to locate them even by utilizing the Time Machine's expansive search features."

"Hum'm, interesting," grunted Einstein with a concerned countenance. "But first, let me clarify an alarming item which you just disclosed before we proceed to the Physics reaction. You, your future selves caused the devastating plague?"

"Yes, it appears so," answered DeBois with his head bent low in shame and remorse.

"Yes," echoed Bitterman. "We didn't know who we were chasing at the onset and when it became apparent it was ourselves we were shocked to the core. We felt then and still do that if we could confront them and explain the disastrous consequences they would voluntarily desist. Even though they somehow escaped, we believe our last jump and the abrupt meeting interrupted the plague's development. To be honest, we haven't absolutely determined with corroborating evidence such results but even so we are one hundred percent confident in our hearts the disaster has been averted. We shall follow up when we return home."

"Herr Professor," addressed Jean-Luc, "please rest assured the crisis has been eliminated. We are here now to seek your opinion of our floating toward ourselves, the strange lights and the ensuing darkness. Do you have any ideas regarding these phenomena?"

"Yes, I do. I have contemplated that scenario many times when theorizing the intricacies of time travel. I made a folder, it's in my desk here, regarding the subject and have presented several seminars as you know which weren't well received. However, I never spoke or penned my theories regarding what could occur if two of the same entities became present in a given point of space and time. There were too many variables and it would probably sound like rubbish. Thanks to your renditions, I now know its true consequence but shall continue to refrain from having it published or discussing it with others, excluding yourselves of course. The reaction you experienced was generated by another axiom within the expansive Theory of Relativity." He drew another puff then, "Let me put it to you in the simplest way. But first may I inquire, do either of you possess new memories? Knowledge or details which feel strange, out of place, as if you haven't lived or learned them?" The two visitors thought for a moment then responded in the negative – nothing obvious. "Good, we are on the correct path. Therefore, in my conclusion it was Mother Nature scrutinizing two identical entities on a molecular level. Simply put, the best specimen of the duplicates was allowed to remain. She wouldn't permit a double to exist in the same place and time so She examined each of you and allowed the two strongest, fittest, healthiest and so on, to occupy that unique point in time within her Universe. You'll never find your future selves. The losers were rejected and ceased to exist. In actuality, you took their place. Congratulations my friends, you are the winners. The sole survivors!"

The doctors sat silent, appraising the esteemed physicist's hypothesis. "Oh," said Max. "I guess that makes sense, considering..." Jean–Luc remained mute, this field was not one within his expertise.

"Are there any questions or challenges regarding my evaluation, gentlemen? If not at the present then whenever you desire further discussion I am at your disposal." Albert smirked, "After all, time is under your control, I'm always happily available." He waited and received none then continued, "Good, you appear to have everything in order. So, Max how is your computer/machine, Destiny? Were there any notable improvements within the last ten years of your own time line?"

"Yes, quite a few but I still have a substantial amount of research to review," he then relayed to his ardent listener some of its newest features he had discovered.

"Amazing," commented Einstein. "And how about your research, Jean-Luc?" who answered he hadn't placed as much time in deciphering his own ledgers, he was concentrating all his efforts on chemically stopping the Plague. "Of course. Now that it has been eradicated I hope you'll both proceed to your new future lodgings and glean the rewards which you each created and continue working without the burden of trying to save mankind from itself, again." They laughed then made small talk for a while and afterwards the two doctors effected a flashing disappearance in their customary manner. All felt certain this was truly their final meeting.

Max and Jean-Luc arrived back in their future labs and began in earnest to study their elder selve's documentation for the last ten years. With diagrams, specifications, manuals, formulas, daily logs and all manner of recorded information they began where they had left off before their last jump into the future. Not only were they learning about their own creations, they wanted to determine if they had made the unexplained interventions in the American Civil War, World War Two and most importantly the reasoning behind the Plague.

"First, let's verify the Plague has actually been eradicated or better yet, that it never occurred," began Bitterman. "It should be quite evident without requiring armed expeditions."

"I noticed our property has been maintained well," reported DeBois. "That's a good sign."

"Yes it is," agreed Max. "And I saw during our onsite manhunt we again have a television in the Study with an accompanying Internet terminal and a two more stations down here in our respective lab offices. I assume all are operational. I don't recall seeing a newspaper did you?" Jean-Luc shook his head, 'no'. Max turned on the Internet terminal and found the usual assortment of presentations and advertising. "Seems normal. Let's check the tv above us, especially the news channels." They did and listened to a barrage of disturbing reports on military buildups, maneuvers and incursions all around the world.

"Oh my," fretted Jean-Luc. "No Plague now so we're back to killing ourselves in the traditional methods? Sometimes I wonder about mankind's compulsion to destroy itself."

"Perhaps you're leaping to an erroneous conclusion," countered Bitterman. "This is our first look at the news in quite some time... ten years? You know how the broadcast companies love to embellish and exaggerate their material. The more shocking the presentation, the more viewers they gain. I'd wager ninety percent of their so-called investigative reporting is speculation and the beating of war drums, all for financial gain. Surely, today's world's leaders have learned the hard way by now to draw the line and not repeat prior World War mistakes. These current border transgressions and sabre rattling are all for show and the respective governments marking their territory. There will be a lot of huffing and puffing but eventually they'll all withdraw to their rightful boundaries after an endless stream of summits and walkouts. The game has changed Jean-Luc, there are too many nuclear-armed players now. In spite of all the threats and fanfare, no one could risk a global nuclear war"

"I hope you are correct, sir," conceded DeBois.

"Let's return to our investigation, we'll keep tabs on this situation later," offered Max. "I'm sure there's no need to stay glued to the tv for days on end. Talk about scaring the masses, remember yesteryear's Stock Market crashes? The Money Maker brokers created false crisis's to make people sell, then scooped up the goodies cheap. Most assuredly it's now about arms dealers rocking the boat and always about profits." Regretfully, the doctor's assessments were somewhat in error.

The President's Cabinet, Advisors and various departmental Directors were assembled in the subterranean Situation Room under the White House. He questioned the Secretary of the Navy, "What is the status in the South China Sea and the Pacific?"

"A Chinese fleet has encircled Taiwan and Okinawa which in turn has blocked passage to Japan and Australia. A Russian fleet has established a cordon around Japan itself and a joint convey of over a hundred warships are en route across the Pacific heading toward Hawaii and the North American coastline. We assume they will attempt to capture the Hawaiian Islands and create a barrier against U.S. ships responding from the east. This battle group is also reinforced by at least twenty submarines of various types including nuclear. We are forming our own defensive perimeter but may have to withdraw if an attack appears eminent in order to defend the U.S. and Canadian coastlines."

"We will not abandon Hawaii, sir," rebutted the President. He next addressed the Secretary of the Air Force. "And what is your response to this insurgence?"

"Barring the use of atomic weapons, we would be in jeopardy using conventional tactics and arms to prevent them from firing on American soil. The Secretary of the Navy has advised me their joint Task Force contains more than ten aircraft carriers with guided missile cruiser support."

"General, what is the situation in Europe and the Middle East?"

"The Russian Navy has poured down from the Black Sea and taken position in the eastern Mediterranean Sea blocking access to Israel. Turkey has been stymied by a massive Russian troop buildup on their northern border and the Russian Navy to the West. All the Arabic countries have united in forming a multinational force and are advancing toward the Southeast edge of the Mediterranean Sea. India is in a state of confusion and appears to be more concerned about defending its own territory than becoming involved in global military movements."

Both India and Pakistan have atomic weapons," stated the Secretary of State, and Pakistan has sided with the Arab Block. They will not actually provide their new allies with their nuclear weapons but will direct them on agreed upon targets."

"And England?"

"Russia's Northern Fleet has surrounded the British Isles and blocked the west entrance to the Med," answered the Sec/Nav.

He next addressed the Secretaries of Defense and State. "We are outnumbered and outgunned in every category except for nuclear capability. Would either of you gentlemen venture to explain to me why the hell this is happening! Surely they know we possess enough atomic weapons to totally annihilate all of their countries ten times over. No one possesses a missile shield adequate enough to completely protect themselves, not even us.

"Russia and China disagree, sir. They actually believe their shields which utilize satellite lasers, can destroy or deflect a satisfactory percentage of incoming bogeys," advised the Secretary of Defense. "And they don't believe we would initiate a nuclear first strike."

"They are in error," blustered the President. "Didn't they learn anything after Hiroshima and Nagasaki? If not, then they are disillusioned fools or worse, demented fatalists. They're risking turning the planet into a slag pile of radiation. Even countries which don't receive direct hits will still be transformed into desolate wastelands. In less than a year not a single soul will be left alive, mankind will have taken the path of the dinosaurs." He received only downcast eyes. "Anyone care to reply?" he shouted. "You are my advisors. Start advising!"

After a few stony silence moments the N.S.A. Director softly said, "Mister President, may I offer my views?"

"Hell yes. Help me out here. Either no one here knows squat or they're afraid to speak up. Apparently I have been misguided in selecting this cabinet. I want well founded opinions backed by facts not a bunch of empty suits occupying these chairs."

The N.S.A. Director, a God and Country man but especially the God part timidly began. "As you know my branch receives data worldwide from thousands of sources. This information is broken down into categories by their perceived order of importance, essentially the threat level to our citizens. There is one collection of data we call the Slush Pile. There are no long term or immediate threats contained in it which directly refer to people forming or supporting established terrorist groups. This collection pertains to their state of mind, opinions, derogatory comments, speeches of dislike – without inciting others to take hostile action against the U.S. or our allies. We have noticed over the last two years an exponential increase in anti-Semantic chatter. It has occurred without a clear source of origination. It's similar to a mouth to mouth rumor which morph's into a version completely contrary to the original version."

"Another underground Muslim jihad sect venting against the Jewish Nationals?"

"Not really, it's coming from everywhere like a political groundswell. I can only equate it to the Nazi movement in the nineteen thirties."

"We should be able to amend those misconceptions and distortions by using mass media," asserted the President.

"No one believes or puts faith in what we present to the public anymore," interjected the Secretary of State.

"It appears the masses of the world want to believe these harmful distortions," continued the N.S.A. Director. "Anti-Semitism has been around for thousands of years. Many Biblical scholars profess it began when Abraham wrongfully banished Hagar and her son, Ishmael from the Jewish community and sent them into the now Arabic territories. All through the Bible the Israeli's and Arabs have been at war. Ask any Muslim about their family tree and they'll swear, "Our father is Abraham", and even though they have a common Jewish heritage nearly a hundred percent hate the Zionists so much they want to wipe them off the face of the Earth."

"And now the whole world is getting their dander up for transgressions made thousands of years ago?" marveled the American Commander in Chief.

"In my opinion, apparently so," asserted his N.S.A. Director. "They've had enough and want the principles to duke it out. The non-Arabic factions who appear to be supporting them by displaying their military muscle are not trying to provoke World War Three. They are trying to provide a war theater to resolve this age old conflict without interference from the West and its European allies."

"Yes," agreed the C.I.A. Director. "However, our foreign and domestic data indicates they are silently rooting for the Arabs to win, to destroy Israel. Every civilization since recorded history who has declared themselves to be The Chosen People of God therefore superior to all others, has been eliminated by their ideological enemies."

"I can not believe the Chinese would throw their hat into this situation," said the President. "They are so far removed from that region and have so many internal conflicts of their own."

"They are looking long-term and would have immeasurable gains within reach," informed the Secretary of State. "Once Israel has been eliminated and the U.S.'s support nullified they would be able to take control of the entire Middle East with the blessings of the Muslim communities craving their financial and military support. Fifty percent of the World would be under the control of Russia and China. South America and Malaysia would be left begging for crumbs. Eventually, due to economic deterioration Western Europe's stability and strength would evaporate and standby idle as the two new Titans form a vice around the North American continent."

"I assure you a whole lot of those 'other' governments are making a huge mistake of unthinkable magnitude," asserted the President. "First and foremost, Israel will never surrender or be conquered, they will fight to the death. Their culture is ingrained within the hundreds of years of bondage and slavery. Have their avowed enemies forgotten they possess the fourth largest nuclear arsenal in the world? If they are put in a position of imminent defeat or destruction they will not hesitate to unleash it."

"The Muslim constituents believe that by directing Pakistani low-yield, nuclear warheads and Russia's mobile rocket mounted neutron bombs they can obtain a decisive first strike before the Jews could retaliate then let the Arabic forces move in with overwhelming ground troops. They plan to contain any remaining Israeli air power with their own multinational air wings and antiaircraft weapons," informed the C.I.A. Chief.

"And they expect us to do nothing?" queried the President.

"Yes," agreed most of the Cabinet.

"Why should the West want to engage in a no holds barred atomic World War Three which could theoretically turn the planet into a uninhabitable red dust ball in the name of a four thousand year old religious spat?" challenged the N.S.A. Director. "They believe the West and its allies will not intervene. I mean really, who wants four billion people to die, including themselves to save a small country of despised Jewish nationals?"

"That's rather coarse," countered the President. "We have our treaties and obligations."

"And, we have backed away from those type commitments before, Mister President," reminded the Secretary of State. "The protection of our citizens on American soil is our Top priority."

"I agree with the Secretary's assessment," added the Director of Homeland Security. "The rest of the planet has had enough of our being the world's policeman. We have gained very little in a positive sense in doing so and a whole lot of resentment and downright hatred. In the last five years we have received more anti-American demonstrations against our embassies than all other countries combined. The people of the world want us to Butt Out."

A long, uncomfortable silence ensued then the President said, "I'm not entirely up on my Biblical stories or testament books as I should be and certainly not in the same league as the N.S.A. Director, but this sure reminds me of a prophecy in Revelations depicting Armageddon. As I recall the Chosen People were surrounded and attacked by the combined forces of the kings of the world and it got pretty messy. Let's see if we can avert that nasty outcome. General, (Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff) raise our military readiness to DEFCON One. We'll throw our hat in the ring and see if we can make them back down."

The two doctors had reviewed and absorbed all their accomplishments during the last ten years and were in the Study again, this time to discuss their findings regarding the 'why' of the events they apparently incurred.

"The American Revolution against England was obvious," stated Max. "George Washington had to survive in order for the American Colonies to gain their independence."

"I agree," said Jean-Luc. "Besides, I really detest English culinary. They have no imagination, it's all meat and potatoes... and blood. We French are so much more refined and gifted in the art. Why in my home country a saucier is considered to be on the same level as an artist."

"Yes, but let's press beyond your sensitive assessment of food preparation. Meaning, I now strongly suspect Herr Vondergurt who introduced the futuristic monoculars into the American Civil War did so for a much greater reason than we thought. That is, he was trying to save hundreds of thousands on both sides while retaining the two different cultures. Slavery was on its way out all over the world and there was a chance it could have ended in the two opposing America's without they're firing another shot. There would have been four independent, amiable countries on the North American continent instead of the current three."

"Perhaps it was fortunate you didn't encounter the elusive Herr Vondergurt in person," posed Jean-Luc. "He was Prussian? What if that was the cover story being utilized by your future self and you met face to face? Remember the consequences when we met ourselves? You and I could have been trapped in two different time periods and wouldn't have had the intellect of Einstein to help us understand what had transpired. We didn't think to visit him until later when trying to solve why Germany won the Second World War. What a catastrophe that would have been. We may have still been spinning our wheels and going nowhere as the Yanks say."

"Speaking of the Second World War, I found notes in my records which refer to a shadowy figure who secretly gave the German High Command the necessary formulas and steps required to create nuclear fission. The purpose was so they could build nuclear power plants for electricity and reduce the hardship of their struggling economy. In the early 1930's Germany was one of the poorest countries in Europe which was the primary underlying factor of Hitler's rise to power. Had they not been in such dire straits the madman probably would have never been able to take control. Unfortunately, and unknown to the provider of the formulas the German War Machine was already established and took this peaceful gift and changed it into a weapon of mass destruction. Care to guess the individual's name?" He waited, none came forth from his associate. "Herr Vondergurt."

"My word!" blurted DeBois. "It can't be his descendant, therefore he must have been one in the same... a time traveler."

"Indeed, you are most assuredly correct," echoed Bitterman. "This leaves us with our last intervention, the Plague in which we not only became involved but seemingly perpetrated the horror."

"I believe I have the answer to that question," returned Jean-Luc. He paused to collect himself. Suddenly he broke into tears and sobbed," It was my fault, I caused it. You, my friend merely followed my lead but it was I who was in error and created the epidemic." He covered his face and cried. Max bolted up and rushed to his colleague. "Do no harm," DeBois moaned. "Do no harm. I let my expectations and desires to cloud my cautions to protect my patients, in this case all of mankind."

"What are you talking about, I don't understand, please explain... after all I must have consented to be a willing participant."

"Oui, of course. As you recall after our World War Two intervention all had appeared to have returned to our expectations and peace resumed after the conflict. So, I decided to delve into the famous, 'Cure for Cancer' parade as so many others had done," explained Jean-Luc. "I hadn't progressed very far when I realized it would take years, possibly decades to catch up with the previous efforts of hundreds of other researchers. My mind began to wonder, Why was there so much strife, what was the basis for the bad will toward our fellow man and the source of the constant fighting on so many levels. Well, to make a long dissertation short I deduced it was based on racism, discrimination and all the related factors and their consequences. Then as if from out of the blue the solution fell on me. What if everyone was the same color! No racism, no discrimination. It seemed like such a simple answer."

Bitterman interjected, "It sounds as if you awoke from a dream, an impossible dream."

"Yes, it does but what if it were real?" countered DeBois. "What if I could make it happen? No, it wouldn't end all prejudices and conflicts but eliminating ninety percent could prevent a hundred percent of war!"

"People will always discriminate," argued Max. "Even if it's blue eyes versus brown, black hair versus blond, etcetera."

"Agreed on those minor points, monsieur... but to put the end to WAR?"

"I assume you had concluded it was possible to attain such feat?" asked Max. "On what basis, what foundation?"

"Ah, oui, ze foundation," and smiled. "Remember when I was developing my potion which you used during your foray into the American Revolution?" Max nodded, yes. "It effectively enabled you to camouflage yourself by changing colors to match your surroundings. No easy feat on a genetic level, trust me. In fact if other animals such as lizards didn't already have the ability I couldn't have found the solution. During one of my numerous experiments I accidently created a concoction which made a piglet change entirely into a light beige coloring with no ill effects. In fact we ate him a few weeks later." Max gasped. "Sorry my friend, I knew he was all right and I know how much you Germans love your pork."

Bitterman chuckled, "I remember that meal, it was sumptuous. I even recall thinking Jean-Luc has added a new spice. You French are always testing your creative juices."

"Oui. Continuing, I had my notes of course and tried many other chemical trials. When the future me felt he had developed several concoctions of merit he came to you and discussed my idea and the possibilities. I showed you other satisfactory test subjects and convinced you all humans would also attain the light beige coloring similar to tropical islanders and South Americans. It would change all races into one universal color and was activated by any water supply. We settled on one product of which I swore would be safe then proceeded together in its distribution. It was to achieve an individual's transformation in less than a month, but it didn't. Instead it took three to four times longer. We didn't wait to see the final results and continued distribution... and you know the rest."

DeBois stared at the floor in deep grief. Max grabbed both his shoulders and squeezed gently. "But we stopped it. We eliminated the Plague before it existed. All is well. You and I are the Time Doctors. We fix everything, even our own mistakes."

Two days later the doctors reviewed the news on the tv, it had worsen. Worldwide, citizens were streaming away from their large cities and the small towns which normally flourished adjacent to military bases had become abandoned – they were fleeing from what they perceived would be targets. Refugee camps were being established in dozens of second and third world countries. The two Korea's were the first to exchange artillery volleys with each other, closely followed by India and Pakistan. The planet's Super Powers had halted their routine testing of the other side's air defense response times, instead they were concentrating on readying their ICBM's, long-range bombers and missile defense shields.

"This appears quite serious," commented Bitterman "and I don't see any way for us to step in to prevent it from continuing, much less reversing it. Do you have any suggestions?"

"None, but I do have an idea to determine the severity of this war theatre they are building," answered DeBois. "We have always jumped into the past to gather data or take corrective action. What if we transport into the future to ascertain this situation's outcome? Perhaps that will give us an idea whether or not we need to attempt an intervention."

"Splendid reasoning, Jean-Luc. Why not? We can move forward in time just as well as backward... I think. Hum'm, and yet this is still a new application. I believe we should approach this in the same manner as we did for our earliest tests runs. Meaning, we should utilize test objects or recording equipment rather than initially exposing ourselves to possible injury. We need to learn the conditions of which we will be jumping into. Traveling into the past we knew the environment we were to enter. Not so for this application. I'll select a few different types of test objects for the preliminary jumps and for the last one could you provide a suitable living subject?"

"Oui, of course."

"I suggest we begin as soon as possible. What we are observing on the tv is quite disturbing. Oh, and one more thing. Please don't provide one of your strange flavored pigs which I may be eating later."

An hour hence...

They had each gathered their 'materials' and were poised at the Time Machine's control console. "I'll program it for one year into the future, leave my test objects there for ten minutes then retrieve them." He had selected a flower, an egg and a glass of water. Max typed in the commands. There was the usual brilliant burst of white light. They waited then Bitterman inputted the retrieval commands. A message printed: 'Objects not found'. "That's odd, did someone move them? I'll initiate a second test. This time I'll send a transponder, it has a tracking chip and the Machine will locate and retrieve it no matter where it is." Same response.

"Sacre bleu," muttered DeBois. "We can't afford to lose many of those instruments."

"This is illogical. I'll send a piece of fruit a thousand miles away." Same results.

"What if you change the time frame to six months and choose a different location," suggested Jean-Luc. They sent it two thousand miles westward and received the same message.

"This must be an operating system trouble," declared Max. "I'm going back to the absolute basics," and was successful in maneuvering a book inside their own complex within a week into the future. "All right, this proves the equipment is functioning properly." then resumed sending objects all over the world in different time frames. Finally, they were able to retrieve a bowling bowl from five thousand miles south, three months into the future using a ten second duration. After the retrieval flash they found themselves staring at blacken, melted glob which emitted an eerie glow. "Radiation!" yelled Bitterman. "Get down behind the console!" then activated 'resend' and sent it back to where it came from. Both men paled and left the lab to get some fresh air.

The two men proceeded outside to the gazebo where they had sipped mint julips during relaxing mental recovery periods from some of their past escapades which felt as if hundreds of years had since passed by. "Radiation, Max?" asked DeBois. "Are you sure? If so, I wonder how strong is the residual danger. Do you think the bowling ball was expelled fast enough and our labs are safe to return to?"

"I believe so... hope so," answered Bitterman. "I'll don a protective suit and test the RADs to be sure. Assuming its safe we'll still have to construct a shielded box on the Machine's platform for future probes. I can make two of its sides transparent to enable viewing its contents. If it's readily apparent it's dangerous I can send it away before we're exposed."

"Won't we lose the container itself as you did the transponder?" queried Jean-Luc.

"No, I can tighten the Machine's focal point to transport only the inside volume of the box," answered Max. "However, I believe it would be prudent to build additional protection. We should construct a shield between the transporter platform and the control console. We are obviously dealing with extremely volatile materials. There no replacements for us, everything's on our delicate human shoulders."

Max was correct. His test instruments determined the labs were still safe enough due to his quick handing of the melted bowling ball and proceeded to build additional safeguards. Soon they were ready to send a bevy of objects into the future at different time frames, directions – up to halfway around the planet using short durations to ascertain the When – not the Why, and the scope of what appeared to be a deadly global catastrophe.

In the foothills of Kopparberg, Sweden located two hundred miles northwest of Stockholm stood a giant silver rocket constructed secretly by private enterprise, humanitarian tycoons. It was five hundred feet tall and had the carrying capacity equal to a fifty car freight train. The craft was located seven hundred feet underground in a one hundred acre complex inside a two thousand acre swatch of wilderness which could not be detected from the air. The mysterious vessel was not a military weapon. It had been designed and built over a six year span to carry three hundred carefully selected volunteers of all nationalities - men, women and children, across the gap which separated their Earth from its larger, identical blue twin orbiting third from the sun. Three quarters of the crew and passengers were adult specialists and all the children were intellectually exceptional. This vanguard of pioneers was formed to insure the human race's survival if it became absolutely certain they were on a path of eminent destruction. The name of the starship was, New Beginning. It was to serve as the modern Ark, the hope of mankind. The journey would take a full year and for the last week the ground crew and its occupants had been storing fresh supplies and a few personal effects. Lift off was scheduled for tomorrow morning and it was a one way trip. It would not be possible for at least ten thousand years for their new civilization to develop the technology to facilitate a return. Even then, a return to what?

10:00 p.m.

"Captain, the ship's crew and voyagers are onboard and in their quarters," reported his Executive Officer, the second in command.

"Good, secure all hatches and sound the sleeping bells." He waited a few moments then took the microphone, "Greetings, my family and friends. As you know tomorrow we begin our journey to a new, yet somewhat familiar world. A planet geographically identical to this one except a little larger. It is an unspoiled wilderness with oceans, mountains, fresh water lakes and infinite forests. There has been no visible detection of human civilization by our telescopes or probes but there should be similar life forms such as animal, aquatic, aviary and probably those pesky insects due to the planet's ecological composition and atmosphere. We will be the Pioneers, the survivors of this world and the builders of a new one... in a lasting peace. I feel blessed to be a traveler with you and when we arrive I will no longer be the Captain but a proud fellow worker by your side. Tomorrow will be an exciting day. Try to get some rest," then chuckled, "as if anyone could. Good night, my friends."

The following morning...

"All systems are Go," reported the Chief Engineer aboard the craft. "Mission Control (located 2 km. away) has given the Green Light. The weather is clear and calm. Radar reports no aircraft within a hundred kilometers (62 mi.)." The two hundred foot circular camouflaged canopy above slowly parted in half and drew back to reveal the front of the spaceship pointing toward a cobalt blue sky. A siren wailed as a warning for all ground personnel to clear the area. A loudspeaker barked, 'Lift off in T minus five minutes.' Dedicated men and women monitored the Mission Control consoles for system operations and outside security. All aboard were tense with excitement even though they had made dozens of similar test simulations before. This was the real deal and it reverberated into the fiber of their very being. 'T minus one minute!' All were as stone, only their anxious eyes darted about, waiting. 'Ten, nine... one. Fire!' The sharp 'Crack' of the Startup engines ignited the first booster stage rockets which kicked in with a deafening roar. The craft rose in a perfect straight line of surreal, deliberate, unstoppable force. Slightly faster and faster, it was unbelievable anything so mammoth could pull away from Mother Earth. Upward it rose, the noise diminishing ever so slightly. Every soul on the ground frantically waved and called their send-offs: Goodbye, Good luck, God speed! A thousand feet... two... four... one mile.

Vorkuta, Russia, the National Defense Missile Base at the foot of the Ural Mountains

"Missile launch!" yelled the Aero Tracking sergeant. The Russian military had been on Full Alert as was most of the world for the last three days and they were on edge. "I have a ICBM launch on my screen!"

"Where! Where is the origination point?" demanded his commanding officer, a Major.

"Sweden, sir. Three hundred kilometers Northwest of Stockholm."

"I have no knowledge of a N.A.T.O. military base in that vicinity. It must be a secret, underground facility," stated the Major. "Missile Defense sergeant, track and lock on LS004 (laser satellite) on the Swedish target. Advise when the weapon is ready."

Twenty seconds later, "Locked on, sir and the pipe is 'hot'."

"Men, the war has now begun with this cowardly sneak attack from an unknown enemy base. I'm sure we will detect many more missiles shortly. Be strong comrades, we have been trained for just this occasion. We defend Mother Russia!"

"Mother Russia!" they chorused.

"Missile Defense hold fire until my command. Aero Tracking, notify me immediately when the bogey has begun its arc and targeting direction. Our laser can strike a horizontal target ninety percent better than a vertical one." Standing by... one... two minutes. "Aero-Tech! What is its present height?"

"Nine kilometers (5.5 mi) and rising, sir!"

"Still rising? Surely it must arc soon. What could be the target? It would have to be halfway around the world," assessed the officer. "Beyond Russia?" then rushed to the sergeant's station. "Could it possibly be a moon shot instead of an I.C.B.M.? At a time like this? That would be insanity! We are on the brink of war and some idiot politicians are playing worthless space exploration games again? I must contact Moscow for further instructions." He did and quickly learned they knew nothing, as usual. The Swedish rocket kept rising faster, the Earth's gravitational pull had lessened. "The missile's guidance system must be defective. It's headed into space, it won't be able to return or effect an attack." Two more minutes passed. "It has gone past the point of no return, it's no longer a threat. Stand down, my comrades. Obviously, the stupid N.A.T.O. engineers don't know anything about rocket guidance systems," and the technicians joined in his ridicule and laughter.

Back in their labs the scientist/doctors have sent ninety-two objects within different and distinct time frames to various land locations all over the globe. They were able to retrieve eighteen which ranged in 'no damage' to varying degrees of degradation. "It appears that in a short three months the nations of the world who have nuclear weapons will unleash their arsenals without discrimination," asserted Bitterman.

"Three months?' repeated DeBois. "This may sound odd, but why did they wait so long? According to the News channels, all have their finger on the proverbial button right now and each wants to have the first strike advantage."

"They're posturing to save face," answered Max the ex-soldier. "They know they will have to answer for their actions later, even if they 'win'. Each will begin probing the other's defenses shortly in earnest using hot munitions then attempt to invade and seize control of weak or unprotected territories. They'll hold off making massive attacks on fortified installations and key cities. They'll be feeling out and seeing what they can acquire with without a major confrontation. Eventually one side will draw the line and say 'Enough' because they either feel truly threatened or have lost too much already. Then they will then push the button and generate an unstoppable Domino Effect."

"Sacre bleu! How can we alter this path of destruction?" anguished DeBois.

Bitterman sighed, "We can't stop it as far as I can determine. There are too many variables and not enough time."

"But don't we have all the time in the world at our fingertips?" challenged DeBois.

"Not anymore," returned Max. "If we jump backward we will be confronted by our future selves again and the melding outcome of us and them could change. And, if instead we go forward... well, you see what's waiting for us."

"Then there's nothing we can do?" fretted Jean-Luc. "What about Herr Einstein? Do you think he could help?"

"Not really, I see no reason to burden our friend with the knowledge the World is on the eve of destruction. He can't help us and it would haunt and depress him for the rest of his days. It would be so unfair to such a great humanitarian. Besides, being who he is, he probably predicted this to himself long ago. Did you ever notice the sadness in the man's eyes during his latter years? He didn't need us to tell him the atom bomb was the actual evil released from Pandora's Box."

"I can't believe after all our tribulations we are now helpless," sighed DeBois. "We have the greatest invention of mankind and our hands are tied? Now I must question: Was it all worth it? I am confused and saddened. Tomorrow I shall most likely slip into a state of depression."

"Please don't go that far my friend. I have given our present circumstances consideration and have a couple of proposals to discuss with you," offered Max.

"Proposals? Please do. I am eager to renew my faith in ourselves." Bitterman began and the Frenchman's eyes grew wider and wider.

"First we must collect specific minerals," announced Max. "That will be your department. You are the chemist and must devise the necessary formula for our needs. I will modify and expand the Machine's capabilities to create the final product according to your specifications. If these processes become lengthy, we can obtain a little extra time by jumping back to the day after the confrontation with ourselves. I believe I can have Destiny ready within two months and calculate we require an additional month to convert our raw materials into the finished product."

"You obviously have given this extensive thought in a very short time," marveled DeBois. "Of course I am completely with you in this new endeavor. However, I must confess I am a bit saddened by its finality but fully agree on its merit."

"Thank you my friend. Then shall we proceed? We may not be able to save the world from itself but perhaps we can help civilizations – human or otherwise in the distant future."

The next two months raced by, the two men on what they believed to be their last mission toiled eighteen hours a day toward their individual objectives. They no longer monitored the news channels, they didn't need to view the steps leading to when the button was pushed. Finally, they stood together in the reconfigured laboratories between the Time Machine's original platform and Destiny's new three-meter square, heat shielded, non-transporting platform. Max had changed the construction from using linear feet measurements to the metric system, saying it would be the standard used in the future. "I have finalized construction and circuitry upgrades," informed Bitterman. "Have you devised a method to blend the elements which I suggested?"

"Oui, monsieur. You were correct in your assessment of the base materials. The base mixture of coal and virgin sand is exactly what we require. I have created a catalyst which when mixed with your refined primary elements will harden and clarify into a perfect glasslike transparency if enough heat is applied within an exact duration. It will become a hundred times harder than a diamond, virtually indestructible. I would like to name it the Forever Stone."

"Excellent, Jean-Luc. Catchy name. I knew I could rely on your alchemy. Sorry, but now I must complicate the process. I hope you can adapt to an additional item and contribute another solution." DeBois gladly with surprise straighten to the new, unexpected request. "Before it hardens and becomes impenetrable, I want to inject a message."

"Indeed, before it becomes a finished product... when extraordinary heat is being applied?" "questioned Jean-Luc. "You want to interrupt the process to do what?"

"I want to send a message to the future occupants of this world, perhaps to many worlds by placing a message inside the cube. Can you help me?"

"Sorry...I don't believe so," answered DeBois. "We are dealing with the unknown, the unproven. There's a considerable chance the lab may explode anyway without adding extra steps." He paused then sighed, "I'm sorry Max, what you are asking is just not possible when you consider the heat factor. If we attempted an operation of that type, no matter how safely, the weapons of mass destruction would surely descend and consume us long before its completion."

"I hope that doesn't come to pass," returned Bitterman. "Pity, I guess I wished for too much. However, I also have another idea to discuss with you. This one you shall find a great deal more cheerful."

"I'm glad to hear that. It seems that at every turn we are faced with unimaginable difficulties. I would really enjoy delving into an easy assignment. But returning to our present project and your desiring to leave a message, may I offer a suggestion please? I propose we make a clear plate of our same materials, inscribe it and place it on the outside during solidification."

"Good idea, Jean-Luc. It merits a try but I'm wary it will be burned off later by consuming radioactive heat." He grinned, "Ah, here we are again, I suspect they'll be another crop of problems to iron out during this project, there always has been. And... with no disrespect for your rejection of my placing the plate inside I'd like to run it by Destiny and get her opinion. After all, I built the Machine to be a computer also. We may as well get her last two cents."

A month later... The Mount Zion National Defense Center inside a mountain stronghold 25 miles southeast of Tel Aviv

"Major, I have multiple launches in my sector!" announced an enlisted Israeli Armed Forces Missile Defense Tracker. "Me too." chorused three others.

"Sector One, report!" barked the shift's commanding officer.

"Jordan and Lebanon, sir! By their trajectory they appear to be short or medium range rockets of ten or more."

"Sector Two!"

"Egypt and Libya, sir. The same type and numbers."

"Sector Three!"

"Iraq and Iran, sir! Iraq's appear to be standard mid to long range tactical rockets, quantity ten to twelve. Iran's total of five are still climbing. They could be nuclear, sir!"

"So much for keeping their nuclear development under observation and control," he muttered to himself. "Section Four!"

"Pakistan and Afghanistan, sir! Afghanistan's ten plus rockets are low level mid to long range tactical and Pakistan's four launches are still climbing also like nukes."

The major received a frantic call from the coordinator of the Israeli border defense forces stating there were dozens of small, short range rockets coming from numerous, shifting locations inside Palestine and the Patriot missile shield could not contain them.

"They're being fired from those damn Russian supplied mobile rocket launchers and our shield is being overloaded. Satellite weapons can't be used on them, they're too small. Besides, we'll need everything we and the Americans have to stop the larger missile threats." He then reasoned to himself, "Those erratic small, mostly ineffective Palestinian rockets are likely a ploy to create chaos and deplete the Patriot's stockpile. They'll also establish groundcover for the enemy's local militia units who would be reinforced later by the Arab's regular army. As for the high level missiles, they would be intended for deeper targets such as Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, our airfields, the two heavy armor bases and of course, this command center. They can't 'kill' our I.C.B.M s before they're being launched because they are deployed in over a dozen underground, hardened sites all over the country. And, not to mention our nuclear submarines bristling with atomic warhead missiles hiding in the seas and on the ocean's floors. Unstoppable retaliatory power." He hit the Com link to all the other Command operations within the mountain fortress - the Army, Air Force, Navy, the National Defense Reserves and reported his sightings. He then sent a fellow officer to each Sector station to assist his Trackers.

"Major, we have identified seven air wings consisting of ten to fifteen aircraft per group headed in our direction," reported a lieutenant. The Air Force had already spotted them and scrambled their interceptors. Although heavily outnumbered they were the newest jets and possessed superior armament and speed. All antiaircraft batteries were being put on Battle Stations alert. Countrywide the Civil Defense sirens were blaring as thousands of citizens ran to underground bunkers, they had been through this drill before.

The Israeli's I.C.B.M's doors were sliding open and the missiles which could lay waste to targets ten thousand miles away were being given their pre-firing checks. In the Air Force Command their first of two laser equipped satellites were being programed to lock on the high altitude enemy missiles but it would fly out of its firing range in five minutes, the second one was half way around the world and it would be twenty minutes more until a U.S. satellite could close the coverage. The enemy had learned of a major gap in the National Jewish Defense system which could have only been provided by Russian Intelligence. For a fifteen full minutes there would be nothing to stop the Arab Block's atomic weapons, more than enough time to annihilate a country merely 42 miles wide and 276 long.

The Army Command had been informed by U.S. Intelligence there were eight armored divisions en route supported by a minimum hundred thousand ground troops.

The Israeli Navy whose surface ships had been boxed in by the Russian fleet had no aircraft carriers and could not provide air support. Their heavy guns and cruise missiles were used primarily for sea warfare but could be utilized if they had spotters for ground targets, of which there were very a few available where they most needed them. The Navy's nuclear subs had risen to launch depth and readied their nukes which could travel a thousand miles. They waited in silence for the command.

The first laser equipped satellite destroyed one quarter of the upper atmosphere incoming missiles before it passed out of range. The ground based Patriot Shield rockets were depleted in ten minutes but ninety-five percent of the Palestinian rockets which got through struck harmlessly into open areas as usual, but even so that particular defense system had been depleted and rendered nonfunctional by the time the heavier caliber Arab short and midrange rockets began entering their air space. Having no satellite protection, the Israeli High Command ordered their Air Force interceptors to ignore the enemy's air wings and climb upward to destroy the higher altitude incoming nuclear missiles. The only method possible was with their guns blazing, firing their air to air heat seeking missiles and trying to initiate a head-on collision which all pilots willingly attempted but resulted in only a few successful strikes due to the incredible speeds. Outnumbered five to one the regular Air Force jets engaged the enemy aggressors before they intruded into Israeli air space and fought well but were destroyed by the upgraded Russian jets which they didn't know existed in the hands of the Arabs.

The Turkish Air Force sent two squadrons at the U.S.'s request but were intercepted and decimated by the Russian Navy's carrier jets located in the Mediterranean Sea off the coast of Israel. Saudi Arabia declined to act. The first wave of Arab Block fighter jets were soon reinforced by undetected and unchallenged Russian and Chinese squadrons coming in low from the northeast.

Elsewhere, North Korean and Chinese artillery batteries began a relentless barrage on the heavily defended South Korea border positions which was supported by thirty thousand U.S. troops. At the same time Chinese warships began firing their big guns on Okinawa and Taiwan military coastal bases and seaports. And thirdly, the Russian Navy commenced shelling the U.S. fleet guarding Hawaii. It was clearly a well-coordinated worldwide attack. Russia fired a single nuke and destroyed Istanbul sending a message to the Turks to stay out of the conflict. But, they had underestimated the Turkish resolve and with it being a member of N.A.T.O, all its Allied countries were forced to respond. The remaining medium and long range tactical missiles began striking Israel's military positions and largest cities. The unabated nukes were close behind. The enemy air squadrons controlled the tiny country's perimeter and waited for the remaining missiles to hit before flying in to locate and destroy remaining antiaircraft batteries and airfields.

The Israeli Prime Minister and his Cabinet realized the Inevitable had come and gave the order to unleash all their Weapons of Mass Destruction. Hundreds of devastating projectiles rose from their silos and hidden nuclear submarines, over five hundred warheads were in the air within two minutes. Russian Trackers detected the mass launching and did the same in retaliation. Each of the N.A.T.O nuclear weaponized countries followed suit. There were literally thousands of atomic laden missiles and hundreds of bombers aloft on a one way suicide mission in retaliation. Within twenty-four hours the beautiful blue planet had become a glowing orange-red ball in space which would smolder with radioactive, poisonous gas for a thousand years.

Aboard the spaceship, New Beginning,

Located one quarter of the way on their journey to the larger twin blue planet, the crew and passengers stood viewing the eerie glowing orange-red ball toward their rear. Sorrow, despair, the retching torment of losing friends and loved ones had shocked all into stunned silence. What possibly could be said to ease the pain? There had been no communication with their home base since the great flash. They were true pioneers now. Having future generations return even in two thousand years was out of the question. Their former home would remain a red star in the Galaxy for eons providing its core didn't explode. Their mission now took on new weight, they were the sole survivors of mankind. Previously saying their home planet was in jeopardy and escaping as a precaution was a whole different ball game after staring aghast at the horrific reality before their eyes. Sometimes it feels very, very bad to be correct. Now there was a new urgency to reach their destination, learn it and establish a sustainable encampment. All working together - the builders and farmers would have the greatest initial impact. Scientists and doctors who could learn to utilize the environment's resources for their continued good health ran a close second. A general laborer would be a highly respected citizen and all would be equal in opinion and stature. Great aspirations indeed. The workable merits of a new civilization lay in the hands of these three hundred anxious and apprehensive souls. Would their new civilization survive and go forward or eventually regress into their prior pitfalls? Are humans destined for extinction, even after witnessing their latter home planet's annihilation? So many questions.

A young child asked, "Mommy, will we be safe in our new home?"

"Yes, of course, Dear. You, your father and I are going to be very happy," she answered with a large reassuring smile.

"Will there be animals there. I love animals."

"Of course, Dear. All kinds of beautiful, friendly animals for you to play with."

The young girl made a happy face which slowly changed into concern as she glazed upon the burning planet out the observation window. Then, "How about monsters, Daddy? Will there be monsters there too?"

"No child. All the monsters have been left behind and were destroyed."

Nine months later they successfully landed and established a colony in the Euphrates River Valley.

The year was 1728 on the big island, Hawaii

The two doctors couldn't escape into of the future, the flames of the world's destruction awaited and traveling back into their own personal past could have created another disastrous confrontation with themselves. So, they decided to pick what they felt was the most peaceful place on the planet, Hawaii – fifty years before Captain James Cook arrived and introduced cholera, measles and gonorrhea to the friendly, healthy populace who during the next ten years, three quarters perished from said diseases. There had been a few other earlier European and Chinese explorers but they didn't have a negative impact. Those visitors traded farming and building tools in exchange for much needed ship supplies such as fresh water, fruit, vegetables and fish. It was a fair exchange in which metal knives were the most precious items received by the natives. Both Max and Jean-Luc had been awarded several items as gifts of gratitude by their village King for their contributions. Bitterman for his construction abilities and farming technique improvements and DeBois for his medical, first aid type skills and creating healing potions (organic medicine) by using the elements and chemicals which he extracted from Mother Nature. They both knew what tribulations would be brought by the British later in 1778 and were trying to educate the Polynesian/Tahitian people to help and heal themselves better when they two, who were now in their late fifties passed away. The task was made more difficult due to the fact the islanders had no written language, all information had been conveyed with chants, songs and a few symbols – quite similar to the early First Americans. Therefore, the pair had to educate as many as possible while they were still physically able. They initially felt it was too late to teach the fundamentals of writing \- health and safety were paramount.

"Aloha," greeted a native wahine (woman) as she brought Max a wooden cup of fresh spring water.

"Maholo," (thank you) he returned with a pleased smile. He estimated her age to be about the same as his, perhaps a handful less. The Hawaiians weren't concerned about such matters and didn't keep track of the individual's years. They remembered births by an event which had occurred in the same year. For example, this woman had been born on the last full moon prior to the spring harvest in the time (year) when the hunters had captured a record number of wild pigs and the village had a great feast. She was beautiful in his eyes, had a kind face, long, flowing black hair and a natural bronzed glow all over her half naked body as did everyone on the island. There had been an immediate attraction between them which he planned to pursue in the very short future...

Max and a work party were constructing a descending ground level aqueduct to remove waste water from their coastline village which would flush out stagnation during the dry season and harmful bacteria cultures year round. He and his longtime associate had been learning bits of the Hawaiian vernacular during the month preceding their escape to safety from their labs. No one could ingest a new language in such a short period especially during a consuming, rushed task as crafting the Forever Stone cube – hopefully to convey a message to future beings. He glanced above into the perfect, clear blue sky then called to his fellow friends and laborers, "Lunch," in their native tongue. The doctors had been in the village of Lahaini for two years but were still learning the intricacies of their adopted language. The people were friendly beyond belief, worked hard with direction and treated he and DeBois as family. "Without question," he said to himself, "we made the right choice to jump here." Shortly after they arrived both men cast their transponders into the ocean and agreed this visual Paradise was the end of the line, one way or another.

Bitterman sighted three figures coming over a short hill in the direction of their seaside village situated a mile to the west. Most Hawaiian villages were located adjacent to the ocean since seafood was their staple and the farms were to their rear, inland on the more fertile soil. "It appears we have company Leia. How grand, I'm sure we have enough provisions for all." To their pleasant surprise the visitors consisted of Jean-Luc, his young man assistant and a woman Max had estimated to be at least ten years his junior and acted as more than just a cordial escort. "Ah, those Frenchmen, always with the charm."

"You are charming to me," responded Leia which put a smile on his face and encouraged his resolve. All sat gathered in a circle beneath the shade trees and enjoyed the repast and ever present, gentle sea breeze.

It was good to be with DeBois who he hadn't seen in over a week. "How come you're all the way out here with the working people instead of hiding in your cozy hut playing with your magic potions?" he joked. "I thought you French were nighttime creatures with delicate skin... more suited for evening activities," as he winked at Jean-Luc's lady friend whom they both knew well socially.

"You have a keen ear," returned DeBois. "Our little visit is twofold. First and foremost, I'd like to announce my beautiful Maya here has consented to be my wife. We shall be wed during the midday of the next full moon on the beach and celebrate with a luau for the entire village that evening... at the King's expense. Again, a most gracious gift from our leader."

Max jumped up in delight, shook his hand to excess and kissed Jean-Luc's fiancé on her cheek. "I am so happy for you both. I was beginning to worry I'd have to care of this old sock (DeBois) for the rest of my life!" All laughed. After a few more minutes of jubilation Max settled down and asked what he meant about a twofold visit.

"Oui, monsieur, the second item. It is a bit strange. Six days ago an emissary from the Makona village which is twenty miles inland paid us a visit. He and his party of five were bearing gifts of respect and came to seek an audience with our king."

"That in itself is strange," thought Max. "It's been my understanding they haven't gotten along for hundreds of years." It was the same situation in all the Hawaiian villages, they were territorial and repelled contact with others. There was no raiding, pillaging and taking of slaves as the history books erroneously reported. Their communities wanted to remain strictly unto themselves, especially on the smaller islands... except when they were being visited by strangers from the sea but that particular exception was based on their religious beliefs. They thought those people were really messengers from the Gods in human form.

DeBois continued, "First, the Makona delegation begged forgiveness for all the years of misunderstanding and separation from their fellow islanders. They said they needed help but were ashamed to burden their problems on distant brothers. Their farms had been declining for years and many of their people were too sick to work. Their king wished a great favor. They'd heard our village had two Kahunas, miracle workers dwelling here who could correct crop disorders and cure people's maladies. Would you, their great king permit your Kahunas to come to us and see what could be done to help? In return for your kindness they would pledge to act as kinsmen in defense of our village if needed plus return to Lahaini a generous portion of the bounty created by the Kahunas."

Our village king was overjoyed they had come seeking friendship and his assistance. He respectfully accepted their offered gifts of tribute and planned another celebratory feast to honor their courage. He explained his two Kahunas were currently working on projects, but would ask us what we thought of their request. The doctors returned to their village immediately and agreed they had a few works in progress but would gladly accept representatives from the visitor's village to join them and be trained here. Max and Jean-Luc asked the king if they could visit Makona later when their projects here were complete and possibly stay there for a duration until their people were making progress to which he agreed emphatically.

The word spread quickly of the white, miracle working Kahunas who would come and help all Hawaiians in the name of peace... thus their legend began. The Time Doctors moved from one village to another all around the big island of Hawaii with their happy wives in tow then expanded outward to the smaller ones. Three decades passed and so did the doctors. During the remainder of their lives they had raised the quality of life and education so greatly that when the infamous English sea captain, James Cook and his crew made their visit in 1786 they had no negative effect. The natives rowed their outriggers to his ship, greeted them, "Aloha", asked what he needed and provided the supplies... then told the Captain to leave. No seafarer had been permitted off the ship. All through the process the villagers spoke to them in broken English and recorded the transactions on a ledger. Cook departed with quite a tale to tell.

Twenty-five years later many, many more vessels from several nations had begun arriving on a regular basis to restock their supplies with the native's approval. The Hawaiians were now immune to the foreigner's diseases and established a robust and fair trading system for both parties. Even though the seafarer's access to their villages was on a restricted basis they were astonished to discover these outwardly crude appearing people had schools, were literate in a written language with some English translations, had incorporated rudimentary mathematics which they used in crop production and building construction - all of which was administered by the king and his departmental heads. But most important, the visitors found these so-called primitive savages were in perfect health. DeBois the chemist had created a medicine which was nearly a hundred percent equivalent to today's modern penicillin by utilizing the island's plant and mineral resources. However to insure protection of his people, the King refused to divulge the formula or method of production to the many ever pressing ship's doctors but granted treatment by his own healers to hundreds of ill, quarantined sailors while maintaining a non-informative silence. Naturally, the White, Christian visitors credited all their incredible advancements to earlier unknown English explorers, possibly even medically trained missionaries - it was the only rational explanation in their opinion. The King's rendition that two gods in white men's flesh came from a lightning bolt out of a blue sky and poured their love onto all Hawaiians was received as Islander balderdash, ignorant folklore fantasy. Their purported names were Ma(x) Hoaloha and Lu(c) Hoaloha, the Friends from the Sky who had appeared long ago. They were the makers of countless miracles on the islands and when their earthly bodies were spent, they died and were buried in a secret, holy place to await the appointed time to return to their fellow Gods. For a hundred years after their passing every time a lightning bolt struck the ground on a clear day the entire witnessing village would search to see if their beloved miracle working, white Kahunas had returned.

Again, the Time Doctors had saved thousands of souls.

Inside the Syrtis Major quadrangle on the planet Mars

A construction company was building a highway across an impact crater basin between the towns of Alpha four, a space launch site and Zeta seven, a mining town in order to transport heavy loads of zinc and related base metals mined from the nearby quarries. Even though the Martian atmosphere had been altered to support human life by placing hundreds of massive nuclear powered oxygen/nitrogen producing generators around one half of the Red Planet's equator the air was still too thin above five hundred feet skyward to support industrial heavy-load air traffic. Hence, the need for super strong, extra wide freight roads.

"Boss man, the Crew Chief says they've run into another underground obstacle in the highway's path," reported a messenger.

"Another? Where is it this time?" asked the Project Manager (PM).

"About five klicks to the west," he returned. "The bogey is two meters below the surface."

"How come it wasn't picked up on our overhead pre-scan surveys?" he wondered aloud then went to his geographical charts and reviewed the one for that sector. "You said five kilometers west," as he pointed his finger at those coordinates. "Here?" The man nodded affirmation. "It doesn't indicate any subterranean obstructions there." He cursed, "More faulty results by the scanner satellites which means another delay against me. When are they going to hire some college grads who can program a simple filter setting? Upper management will be on my ass again for their oversights!" He spat on the ground and asked, "How large is it?"

"Don't know, Boss. Our portable field scanners can't detect it either, it's like invisible. They hit the damn thing while drilling. The Chief said it would corrupt the foundation's integrity and had to be removed. He needed someone in authority to come see and make a decision."

"Sonnabitch, another interruption and now I have to go look at some dumb rock. Stupid regulations!" fumed the PM. "Why didn't the Chief frag it and dig the pieces out?"

"He tried," answered the messenger. "It broke two drill bits off as fast as you could say, Jack Rabbit. He's trying to get its dimensions by driving down four-meter long probing poles. Even so, he needs somebody on site to authorize a blast."

"A demolition blast?" repeated the PM. "Oh, no. I can't give that without the approval of the Environmental Code Compliance Officer (ECCO)."

"He knows the reg's, this ain't his first rodeo," returned the workman. "That's why he needs someone there, on site who has the blessed authority."

Blasting on Mars was a delicate situation due to its thin atmosphere. Dust could scatter over a hundred square kilometers with even a small explosion. If it floated over a launch facility such as Alpha four it could shut it down for a week or more. The PM found the ECCO and all three began their ride to the construction site in a half track as fast as possible – time was money and Earth was clamoring for those materials.

"Red, orange, brown, this landscape is like a psychedelic nightmare that never ends. Definitely not my idea of the Vision of Beauty the job recruiter touted to get me to sign a contract to work here," grumbled the construction messenger. "Even the food tastes and smells like red dust. I wonder if this scuzzy planet was ever anything else. What'da you two Boss men think? Was this red scuzzball ever worth a damn?"

"I suppose it could have been a living, thriving planet once upon a time but if so it would have been a long, long time ago," offered the ECCO.

The PM agreed adding, "Perhaps ten thousand years... maybe more. We Earthlings have occupied this burned-out rock for over a hundred years now and never found any evidence of prior life."

"Speaking of a burned-out rock, it's gonna be that way back on Mother Earth if'n all them idiot politicians don't stop making threats against each other," voiced the messenger. "I heard every country on the planet is building super weapons as fast as they can. Someday one of those whackos will use his W.M.D. toys and throw the whole world into war and guess what? There ain't gonna be no winners, only losers, dead losers. I don't know whether to stay here and eat dust for another tour or go home and watch 'em blow themselves up. I certainly don't want to be trapped here for the rest of my life."

"I see, then I recommend you remain a little longer and continue to do what you really came for," countered the PM.

"Huh?"

"Money, to make lots of money. A noble pursuit for all. Mars offers the highest construction pay on either world. A few years here and you'll be set for life. And, the odds are the current turmoil on Earth will subside by the time you retire and you'll be sitting pretty. Not bad for a man who didn't finish High School I'd say."

"Maybe so," conceded the worker. "But I thinks somebody should send those fools a message they can understand before it's too late."

They arrived at the site to find the buried object's dimensions had been determined by a dozen poles placed around an estimated four meter circumference. "Glad you're both here," hailed the Crew Chief. "Now maybe I can get something done." He called to one of his men, "Take a couple guys and get four charges of explosives from the shed. We'll blast this rock and dig out the pieces. It'll only cost us a half day, Mister PM."

"Hold up there," challenged the ECCO. "I'm not authorizing a blast. We're too close to the Space Port and the wind is going to shift from west to east this afternoon. You're going to have to find another method."

"Another method! I already busted two bits and I guarantee they didn't even scratch its surface because it happened so fast," argued the Chief.

"Why don't you just dig it out?" suggested the PM. "It doesn't appear to be too large."

"We'd need a big Quarry hoe and a crane," rebutted the Chief. "They're in Zeta seven. It'll take a whole day to get them here."

"Sorry, if that what it takes," asserted his nemesis the ECCO. "No blast."

The Chief cursed profusely then sent the request. "Rest assured, I'll make the proper entry in my daily progress log to make sure upper management is aware who caused this delay and cost override, Mister ECCO, sir!"

The super heavy duty earth moving machines arrived two days later. The Chief constantly spouted about missing his bonus and wouldn't even speak to the ECCO. The giant hoe dug down and cleared a trench around the rock which was pointed upward – three quarters exposed and caked in a layer of hardened gunk. "Looks like its base is struck in the ground," assessed an engineer who had been sent with the equipment to assist.

"Yeah, see how it tapers at the bottom," noted the Chief. "Even so, the crane can grab it by its top half and yank it out of the ground. Don't have to worry about damage, it's just another damn red rock. Martian garbage."

The crane pulled it free and held it suspended three meters above. "It's got an unusual shape," noted the PM. "Swing it away from the roadway and set it down on one of its flat sides."

"Never seen a rock like that before," commented the Chief. "It almost looks square under all those chunks of gunk. Bring the water tanker over here and wash this thing down," he ordered. "We might have a real neat rock to stick in a museum or make a monument to our building this highway."

As the crew washed and scrapped most of the debris off a man noticed one of the drill bit holes which had cut though the solidified, yet broken gunk layers to the rock's true surface. He called out, "Hey, guys, I put my finger in this hole and I'm touching something as smooth as glass inside."

"Let me see that," said the Chief then made an order to bring over a 'chipper tool' to break up the gunk shell. It quickly exposed a one-third square meter glasslike surface which couldn't be scratched by the powerful construction tool's chipping motions. "We'll need more men with chippers from the quarry," and made another call. The next day the Rock was surrounded by a dozen workers removing its shell. Recorders and flood lights had been erected at every angle. "Get some blowers and cleaning cloths over here," ordered the boss man. When they had finished all gazed in awe at the perfect, square, crystal-clear Forever Stone Max and Jean-Luc had created just before the planet Mars' fiery destruction.

"This is Big," declared the PM. "We'll need a team of archeologists, geologists and probably a few more types of experts I don't even know about to figure this out. I'll contact the Space Center at Alpha four, they have lots of people like that stationed there. This find will go to the people at the very top, Earth-side."

Three days later

"Live from the planet Mars this presentation just in on our feed from the Isidis Basin within the Syrtis Major quadrangle!" announced the world's most prestigious news anchor who was being broadcast on every television and radio station on Earth as the site was geographically being shown on the tube. "A construction crew while building a highway for industrial mining between two towns encountered a large unidentifiable underground object hindering the road project. These type of instances occasionally occur and are routinely handled by several methods to minimize the obstruction then remove it. However, this one was different, quite different. This object couldn't be fragmented or altered, even scratched by any tool. Its mineral composition rendered two super-hard diamond drill bits as useless as a tooth pick trying to scratch a block of granite." A camera zoomed in on a local reporter with the covered object in the background surrounded by a dozen-plus security guards. "Mister Smith, what is your assessment there? Your gut feeling?"

Mister Smith a local commentator answered, "The atmosphere is electrifying, breathtaking. The possible ramifications are unimaginable, unthinkable. Behind me are a group of diversified specialists who will present their interpretation of what they call, the Stone. I expect it to be profound and Earthshaking from the array of rumors I've heard from the workers who are assigned here but they are not experts." The camera scanned a row of researchers standing directly in front of the three meter covered square object secured by a large tarpaulin tied down by ropes pegged into the ever-present Martian orange-red soil. The commentator continued, "I haven't seen it yet, it will be a first for all of us. Of course, the work crews have but they have been ordered not to say anything about its appearance." He smiled, "Speculation is it's an alien artifact left here, a buried time capsule or even a spacecraft from another galaxy. It could be anything, but there's one thing for certain which everyone agrees on. It shouldn't be here and there's never been anything discovered on Mars during mankind's one hundred years of occupation to suggest a logical reason for its presence," as he pointed at the tarpaulin. "So, with all that being said let's get on with the unveiling and see what these guys dug up!"

The Crew Chief cut the bindings as his fellow workers pulled away the tarp to reveal a dazzling, perfect, smooth cube sparkling like a giant diamond under the dozens of floodlights. Everyone took a deep breath and gasped. "Ooh, Oh my gosh" and many more expressions of awe swelled from the assembly, a few people even cried and whispered, "We are not alone."

After a few minutes Mister Smith blurted, "I've never seen anything like it! It's clearly not of this world or Earth either. It must be extraterrestrial! Which begs the questions: What does it do and why is it here? Let's ask our first expert, the lead archeologist from the Alpha four Space Center."

"The Stone itself defies normal dating procedures," he reported. "There is no way to obtain a sample from its structure. After many, many tests it has proven to be indestructible. I doubt even an atomic weapon could put a nick in it. My team and I call it the Forever Stone."

"The Earth based announcer broke in, "But it was made by someone, correct?"

"Yes, without a doubt another civilization constructed it. Its perfect lines and dimensions speak for themselves. Nature... can not produce such an object, it would be utterly impossible based on a thousand laws of proven science," he explained. "Unknown, intelligent beings constructed this Cube."

"So that being clarified, what can you tell us?" pressed Smith.

"First, the solidified gook which encased it has been analyzed and partially defined. It tested to be at least ten thousand years old. We can't obtain reasonable dating beyond that time span due to the planet's degraded mineral composition. We suspect... one of many theories... Mars had been entirely engulfed in flames and when it finally cooled due to the coldness of space and having no oxygen this red dust and grit was all that remained. Therefore, we believe the Stone was already here and could be anywhere between ten thousand to ten million years old," then threw up his hands in a gesture of wonder.

"Amazing," sputtered the local commentator. "Do we have another expert team leader available for comment?' The camera focused on a smallish, bespectacled gentleman who stepped forward. "Sir, sir what is your field of expertise? Can you offer any insight to this extraordinary discovery?"

"Why yes, I represent Ancient Languages including Encryptions and am accompanied by my old friend a professor of Mathematical Interpretation," who stood at his side. "We also are on loan to the Space Center as Research Consultants. We have been analyzing the transparent printed plate inside the cube and..."

"What!" interrupted Smith. With his eyes bulging, "Are you saying there's writing inside the cube? Some form of communication from an unknown civilization? A Martian dialect?"

"Er, yes and no. We thought its presence was already known by the other Space Center personnel," who began shaking their heads adamantly, 'no'. "Oh well, perhaps then this particular article was mistakenly overlooked during the initial discovery and recovery due to all the commotion and ruckus... plus the fact the cube is upside down and pointed away from us."

Pandemonium erupted. "What? Fix the cube! Get that crane over here!" It took a mere twenty minutes to reposition the Stone and focus a camera at the area the two experts directed.

"See inside, squarely in the middle. There appears to be organized writing accompanied by mathematical symbols." The camera zoomed in and the images were projected on a large portable screen. "Note the characters appear to be suspended in a void but are not in actuality, they are engraved on a clear plate of the cube's same composition and sealed within. Very clever and quite protective of the message."

"The message?" repeated Mister Smith.

Another onlooker yelled, "What's the message!"

"Were you able to interpret it?" gushed his interviewer. The crowd went silent.

"Why yes. It wasn't too difficult thanks to my mathematical associate. There four rows of alphabetical characters of a language which seems similar to our own but by itself is unknown. However, beneath each individual character or letter within a structured word lies a common universal binary code which my friend was easily able to interpret. Hence, the four strings or rows of words became a message to whomever could decipher it. It was quite simple thanks to the beings who created the cube and included a code conversion."

"Stop with the explanations and get on with it," one man screamed and the crowd roared agreement. "What does it say?"

"Patience please. I shall gladly transcribe it to you now." He spoke slowly and precise as his on site observers and the entire Earth listened in stunned silence. "Line one reads: Hear ye all and learn. Line two: Believe in your God. Line three: Make Peace not War. And finally Line four says: Don't destroy yourselves as we did." He waited a moment then added, "Clearly, the Cube's builders were sending us a warning message."

Destiny had shown the Time Doctors how to safely insert the engraved plate inside the Forever Stone.

Their final mission had been completed.

Thank you so much for reading my story. I hope you enjoyed it. Also available for your entertainment as an eBook are: 'Twisted All to Hell', an exciting seventeen short story collection of horror, science-fiction, supernatural and paranormal – a couple are true. You'll be happy you read it – guaranteed. Also, still more: 'The Omega Seed', a novel about Earthlings whose ancestors came from another galaxy who are now being persecuted, to the death. The story's protagonist attempts to thwart a scheduled global genocide after learning he and his family are targets also. The parent aliens from space attempt to intervene and Earth fights back.

And... hopefully to follow, a criminal/terrorist, suspense novel, 'Fear the Angel'. A deranged killer crashes commercial jetliners using his skills as an airline industry high-tech aviation electronics technician. An older FBI agent struggles to capture him before he is forced into mandatory/age retirement by the Bureau.

Thanks again. J.E. Moore (John)

And now your Bonus - a short story from the award winning collection, 'Twisted all to Hell'... also available as an ebook worldwide

Code name: Pandora

May, 2136

"Link and telemetry tests, A-okay. We're ready to transfer comm-net control to you Houston. Do you read?" queried the Starfinder technician located within the American/British moon base, Beta Two.

"I read you moon base. Sync and net are ready to slide. On three, two, one, lock-in. Beginning download data check... check complete. Looks good. The Big Eye is ours. Thanks a lot. Give my love to the prairie dogs. See you in two-four."

"Roger that Houston. Make sure it's a clean machine when she comes back. I don't want to have to fly up there and pull another brick (flying space debris) out of a panel. That's what the deflector shields are for. Hint, hint"

"Will try, buddy. But in my heart, I know how much you Moonies love walking on the Eye in your mag boots checking for cracks and impact damage in those puffy compression suits. You look so cute. Say guys, while you're scooting around out there next time how'd you like to re-ionized the silicon injectors a little bit ahead of schedule?"

"Sorry, I can't hear you, Houston," he answered. "You're breaking up. There must be a meteor storm." Buzz, burr, blip! he faked with his transmitter. "Catch you on the rebound amigos, ten-four."

The gigantic Starfinder satellite telescope took eighteen years to assemble and was placed into its orbit around the moon in the year 2133. The nuclear-solar powered 'Eye' with its one quarter mile circumference, multi-plated dish could see ten thousand times further than its archaic predecessor, the 2050's super-modified Hubble Four. It gave Earth a real chance at discovering planets capable of supporting humans or evidence of other life before the completion of its sister program Starseeker, an interstellar, hydra-magnetic space ship to be operational by 2150. The Eye's main objective was to gather pic-data and relay it to analysts who would find a viable target and chart an optimal path to get there. Its primary control was managed equally by the three moon bases: Alpha One/Russian, Beta Two/American and British, and Delta Four/Chinese, who all worked together on a timeshare format for usage and maintenance. In addition to their preprogramed searches, Starfinder underwent a full diagnostic systems evaluation once a month which took twenty-four hours to complete and was conducted by N.A.S.A. in the Houston Command Center. It was Doctor Louis Atwater's task, working under a government grant, to test the telemetry's purity for depth and clarity. He had been allotted two hours and could train the Big Eye where ever he desired.

Three years later

"Okay Doc, she is all yours," stated the Op Coordinator. "Back to you at sixteen hundred hours."

"Thank you, Op. I am locked and loaded," returned the forty-five year old astronomer/astrophysicist. Louis removed his eyeglasses and massaged his aching forehead. He had been dreading this day, this very hour for a month. It wouldn't take long to test the telescope's visual and recording accuracies as he had done so many times before. After the tests were complete it became 'his time' to run the spectrum of his own personal sectional scans for one last damning sequence. He'd make another copy of the results and sneak it back to his office at M.I.T. for further in-depth analysis and review. He then planned to submit his findings and rationale to his three closest friends - former colleagues and also his brother. "The results are clear to me, but I want collaboration. The burden of proof is not going to rest on my shoulders alone in revealing Pandora," that was the code name he gave for his discovery. Inwardly, he ardently wished his calculations to be proven wrong and subsequently he had made an erroneous assumption. "At worse, if my discovery is deemed to be True, perhaps she won't be found again for another hundred years, maybe more... let's hope so." In retrospect he reflected, "Our N.A.S.A astronomers and programmers have always focused on a single predetermined target, not as I have done. But then again, Starfinder is a world-shared instrument and everyone with access has their own agenda. Even though I believe I discovered her first and the data appears concrete to me, I still personally need additional trusted opinions made in the strictest of confidence." He completed his routine, gathered his findings, scrambled his files and left the facility - never expecting to return.

Four months later

At the National Security Agency's headquarters in Washington, D.C. in attendance were the directors of the C.I.A, F.B.I, N.A.S.A, D.H.S, N.S.A. and the U.S. Marshall's Office. "Gentlemen, just a couple of more items in conclusion of this initial briefing," pronounced the N.S.A. chairperson. "You have your dossiers and assignments. I expect twice daily reports to this office and if there are any breaking developments they shall be immediately relayed to all agencies. I reiterate: Several scientists and astronomers have been reported missing or found dead in other high-tech communities. Their common link is they were all involved in their country's participation in the timeshare program: Starfinder. We here in the U.S. will make every effort to assist our international friends and colleagues in all ways possible but remember our number One priority is maintaining the security and safety of our own citizens and in doing so we are immediately implementing the American, Counter-Operation: Pandora. Gentlemen, it is imperative we locate Doctor Louis Atwater and his former associate, a Swedish national, Fredrik Johannsen, who entered the U.S. two months ago. Mister Johannsen at this point is more than just a person of interest. It may be possible they are coconspirators in a plot to sabotage or seize control of the international Starfinder program. We cannot let that happen. The discovery and subsequent colonization of another earth-class planet is the future of mankind." He panned his rapport audience. "As they say back in my home state of Georgia, Let's git 'er done," and the respective Department heads and their underlings then broke into subgroups to discuss strategy and interagency lines of communication.

"Excuse me sir, I'm a bit confused. Why am I here?" questioned Jack Crenshaw to his Chief of the U.S. Marshall's Office. They were the sole representatives of their branch of law enforcement whereas the other agencies had a dozen or more huddled, chattering away in not too organized confusion.

"Because the White House told me to be here and I chose you to join me," rebuked the Marshall, Frank Weaver.

Jack grunted, "Sorry, I feel out of place. I believe this Starfinder briefing is way above my security clearance and pay grade. It appears to be a National Security issue. I usually chase and apprehend good old, ordinary low-class, bad guys."

"Used to, Crenshaw but you're in this game now. I've been advised you're our best tracker and I wanted you to see first-hand why you've been assigned to represent our agency in one of the largest manhunts in U.S. history."

It still didn't make sense to Jack. "May I speak freely, sir?"

"Of course, my boy. I'm sure the number one thing you have learned during your fifteen years of service to the Office is that we're a family first."

"Thank you, sir. I assume I'll be acting primarily as a bodyguard to you and it's certainly a privilege to be considered and chosen. And, especially to be privy to hear all this super-secret national security stuff but I woulda thought you'd have a bunch of assistant Chiefs here for something of this magnitude and I'd be standing by on the sidelines."

"Are you questioning my judgment, Mister?" Jack gulped and shook his head, 'no'. The Chief eyed his deputy/first-class, subordinate. "They said you were open-minded and not afraid to speak your mind. I assume it's related to your cowboy-type mentality and abilities. Even so, I'm pleased you didn't miss the obvious." Weaver glanced around, "Yes, there will be many of them, most likely over four hundred men and women per agency assigned to this search. The Government is pouring billions of credits into this manhunt." Sweeping his arm about, "All these folks have been given Carte Blanche; they get whatever funding they need. And our branch got nothing. So in return, all I'm giving them is token representation which is in essence all they asked of me. Tit for tat. Besides like you said, we track and apprehend real criminals, not science geeks. These men they're pursuing are geniuses in their fields but they could also be deep-cover enemy agents who could become disguised as the Pope himself if they wanted to. They're that smart. It's best the C.I.A. and N.S.A. do the heavy lifting on this one." He shrugged his shoulders, "Hell, I have no idea of the inner workings of some of these agencies. Maybe that's why they didn't give me any financial backing." He waved at the Director of Homeland Security and gave the official plastic smile. "Son, you're looking at politics at its finest... or worse. It reminds me of that farce of the late, now defunct Olympic Games. The renowned event after a coupla' thousand years finally evolved into being no more than a contest to increase the number of participating nations of the previous host's games for advertising and propaganda. Everyone knows the annual 'Worlds' has always been the important stuff." He patted Crenshaw on the back, "So, I guess as far as you're concerned, it's better to find out the score now rather than later. It's just you my boy, make us proud. However, on the brighter side there are three things you'll receive on this assignment which aren't too bad. I, myself only get two... morning coffee and the newspaper before some big shot in the government drops a ton of grief on me every dang day. Let's put that aside and think happy thoughts. Number one: you'll get your own office here in D.C. and daily updates from all the other agencies. You'll be in the infamous 'loop' like me! Just to be clear, son, don't waste my time by sending me a barrage of useless daily status reports to justify your existence. You can send all the garbage to you desire to the other folks. I expect only relevant information such as you saying you have one of these super-important science dudes in cuffs or tied-up in the trunk of your car. Get my drift? Number two: you can go wherever you please without accounting to anyone. Ain't that peachy? Just remember to submit vouchers for any charges your partner won't cover. Oh yeah, I almost forgot; I said a partner, that's a third item. Lucky you, an F.B.I. special agent will be assigned to your operation... in assistance. Probably some grunt who's real function is to spy on you and pass whatever findings you may develop to the Bureau so they can act on it and take credit." At that point Weaver saw a young man wearing a new J.C. Penny business suit approaching them. "And speaking of the devil, I believe he's here now. Are you the agent assigned to assist my deputy, Jack Crenshaw?"

"Yes, I am. Thank you, sir," offering his hand and making a slight bow to Weaver. Jack raised an eyebrow. "I'm Bruce Whitaker. It's an honor to meet you and assist you anyway I can," and half bowed again.

"Oh, God," thought Jack. "The boss was right. They really did send an expendable, bottom of the barrel grunt. Has this baby-faced kid even graduated from high school? I hope he's not carrying a real gun. That aside, the only Bruce's I've ever known were momma's boys..."

His thoughts were interrupted by the young man turning to address him. "And you are the famous deputy, Jack Crenshaw." Jack took his outstretched hand which Bruce pumped to awkwardness. "I recognized you by your picture, sir. It is such a privilege to be working with a person such as yourself... a living legend."

"A legend?" Jack repeated and thought, "I'm not that old am I?"

"Yes, sir that may be pushing it a bit but I personally do not believe so," Bruce continued. "Over two hundred apprehensions; everyone in the Bureau knows of and respects you."

"Duh, okay," returned Jack as he checked out Bruce's clothing and youthful features.

"Ahh, I see," offered Whitaker reading his mind, "I am old enough to be an agent. I'm twenty-four and a college grad. I also live with my mother in her Arlington townhouse. She's elderly, ill and requires some assistance... which I am happy to render until my special lady comes along and then we will make decisions and deal with the situation together." He beamed, "And, have children. I love children."

"Oh, of course," responded Jack. "I've was just thinking of how bright the new, young Bureau agents are," and wondered if we all were going to have a group hug next.

"I see how well you two are getting along," piped Weaver. "I'll leave you both to sort out the details. Good hunting" and left to mingle with the other agency top hats.

Jack said, "I think I've been assigned an office somewhere. Let me have your cell phone number and I'll let you know its location after I find out so we can get started."

The next morning Jack found Whitaker already in their new office modifying computer programs to enhance screening and search. "What's up," asked Crenshaw. "How'd you get here so fast? I just learned where this place was an hour ago."

"You know the Bureau and its resources," answered Bruce. "They have to know everyone's business."

Jack gave the layout the once-over; everything appeared to be running like a well-oiled machine. To his surprise there was a young lady seated at a video screen and sorting printouts.

"Her name is Kitty. I borrowed her from our Data Input Division to help us keep the flow under control. I hope it's alright with you, sir."

"Fine and dandy," Jack replied as he went over to introduce himself.

"It's an honor to be here, sir," she said and offered him a cup of fresh-made coffee.

Jack wondered, "There's that, Honor again. Do I have a freaking sign on my forehead saying, Bow and address me as Mister Honor? Perhaps I should ask for a raise if I'm so important."

"I took the liberty again and added a separate terminal and printer for each major agency and one shared unit for the other smaller reporting organizations so we wouldn't develop a gridlock in incoming data," explained Bruce. "As you can see the receivers are humming away with information from a hundred senders from all over the country. Most of the info is irrelevant. Kitty will download and catalog it into storage files. No data is dismissed or erased. Hard copies are only printed when necessary... she's a lifesaver."

"My, my," admired Jack. "I can see that already," as he sipped his coffee. "So much for that heralded, paper-less environment," which had been attempted numerous times and always reverted back to using an original hard copy system on applications requiring signed documents. "And, how did you accomplish all of this in only an hour?"

"Oh, we and Tech Support have been here since three a.m. sir. They're very fast and efficient... after all, you are a top priority."

"How about them potatoes?" remarked the deputy. "Most of the time it takes me a month just to get a new mechanical pencil. I know I'm going to ask for a raise now."

"Do you have a plan, sir?" questioned the two years of service F.B.I. agent.

"I do, partner, that I do."

Bruce's face lit up. "First off, to the both of you, stop calling me sir. Jack, will do just fine." He found a chair and stretched out his six foot-two inch frame. "The plan I use is always the same. K.i.s.s. Keep it simple, stupid. Sort through all the crap, figure out the missing key which for some reason no one else sees then hunt em' down using your gut instincts." Both Bruce and Kitty grinned from ear to ear. "But I caution you, part A takes a while. You have to stay the course and pay your due diligence."

"No problem there, sir... er, Jack. Sometimes the Bureau takes a year to solve a case. Some, they never do."

"I don't believe we have the luxury of running in circles for a year. I believe a lotta folks are in a big hurry." Jack slapped his thigh, rose and declared, "Reckon we should get to it. Now show me what all these high tech gadgets can do for us."

Several weeks later.

"It seems to me our fellow constituents are having a contest to see who can generate the greatest amount of useless information. And as expected, it appears your cronies at the F.B.I. are winning the game so far." In contrast, their Office's contribution remained a consistent bland offering - thrice a day: Nothing to report.

"I'm not surprised by this bombardment of irreverent information from my employer," noted Whitaker. "Our field personnel spend more hours being trained in departmental documentation and format procedures than anything else, even firearms and law."

"Humph, I believe it. Appears to me your team needs special, special agents to do the real work."

"I'll make that suggestion when I return," agreed Bruce.

Kitty brought Jack a new printout containing info from a C.I.A. informant in Mexico. "Well looky here boys and girls. Maybe we're not chasing ghosts after all. There's even a picture attached. That must have cost the U.S. of A. a pretty penny. Of course, it's most likely a fake... some hombre trying to rip Uncle Sam off for a few pesos. Flash it on the wall and let's check it out."

"I'm confident the lab at Quantico has verified its authenticity," asserted Bruce. Jack shrugged a conceded, Maybe.

"That guy sure resembles our fugitive, Louis Atwater," stated Crenshaw. "And, I'm pretty confident he has long departed that locale shortly after this pic was taken or else one of our diligent, fellow agencies would have captured him and be howling at the moon as they beat their chests." The photo displayed Atwater and an unidentified man exiting a cantina yesterday in some mud-hole called, Ciudad Acuna which is due west of San Antonio. "Note the get-up he's wearing."

"I'm not familiar with that apparel," admitted his young partner. "Is it a costume or a cowboy suit? Perhaps he's wearing clothing from a play or the circus?"

"No. Most people wouldn't be familiar with it either. I'm a bit of a history buff and recognize a couple of items here." The deputy pointed at his footwear, "See these heavy-duty boots and his pants tucked inside them. Ah, and yes, it appears those trousers are all-weather-terrain." Next, he tapped the man's jacket. "A long-sleeved, leather jacket in Mexico? What does this tell you?" Bruce gestured, 'I don't know.' "Our boy here is a biker or at least trying to look like a bike rider."

"A biker?" repeated Whitaker. "I've heard of them but never seen one."

"That's because you won't find them riding in the cities. It was out-lawed a hundred years ago. The Bandits, they call themselves, commute primarily on the back roads and hunker-down in the desert or woods when they're not drinking or stealing. That's why he can't be found. Your guys in the Bureau and everyone else are looking for someone riding public transportation."

"How would a modern scientist know how to change his appearance in that manner?" pondered Bruce.

"Don't forget this fellow is super smart and can without a doubt make himself into whoever he wants. He knows Big Brother is after him and I doubt if he's alone, especially now," as he tapped the second man in the picture who wore a suit. "See the docucase this guy's carrying... and the expression on his face? He looks as if someone killed and ate his pet dog. They clearly know each other, probably long-time friends or relatives. Let's learn who his buddy is and reassess our line of thought. We'll start with every relative Louis has then his colleagues and friends. After that everyone he went to college and high school with. Essentially, I want to know everyone he's ever known and where they are now. Then if that doesn't work, we'll move on to people outside the box. "

"Yes, sir!" blurted his delighted sidekick. Jack frowned.

Two days later

"And what have we come up with?"

"It was actually pretty easy, sir. The second man in the photo is his first cousin, Gary Gunderson who is a quantum physics professor at Harvard. He also holds a doctorate in bio molecular chemistry. In fact, he's the Head of both the Math and Science departments. Gunderson unexpectedly left five weeks ago and hasn't returned nor made contact."

"Same m.o. as our primary fugitive, Atwater," asserted Jack.

"And there's another important development," announced Whitaker. "View again the Mexican photo. The F.B.I. lab has determined there is a shadow on the wall behind them and due to the time of day and angle it means there was a third man present. The C.I.A. questioned the informant again and he confessed there could have been a third man, but it would require a small additional payment, of which the Agency gladly paid."

"Bruce, I want you to relay our ID of Gunderson to our other agencies. Do not pass on my suspicion they both or perhaps all three may be traveling as bikers. You haven't done so already have you? I mean you're not a spy siphoning off our findings without my knowledge are you?"

"No, sir!" Bruce snapped straight up. "I am loyal to my team and would never disclose information without your authorization."

"Appreciate it, kid. I never had any real doubt but had to say it. Your response has been duly noted. Still friends?" Bruce nodded vigorously, 'yes'. "I have a feeling the next part of the puzzle is going to be a lot tougher and this is what I have been talking about our staying the course. I know you've been itching to get out and perform some hands-on field work. I understand completely." He held up a fist-full of documents, "This is the investigation for now, no glory. When we go out that door it'll be to put the cuffs on or to gather intell which can only be obtained up close and personal. Trust me, it's coming." He paused then declared, "We must find out who Mister Shadow is... or rather, you do. I'm going to concentrate on where he or they are going and perhaps that'll give us an indication of the 'Why'. We all know he stole vital information from N.A.S.A. and their butt is in a snit. But why? What is it? First, you need to find out who the Timeshare users are of Starfinder. You may have to interview all the personnel at all three moon bases. Don't worry; you shouldn't have to go there. The point I'm trying to make is we may have to reach beyond our own backyard."

Four days later

"Agent Bruce, come take a look at this release just off a local news wire in Denver. It states a biker was killed by the local police while responding to a 'man with a gun' call in some back-water town named Durango. That in itself is not so strange except for his name: Fredrik Johannsen. Why does that name ring a bell? Is he one of the possible coconspirators?"

The young man became excited, "Yes, he is. His name is on the ever expanding list of 'people of interest' connected to Atwater and his name was first mentioned at our initial N.S.A. briefing. As I can recall from my research, they graduated together at M.I.T." Bruce went to his desk. "Here it is. I was correct. They were roommates for two years. He is... er was an astrophysicist working in Sweden, his native country."

"Sonny, I think we've found Mister Shadow. Kitty, please book us a flight to Denver with connections to Durango. Bruce, it looks like you're finally going to get some field work. You need to be ready to go in thirty minutes."

"Thank you, sir. But please let me arrange the air travel. You won't be disappointed and my bag is always packed and ready."

"Okay, if it suits you," acknowledged Crenshaw. "Kitty, don't release any info yet. I'll call you from the scene." To Bruce, "Glad to see you're on your toes but making the travel arrangements? What's up with that?"

Later, Agent Whitaker in his new Lincoln Electra Glide, pulled up next to Crenshaw's thirteen year old Toyota. He popped the trunk, "Toss in your gear, sir. I hope you don't mind if I drive." The vehicle's safety restraints automatically secured the new passenger as Jack nestled into the plush seat. "I know the fastest way to the airfield."

"Oky-doky, kiddo. You people in the Bureau must make a hecka lot more money than I figured," referring to the car.

"Money? Oh, no. It was a twenty-first birthday gift from my grandfather." Jack crinkled his nose. Bruce smiled and wondered, "How does he remember all of these old-time expressions? Some sound like they're from two hundred years ago."

Whitaker drove up and parked next to an ex-military, grey and silver supersonic Machbuster jet. It resembled a big triangle. Surprised, Jack said, "What is this thing? An Air Force interceptor?"

"Almost," answered Bruce. "It used operate as a recon bomber which now has been modified for the Bureau's top priority missions. It's a hover-craft when its wings are extended as they are now. It lifts off, retracts its wings and blasts off, accelerating to mach two. When it reaches its destination it drops down right on the target."

"Cool. I usually fly Commercial, Coach and sometimes Standby. Of course, you know once this puppy takes off the cat will be out of the bag and everyone will know where we're headed."

Bruce grinned again and returned, "Don't worry; we'll be on the scene before they can assess and respond." He then wondered, "Cool, puppy and cat-bag"?

"Are you the guys who made us maintain this crime scene for six hours?" blustered the irate Colorado state trooper. He pointed at the bullet ridden body of Fredrik Johannsen. "You're from the U.S. Marshall's Office?" He gave Jack the up and down. "Did you come all the way here just to take custody of a corpse? I'm supposed to see my son's ball game tonight; I don't have time to play nursemaid to some Washington butt kissers. Thanks a lot, Deputy," and spat on the ground.

"Sorry about that... I truly am," returned Jack. "We came as fast as we could," and gestured toward the supersonic jet. "You're not exactly on the beaten path you know."

"So what?" challenged the C.S.P. officer. "You couldn't have sent one of your local boys?"

"Not really," rebuffed Crenshaw. "Are you familiar with the a.p.b. on Louis Atwater? He may now be the most hunted man in U.S. history and we believe this man," pointing at the prone body, "was traveling with him."

"Well, I'll be dipped," spouted the trooper. "Boys, I think we're going to get some over-time pay out of this and our faces in tomorrow's newspaper." His comrades hooted their approval. "Take all the time you want, Mister Marshall. However we may be of assistance, please feel free to ask" and patted his wallet.

"Thank you gentlemen; it shouldn't take long," said Jack. "We'd like to examine his body, get the details of the shoot-out and ask a few questions to the patrons of the bar... roadhouse."

"No problem with the first two parts Deputy but number three..." advised the lead trooper. "Those Bandits have been in lock-down for quite a while and drinking heavy all along. They're either going to clam up or cut your throat. It's a coin toss in my book. And sorry, but we have no intentions of going in there with you... they're too f'ing dangerous."

"Thanks for the warning," acknowledged Jack. "We'll start with the body."

Fredrik Johannsen's body revealed a slender man in his late forties, Scandinavian blond hair and blue eyes. His biker outfit looked new and ill fitted. He had seven or eight bullet wounds. Rural law enforcement didn't utilize electronic, disabling weapons because the distance to the target was usually too great and the offenders were extremely violent, hostile criminals or just down right crazy. The first two responders thought he was the latter but learned later he had also been threatening, waving two handguns inside and making speeches. Upon arrival, they immediately encountered Fredrik's screaming and ranting burst from the bar. He did not appear intoxicated. He ran around in circles cursing and shouting, "There is no God!" then fired several shots at an imaginary figure in the sky.

The officers yelled back, "Drop your weapons! You won't be harmed!"

Johannsen ranted on, "It's the end of the world!" then laughed hysterically. "We can only hope so. And the sooner the better!" He then stopped and squinted at the local police as several real bikers watched through the windows. "Don't you understand you fools? We're just toys... toys in a mad and crazy universe." He stared at the gun in each hand then rushed the two lawmen while firing over their heads. They mowed him down then quickly ran to him and checked for vital signs. He whispered, "You'll see," then passed away. The two first responders had already called for back-up which arrived five minutes later. During the ensuing wait they observed two men on cycles speed away from the rear of the establishment. The two officers then split up and positioned themselves with one in front and one at the rear of the building for containment. Several more troopers arrived.

"I reckon we go in next," reasoned Jack. Bruce didn't appear eager but didn't object.

It was dark inside; many of the patrons were either passed out, asleep on the floor or lying across the tables. Jack counted five men still standing and drinking at the bar. They were large, smelled bad, ugly and glared back with hostile intentions. No wait; there was another, a sixth man alone at the far end of the bar who appeared to be trying to avoid the law's inquiring reconnaissance. "That's the guy we want to talk to," and they began making their way in his direction while steering wide of the others. The Bandit turned and faced them when he sensed their approach.

"Easy now, Big Guy. We're not here to cause trouble," softly offered Crenshaw. "I know your buddies are watching to see if you talk to the Law... We don't know who you are and don't intend to find out but I'd give odds you're wanted for something, somewhere. Our business is with the fellow lying outside with his face in the dirt. Okay?" Jack whispered, "All I want to know is how many others were with him." He felt sure the other bikers couldn't hear him, "Just gimme a number and we'll be on our way."

The Bandit's eyes darted back and forth between the duo in front of him and the men at the bar. He spoke in a loud voice, "I ain't telling you cock-suckers nothin'!" then turned away and placed his right hand on the bar-top with two fingers extended.

Recognizing the ploy, Jack barked, "We're not going to get anything outta this one! Let's split this dump," and quickly exited the front door without incident.

"They must have been the two who left in a hurry after the local police officers applied deadly force," assessed Bruce.

"I agree," as the deputy scanned the horizon. He saw a convoy of red and blue flashing lights barreling toward them about four miles away. "Time to move on, kid. This scene is going to get a whole lot messier and we could get tied up here for the rest of the day." Jack waved Goodbye and bade Thanks to the C.S.P. officers then hopped into their exclusive transport which had been waiting in the hovercraft mode. The craft shot up five hundred feet, locked in its thrusters and sped away at mach one in sixty seconds. Jack's last glimpse showed thirty-some vehicles beginning to surround the roadhouse. "I forgot to call Kitty didn't I? I am so remiss. Would you please inform her of our present whereabouts and to release the identity of Fredrik Johannsen?" He smirked, "We want to play by the rules, right?" He then leaned back for a quick power nap during the one hour ride home. "Let the games begin."

The next morning when Jack arrived at his office he found more changes had been made. There were additional computers and peripheral equipment, another female staff member and five gentlemen waiting to speak to him an adjacent room. He morning'd the newbe then quietly asked, "What's up?" to Bruce who shrugged his shoulders.

"May I introduce you, sir to Ms. Rachel Hightower our new Administrative Assistant? She will coordinate interagency relations and control access to our headquarters."

Crenshaw shook her hand and said, "Welcome aboard." She gave a condescending nod in return.

"Neat," remarked Jack. "I see people still like to rearrange our furniture at night." He checked out the five waiting gentlemen in the newly constructed conference room, one of whom was his boss, the Marshal, Frank Weaver. "Good thing they gave us plenty of floor space at the beginning."

With the second bit of verifiable intelligence having been forwarded from Crenshaw's office he now had become a valuable asset in the loop. People were calling and knocking on the door. Jack pulled Bruce aside again while waving at the waiting men, "What else you got for me?"

Bruce whispered, "Ms. Hightower is a spy from the Bureau. She's mid-level management from California." He nodded toward the five men, "They're from Homeland Security, the National Security Agency, F.B.I., N.A.S.A. and of course, your own Marshall. They've come to visit us for a friendly update, a.k.a. a debriefing. As you would say sir, to suck your freaking brains out. They want to know how you found Johannsen, what else we're hiding and especially what we're going to do next."

"Fine inquiring minds all, I'm sure," guffawed Jack. "I'll be happy to brainstorm and cooperate in the same manner as they would do for me if I went to them."

Weaver, who sat at the head of the table said, "As you can see my hand-picked deputy under my personal supervision has made tremendous strides..." Rachel opened the door. "Ah, Jack, come in my boy and join us. I've just been updating these gentlemen regarding our search plan. You may take over now, son."

Thirty minutes later the visitors terminated the meeting after having deduced the deputy marshal's accomplishments had been obtained on pure luck and he didn't have any real investigative skills per se or a relevant plan. Weaver gave him a wink of approval as the panel of interrogators departed the premises. Jack acknowledged, "I think that went well, sir."

A week later

Crenshaw and Whitaker had resorted to coming to the office at six a.m. to discuss in private the sensitive material of the last several days. Jack would be reading the newspaper and Bruce pouring over interagency releases when the female Bureau spy arrived. If they had anything important to discuss they'd go to lunch with locked docucases and use the subway to elude possible followers.

"There's been a new development, sir... er, Jack. Another person on my list has gone missing," informed Bruce. Crenshaw nodded. "A mathematician, Robert Baldreed of Boise, Idaho."

"A schoolteacher from the potato state?" questioned Jack. "Why is he on the list? Is he related to one of the other three?"

"No, he's an authority on 'Proofs' which is the foundation of all advanced mathematics. He is reputed to be the best of the best and has toured the world lecturing and presenting analytical math applications."

"And Boise?"

"He was born there, is presently semi-retired and maintains contact with dozens of former students who are the backbone of many high-tech industries including aerospace."

"Well, there's no need for a field trip if there ain't no one home, dead or alive. But the location of his absence points out something important." Crenshaw whipped out a map of North America. "Look at this bee-line from Mexico toward the northwest corner of the U.S., Alaska." After Whitaker concurred Jack asked, "By the way, did you see the headlines in the Denver Chronicle? It seems the Durango County police with the assistance of the Colorado State troopers apprehended a dozen wanted felons at some dumpy biker bar. Amazing, there's no mention of the Bureau or any other of our associates. Magnanimous of them wasn't it?" Jack slapped his knee, "Those foolish people. The Bandits will spread the word and any lawman entering a roadhouse anywhere in the country without an army behind him will be gutted like a pig. Idiots!" Jack looked about without focusing on anything in particular. "By the way Bruce, do you think I'm a glory seeker?"

The F.B.I. agent measured his response, "No sir, especially after Colorado. I feel you are keeping us free from being constrained by interagency politics. Your objective is to complete your assignment as expeditiously as possible without bureaucratic entanglements."

"Damn straight, Sunshine. Now let's determine our next move."

"So, we now have a different trio of brainy geeks, Atwater, Gunderson, and Baldreed. We lost the a fourth Techie in Colorado. The question is, is there any reason for them to continue moving northwest? And I believe the answer lies in your list of interesting people again. Atwater's brother, Marc, lives in Tacoma, Washington. But they could spin off in another direction to pick up a friend of the other two. Is your list up to date? Does it cover Baldreed's contacts?" Bruce indicated, 'no'. "We'll have to get on that right away. I'm sure our new Admin Assistant would love to do more than just answer phones and peek over our shoulders. We'll have her help us on this," and winked. "But between you and I, let's assume he's headed for his brother. That may be a good place for us to lay a trap."

"Us and the other hundred field agents hidden there already," countered Bruce. "They've had him buttoned-up since two weeks after Louis went missing. Even the C.I.A. has a team involved."

"I didn't see that on the wire... but of course it makes sense." Speaking in Rachel's direction, "I can't believe the Bureau would be hiding something from the rest of us." She dropped her eyes and fiddled with some paperwork. "Still, my money is on the brainiacs. If they really want to get to him they will. By the way, what does this guy do?"

"Marc Atwater is a Methodist minister who has a master's degree in biology in addition to his theological one."

"Odd combination," reflected the deputy.

"Not necessarily," advised Whitaker. "A large number of elite scientists and mathematicians though the centuries have maintained math and science actually verifies the existence of an all-powerful deity, what we call a god. They postulate the Universe is a perfect, balanced equation of elements and energy without contradictions. Without these 'proofs' there would be chaos and no life. Our fugitives understand these laws."

"An interesting concept but I don't think I'm smart enough to figure out how it's all put together," confessed Jack. "Getting back to our little Universe, I guess we'll have to see how Tacoma plays out and keep a close eye on any news releases which could involve Gunderson or Baldreed."

Two F.B.I. special agents sat in pew row number five of the Trinity Methodist Church in Tacoma, Washington. "This detail of watching Marc Atwater is one of the easiest I've had." The second agent agreed. "Except, these wooden seats are awfully hard."

"Must be to keep the people awake." They both smiled.

The church's senior deacon took the podium. "And now I take great pleasure to introduce you to our sponsored missionary to Sudan, the Reverend Donald Worthington. He will deliver the sermon today titled, 'Where have you gone, Lord?' Our presiding resident pastor, Reverend Atwater will return for next week's service." The agents shot an alarmed look at each other. The deacon grinned and said to their honored guest, "It must have felt strange arriving here in a flower truck this morning instead of your usual mode of transportation."

The good natured visitor in turn added, "Indeed, it was a most beautiful experience," as he gestured at the flowers about the alter, "and a whole lot more comfortable than my usual ox cart." Everyone in the congregation laughed except the two agents who popped up like a piece of toast and began running toward the Rectory. They were the only coverage assigned this morning because it seemed obvious where Atwater would be. They burst through the Rectory doors; the room was unoccupied. They raced back to the podium and interrupted the deacon's and missionary's bantering about the two rude men who just ran away from listening to the guest speaker's message.

"Where's Atwater!" shouted the first agent.

Startled by their hostile abruptness the deacon sputtered, "Why... why? He, he left with the flower delivery girl, his niece in her van. Is there a problem? Are they alright?"

"I'm sure they are," resounded the second agent. He grimaced, "But I don't think we are." They quick-stepped out the church and the circus began anew.

"Hello," answered Jack from home on the same Sunday at four p.m.

"You're not going to believe this," sputtered agent Whitaker calling from the office. "Marc Atwater has gone missing right under the noses of at least thirty agents."

"When?"

"Between ten-thirty a.m. and twelve noon Pacific time."

"I'll be there in fifteen minutes and we'll review it," directed Jack. "No need to call in Rachel. She probably knows more than we do."

That upcoming Thursday Jack and Bruce read a hot release stating the good reverend Marc Atwater was found hanging in the library of the seminary from which he graduated. "Time to fire up Speedy the jet, Bruce. Rachel, would you please call ahead and ask all those nice policemen and special agents to preserve the scene for us and back off."

"I'm sure they know you are coming and will protect the evidence," she returned while now giving respect to her fellow case workers.

"Any witnesses?" as Jack viewed the hanging body.

"Not to the actual crime," answered the Tacoma Police lieutenant. "It must have occurred between two and four a.m. last night. That's what the M.E. estimated as the time of death. A night-owl student who had his windows open above the alleyway said he thought he heard the buzz of those old, antique electric motorcycles but he didn't give it any concern."

Crenshaw asked, "Have you given Atwater a preliminary once over?" The officer indicated 'yes'. "Did he defecate or urinate while dying?"

The lieutenant was surprised at the odd question. "No I don't believe so but you are most welcome to stick your nose in and make your own determination." Jack ignored his sarcasm. "We, at the Tacoma P.D, are treating this as a homicide. Look at those footprints. This man was not alone."

"Yes, we saw them. Please thank your officers for preserving the scene so well."

Bruce took pictures of three distinct, different sets of boot prints. They were muddy and clearly defined. "I don't see any evidence of a physical struggle," perceived Jack.

The lieutenant rebuked, "Three to one against a man of the cloth? You're joking, right? There's no question he was overpowered, bound and hung. Most likely by that band of anti-religious, upper-class, spoiled brat, drug users we've been having so much trouble with lately. They'll be the first ones we bring in for questioning!"

"Uh, huh," grunted Jack as he inspected the dead man's face and wrists and didn't detect any bruising or cuts. He shook the officer's hand, "Thanks a lot; I hope we haven't inconvenienced you too much." Jack and Bruce threaded their way through a hundred lawmen and C.S.I. techs waiting outside. "Let's get home. I don't want to talk here." Bruce smirked.

Three hours later in the Obama National Park situated between Maryland and D.C. "Did you have your car swept?" inquired Crenshaw.

"Yes, sir. The Bureau said they did it but afterwards I had a buddy from high school who works for a private detective agency check it also. He found a g.p.s. transmitter and an audio transceiver. I think the C.I.A. placed them and the Bureau knew of it."

"Those people make you feel like we're the enemy not the good guys. Let's walk," directed Jack. They found a nearby bench and Crenshaw activated a multi-level, short-range scrambler. He leaned forward, "Keep your voice low." His experienced eye scanned the area. "It's my opinion Marc Atwater wasn't murdered and the evidence even after they're finished doctoring it to suit their needs, will reflect the same." Bruce raised his eyebrows. "It was an assisted or permitted suicide. There were no bruising or resistance marks. His bowels and urinary tracts were vacated prior to the hanging which demonstrates a controlled voluntary act before his demise."

"Maybe he was terminally ill and they came to comfort him," suggested the young F.B.I. agent.

"Sorry, I don't believe that was the case. His brother for certain would not have killed him but would have assisted or at least not hindered it. I feel it was with respect and love they watched Atwater die. Marc probably requested their presence. People don't want to die alone. I'm confident the lab and his medical history will confirm my analysis."

The Why bothered Bruce. "Assuming everything you said is true, we still have to find the motive."

"I believe that Atwater's Code name: Pandora was the motive."

"Then they should have kept their stupid mouths shut!" steamed Bruce. "Imagine driving your only brother, a man of God, to suicide. First there was Johannsen's 'suicide by cop' in Colorado and now him. What is the matter with these people?"

"Yeah, I suspect they were seeking another scientific opinion and it back-fired on them," quantified Jack. "The note in his pocket gives another clue."

"I apologize to my flock. I was misinformed at the highest levels," recited Bruce. "He felt his brother had tricked him?"

"No, I believe the 'misled' correlated to the location of his passing... the library, the foundation of his religious learning," reasoned Jack. "I believe Pandora destroyed his faith and purpose for living. He was an unmarried man with no children and he chose not to continue."

Bruce let out a deep breath, "Anything else, boss?"

"Yes, a lot more. I suspect Louis Atwater selected his constituents for their expertise in their respective fields... in addition to being trusted friends." He counted off on his fingers, astronomy, mathematics, physics, chemistry, biology. "He needed experts to verify or challenge and disprove what he observed with the Starfinder. It's apparent to me his brother concurred with his conclusions and opted to check out. I don't believe our dismal band of three will be seeking further verification. They're going to run now and hide for the rest of their lives... however long or short that may be."

"I assume you don't want any of your suspicions released," assessed Bruce.

"Hell no. Officially, they're just theories at this point. Our initial assignment hasn't changed. We're to pursue and capture. If we apprehend all of these men together and they voluntarily explain Pandora it would be fine and dandy by me."

"Would it?" asked Whitaker. "Do you really want to know?"

"I doubt I'd understand even if they told me," speculated Jack. "Now for the good news. I think I know where they are going. I believe they'll continue northwest. When and where they cross into Canada will tell us if they're going to the Northwest Territories or Alaska."

"How will we know?" asked Bruce. "Should we blockade all the routes leaving Washington State?"

"No, that would be easy to evade. They'd have a lead bike which would signal back to the trailing other two and all of them would turn back before they hit the roadblock or go off-road and disappear into the countryside." Bruce's face reflected, 'Then how?' "All vehicles are Pic-recorded as they cross the border. This is done by both the U. S. and Canadian Border Patrols. Can you find us a reliable contact on the Canadian side who will pass us info quietly and discreetly of a three pack cycle crossing? It should occur within the next twenty-four hours."

"Can do, sir! I know just the man in C.B.P. Comm."

"And he'll keep it under his hat?" verified Jack.

"His hat?" repeated Bruce. "Oh, retain nondisclosure. Yes, you know the Canadians are not enthused about the U.S. manhunt... especially after we arrested their Prime Minister for drug trafficking last year."

"Yes, I remember that. He was carrying a small amount of cocaine for his own personal use and some fool on our side made in big deal out of it," reflected Crenshaw. "Of course the charges were dropped. But it still amazes me, you step on someone's toes then don't understand why they don't come running to help when you have a problem. It seems we haven't learned that lesson in four hundred years... Let me know what your contact says a.s.a.p. I have a good hunch."

Ten hours later. "My friend at the C.B.P. reports a group of three just entered into Canada by crossing U.S. state road nine at Sumas," informed Bruce.

"This great news," asserted Jack. "Now we need just one more favor from your friend. Would he please tell us if they exit on Yukon One or Yukon Two into Alaska? This may take two to four days. If they cross where I expect, I'll be pretty sure of their destination."

Bruce, excited at this determination squeaked, "Where?"

"Prudhoe Bay. It's a port on the Beaufort Sea. As far as shipping goes it's only accessible May through September; the same applies for electracycles." Again, Jack saw Bruce's puzzled look and explained. "I served in the Merchant Marines four years and we put in there a few times to unload supplies for the upcoming winter. That's where the Alaskan pipeline begins. There are three groups of people who reside there: the oil company workers, the Inuit, or First Americans to you... and seasonal bikers."

"I thought the pipeline had gone dry and the Prudhoe Bay outpost was a ghost town since we evolved away from fossil-fuel energy eighty years ago," reasoned Bruce.

"It's pretty much a ghost town that's true," agreed Jack. "But oil is still pumped from there during the summer, a small fraction of what they did in the past. I believe it's used for some kind of research. As far as I know that single pipeline is the sole active source left in the U.S. Sounds like a good question for the television show: Did you Know? doesn't it?"

Fifty-three hours later.

"My Canadian friend reports the trio crossed over on Yukon One an hour ago," whispered Bruce.

"Your buddy is golden. Remind me to send him a case of scotch if this works out... and a liter even if it doesn't," requested Jack. Then he announced, "Bruce and I are going for coffee and a bagel at the corner deli. Does anyone want anything?" he asked of Kitty and Rachel. "Be back in twenty."

On the street, "Here's the plan, partner. Call and get your funny-looking plane ready to fly. Our first stop will be Anchorage. We're going shopping for clothes... old clothes. We need merchant marine duds. After that we need to be dropped off at Fairbanks, lease a utility van and have, 'Bay Marine mechanics' painted on both sides. The van will provide enough room in the rear to secure and transport the prisoners far enough away until we call in the Calvary to take over. We'll drive to Prudhoe Bay without relaying to the office our true intentions. It is possible I may have by accident misled Rachel about the direction we'll be traveling," as he winked. "It happens a lot in complicated big Operations." Bruce understood the ploy and grinned. "We're not in a hurry. I want our brainiac bikers to get there at least one day before we do. They shouldn't be hard to find riding a Honda, Star or Kawasaki. I doubt the Bandits will let them park those low- life pieces of metal anywhere near their beloved Harleys. We'll devise our capture plan after we locate and scout them out. We have a warrant for Atwater, not the other two but we'll take them all if we get the opportunity. Baldreed and Gunderson as persons under suspicion in the Patriot Act." Jack rubbed the stubble on his chin, "Humm, we'll have to stop shaving." He looked at Bruce's peach fuzz, "Well, one of us will. You may have to rub soot or grease on that kisser. I don't want those bikers to think you're my love-slave. They may want me to share you. Let me know when you're ready to roll."

Again, "I'm always ready, boss. Do you think I would have a few minutes to question the prisoners during transport... assuming all goes well?"

"I don't see why not," reasoned Jack, "providing they'll talk. But I'll tell you one thing for certain; they're going to spill their proverbial guts in a most uncomfortable manner if the National Security Agency or the C.I.A. gets their hands on them."

"I understand," acceded Bruce. "I've thought about this for a while and I want to learn why Pandora drives people to suicide. I believe I can handle it."

"We'll find out soon enough; saddle up."

Two days later as they rode through Sagwon, Alaska "There's a lot of economically depressed families living here," observed Bruce.

"They're mostly Inuit. They don't appreciate being called Indians, Eskimos or First Americans," informed Jack. "I reckon they have earned the right to be called whatever they want since it's been proven they have occupied these lands for over nine thousand years. There are a lot of similarities between their culture and the hundreds of tribes scattered over North and South America. They may be the First Americans source. Did you know they have shamans and their religious beliefs incorporate thousands of gods which is similar to Hinduism? That's a bit of the local intel I gathered when my ships docked here." They both looked about - trees, pine trees and more trees. "These trees you're looking at exist mainly due to the Inuit's resolve; they carried a lot of weight in preserving Alaska's woodlands. They deserve a lot of credit... unfortunately you can't eat credit. Their high priced attorneys, paid for by the Department of Indian Affairs, a U. S. agency, embarrassed the Government itself by making it face its own misdeeds and the proof of destroying our natural resources to support preferred Big Business greed. So, even though the Inuit won the court decision their lawyers took the entire awarded cash settlement. However, in hindsight the natives prevailed but lost the proverbial battle - a reverse case scenario in U.S. and Indian confrontations. The bottom line is that Nature and the scum-bag lawyers got the goodies and the Inuit got nothing to improve their lives. Still, I believe they were satisfied. They were never in it for the money."

Bruce had been impressed again and reflected, "I've got to get out more or start watching the Travel and History channels."

"Seventy miles to the Bay; catch forty winks if you can," suggested Jack. "Who knows what's going to happen after we arrive. We'll try to lay low but it's a small town and everyone has eyes." The young F.B.I. special agent couldn't sleep.

The remnants of Prudhoe Bay the town.

"Not much here," noted Whitaker.

"I wouldn't say it never became a Boom Town but it held its own for fifty years," as they viewed the rows of dilapidated buildings lining either side of 'Oil town' the main street. "This is going to be better than I expected providing I'm correct and they're here. There's one hotel in town and one motel on the outskirts... the same goes for the honky-tonks or roadhouses as you know them. I damn sure the Bandits won't let them camp with them. All of this will be easy to check out. However, if our guys aren't here and don't show up in a coupla days I'll have to slink back to Washington with my tail tucked between my legs. But don't worry none, partner; I won't compromise you. Even so, you may expect some heat for authorizing the expense of using of the go-fast jet. So, either way, you'll be screwed too. Welcome to the Marshall's Club! You do something right and someone else gets the credit. You mess up and it's all on you."

The town proved to be unfruitful, however five miles out at the End of the World Bar it appeared they had tracked down their quarry. There were three non-Harley bikes parked at the corner of the building, away from the real bikes.

"What are we going to do?" asked Bruce.

"I'm not sure. We could go in guns blazing and kill all the bad guys. Then drag our scientists out by their hair." Bruce gasped. Jack laughed. "Sorry, a little bit of Marshall humor." He counted the bikes to estimate the number of Bandits. "Seriously, this could be a tricky, fatal situation. Remember what I said about the bikers getting the word out about Colorado and they'd gut any lawman who infringes on their domain? I wasn't kidding and that's why we're dressed as mariners. We can back off and wait for a safer opportunity or we can play it close to the vest and go inside. No one knows us; we don't have to tip our hand."

The nervous young F.B.I. agent with a heart full of courage and his finger on his weapon said, "Let's go for it!" as a shiver ran up his spine.

As they approached the door Jack warned, "Don't look around. Keep your eyes on the bar or the floor. We can casually check out the premises after we have hopefully been accepted and... take your hand off your weapon! That sticks out like a sore thumb." At the bar, "You can look around if you appear as if you don't give a rat's ass of what's going on even if someone is getting beaten or killed. And, no eye contact! Better yet, how about if you mosey on off to the restroom and don't say a word to anyone. Oh, and if you find someone in there get the hell out fast!"

Rattled a bit, Bruce tendered, "May I just stay here and stare at my beer?" Jack nodded assent.

After twenty minutes and the delivery of his second beer, Jack was able to discern four men in a large booth at the far side of the bar. Ten fat, surly Bandits and five Inuit were between the law and their quarry. There also sat a lone seaman two booths away from their objective. "Here we go, partner." Bruce concentrated on his mug. Jack turned and yelled, "Hey, Lucky, is that you hiding over there?" Crenshaw grabbed his mug and sauntered across the tavern. "Ain't seen your worthless ass since Singapore!" The Bandits gave a casual glance at the two new Merchant Marines. They figured the second fellow, the smaller one served as the older guy's bitch. Whatever. The two lawmen arrived at the surprised patron's booth. "Oh, sorry Bro, you look similar to an old humping buddy of mine. We laid a lotta pipe together," as he winked, "in Malaysia. Sorry again," and shuffled toward the four conspicuously seated men two booths further back.

"Mind if we join you?" as Jack and Bruce took the end positions and pushed them closer to the wall. The occupants didn't object, they knew better than to challenge real bikers or drunken seamen. "You appear to be nice fellows. We're new in town; can we buy you a beer? What would like to have Mister Atwater, Gunderson and Baldreed?" They turned pale. "Sorry, I don't know this gentleman," referring to the Inuit seated with them. "Your name sir?" He refused to answer.

"He's Argun Siginig, a shaman of many generations. He's not concerned about you and doesn't deem it necessary to respond to your pettiness," explained Atwater.

"Sounds about right," returned Crenshaw. "Reminds me of my ex-wife. I assume you guys have figured out who we are." All three scientists looked glum. "You're all under arrest under the Home Land Security Act except the shaman. You, Louis Atwater, for stealing confidential material from N.A.S.A. although I don't believe they have determined exactly what it's connection is in regard to Pandora. And you two," referring to Baldreed and Gunderson, "for collaborating with a known fugitive. Isn't the H.L.S. Act wonderful, Bruce? It's like a 'Go to jail free' – a lawman's Monopoly card." To the trio, "We have a van waiting outside for your transportation pleasure. Hey, it's easier than riding your electracycles... which will be confiscated and placed into storage. But I suspect they will turn into chunks of rust before you ever have another opportunity to ride them again. Shall we mosey on out now? And try to appear happy; I don't want to spook the patrons."

The Inuit shaman glanced at his fellow tribe's men standing at the bar. Their hands immediately dropped and rested on their large hunting knife hilts.

"Oops, I didn't see that one coming," moaned Jack. The lawmen drew their weapons hidden within their overalls and placed them in their laps. "Try not to think about what I told you regarding the Bandits and the Colorado fiasco." Bruce swallowed hard. All the bar patrons were strapped with eighteen-inch, steel blade knives which were legal. "For now, I would be most satisfied with just a Mexican standoff. I think the only thing keeping us alive is the fact we have the shaman pinned down." More and more patrons began training their attention on the booth in the rear. "Folks, the floor is open for suggestions."

Bruce popped up, "Sorry boss, I don't think we're in control of the situation and I have no idea of how this is going to turn out. This may sound like really bad timing and stupid but since we're not going anywhere I'd love to ask these gentlemen about Pandora. I'm dying... er rather, very intrigued." Jack almost laughed at the absurdity and waved 'go ahead' with his empty hand. Siqiniq signaled a subtle 'hold' command to his comrades.

"What about it gentlemen?" asked Jack as he surveyed their precarious predicament. "What's the scoop on Pandora? And please keep it in layman's terms; I almost flunked Physics."

The trio glanced at each other and shrugged, Why not? Atwater began, "Two years ago I felt confident I had been the first person to discover the anomaly I deemed the Pandora image. First, please realize astronomers world-wide are a tight-knit family even though we are separated by great distances. We don't discuss classified or security related sensitive material but we are all of the same mind-set. These two other gentlemen are in different fields but overlap in strengthening and proving postulates. My assignment in Houston was to test the acuity and range of the Starfinder telescope orbiting the moon. Its capabilities are phenomenal. It can see to the edge of the Universe... and beyond. Scientists all over the world have been using it to discover earth-type planets and trying to devise a realistic route to get to them by using the hydra-magnetic Starsearcher vehicle under development. During these last two years there have been quite a number of startling discoveries and we are now confident one particular finding has led to the disappearances or even the deaths of some analysts." He checked with Robert and Gary; they indicated for him to continue. "Let's see how I can convey this simply? During my tests I incorporated deep quad scanning in addition to point focusing which the Star search programs utilize. Quad and depth scanning goes beyond the more densely populated core within our realm, our universe. Galaxies thin out as they get further away and become closer to the Edge. The Edge is real; it's like an invisible wall. Space is not an infinite vacuum. Distance-wise it may as well be. Mankind could not get to the Edge even if we were capable of traveling at the speed of light for ten thousand years." He paused to let the magnitude settle in. Continuing, "You've heard of the Big Bang Theory which science has fully accepted for the last two hundred years? I and others have determined there had been a bang of a sort but not as we had previously assumed. With Starfinder we were able to determine all matter is flowing in the same direction. A massive Big Bang Theory explosion would send it flying outward in every direction, similar to a holiday sky rocket, grenade or bomb. Starfinder was able to look 'back', through and opposite its directional flow. Beyond our core there is plus ten times more distance to the furthest Edge. With the telescope pointed 'forward' in the opposite direction, I ascertained there existed nine tenths less distance to the Edge than behind. The sides remained constant. Gary, would you please explain the bio molecular atomic separation aspect?"

"Certainly, thank you, Louis. Everyone has been educated to some degree concerning atom smashing and d.n.a... They've both been around a long time. We still separate atoms on occasion for a demonstration but have almost completely abandoned the research application. The reason why is: no matter how much we break down an atom, molecule, speck or a known particle there is always another 'entire world beneath'. It acts similar to two geometric lines converging on a curve, they come closer and closer yet they will never intersect. Now try to imagine this principle being applied in reverse order."

"Reverse?" muttered Bruce. "I can't even begin to comprehend it."

"Gary, may I continue?" requested Atwater. "Returning to my deep quad scanning." He held up a beer mug, "Imagine this as the Earth revolving around the sun within our Milky Way Galaxy and keep in mind there are millions of galaxies surrounding ours." He lowered his hand slightly. Now we have directional movement for the entire Universe. We have established a pseudo up, down and sides. I have taken thousands of scans all around our sides." He held his other hand next to the mug and then backed it away at arms-length. "I've knitted hundreds of scans together on let's just say the 'left side' of our galaxy. There are no true ups and downs, the base is arbitrary." He removed a folder from his docucase, extracted nine large photos and formed them into a square on the table. "Each photo is a knit of sixteen other interconnecting photos." He lined up the edges together and sat back. Jack and Bruce craned over the display. There appeared to be a distorted image as if you were looking inside out of a fishbowl. It was the face of a smiling little girl on the other side!

"Impossible!" blurted Bruce. "Your pics have been corrupted by a reflection!"

"Note her eyes," directed Louis. "They appear half open or closed. Correct?" Jack and Bruce nodded 'yes'. "Here's where time lapse sequencing applies. Over the last two years those eyelids have moved. It's just a fraction which only a computer could detect but I have proved it repeatedly. And I believe other scientists around the world have done so also. The girl is in the motion of a blink. The significance is her lids are opening therefore moving in the opposite direction of the universal flow. Down to up. Quantum physics and analytical mathematics have proven flowing matter in space can not reverse itself. It would be the same as two positive poles attracting. It would result in atomic chaos, therefore the movement and hypothesis must be valid. In support of this hypothesis we also would have straight lines working in unison. Another Physics impossibility."

"Wait just a damn minute, are you trying to tell us some little girl in outer space is watching our Universe as if she's playing with a toy?" wailed Jack.

"Yes, it's very similar to a child shaking up a snow globe and watching the flakes swirl and fall to the bottom," explained Atwater. Her flakes would appear as silvery white specks which are galaxies in our Universe.

"This is crazy... I think... I hope..." He stopped and thought a moment. "But, if this is true, do you have any idea how this will affect mankind!" The shaman remained stoic. "The first thing I can think of is that it will effectively destroy religion... the belief in God." Then he remembered Marc Atwater's note, 'I was misinformed'. "Oh, geez." Marc, who had a masters' degree in biology and religion obviously agreed with these men... so much so he couldn't live with the perceived truth.

"So let me recap this if I may," offered Bruce. "Pandora is the little girl watching us, we are the box and the Starfinder is the tool which opened the box. Therefore, in Pandora's realm our universe would be similar to another 'entire world beneath' to her."

"Bingo, partner." An upward crook formed at the corner of Siqiniq's mouth. Jack reflected on the horrifying premise which had been presented and proven as far as these scientists were concerned. "So, gentlemen how much time do we have until our snow globe universe gets shook up again and humanity is rearranged... annihilated?"

"Impossible to say," answered Atwater. "A thousand years... a hundred thousand or tomorrow. Pandora may have her hand on the bottom of the globe and beginning another shake as I speak."

Crenshaw had enough. He rose and placed his weapon on the table. He had made a flash, yet concrete decision, "Guys, this is not what I signed up for, nor what I want to be doing with my life should the End come. I'm going to report we did not find you and a reliable source informed us you three hopped a freighter in Seattle bound for unknown points west a month ago. Will you back me up on this, Bruce?"

"Absolutely, sir..." as he laid his weapon next to Jack's.

"I don't want to be the one who starts world chaos," continued Crenshaw. "A billion people will die... from heartbreak and suicide... just to begin with. Some will believe the data and some will hold onto their faith. But as time goes on with the onslaught of more and more proof even the atheists' spirits will be crushed and mankind will regress to a level of barbarism which it has never experienced because it has completely lost hope and purpose. No one, could exist knowing they are a mere child's cosmic toy."

He took a deep breath, "Now with your permission gentlemen," as he looked straight at the shaman, "I would really like to leave this place and not bother another soul for the rest of my life." The Bandits and Inuit tribesmen had formed a half circle surrounding their booth. Argun Siqiniq waved to let the duo pass through. Jack and Bruce raised their hands and slowly shuffled through the cordon. As he went he scrutinized the biker's eyes - they were angry: in contrast to the Inuit's tribe's men who expressed sadness... the pain and weight of carrying the knowledge for so many centuries.

Two days later Jack sent a case of scotch to Bruce's Canadian friend, resigned from the Marshall's Office, bought a schooner and was reputed to be sailing the High Seas.

The following week Bruce resigned from the F.B.I. He and his mother bought a condo in Orlando, Florida where he became a vendor in Disney World selling ice cream to children.

A month later the Starfinder telescope was blown-up by an unidentified rogue missile from Earth. Consequently, it was determined to be too costly to replace especially since they had no idea of how to protect it. The related Starseeker project was suspended indefinitely due to continuous religious pressure. Neither program was ever revived.

Pandora is watching YOU!
