far side of the chain link fence.
Jack grabbed one of Lieutenant Easley’s men. “Find Alan Naile—not my son, but the guy who looks like him. He should be up in the rocks there with my wife and the others. Get him down here to that trailer—that thing! Hurry!”
Jack buttonholed another of Easley’s men. “Go with that guy! Now! Hurry.” The trailer was the control center for the time-transfer mechanism. Alan was the only one of them here—Clarence’s wife, who knew the procedures well, had not accompanied them—who could rightly be expected to know what he was doing with the apparatus.
Lieutenant Easley and five of Easley’s men were using the cover of the motor home, advancing toward the gray capsule. Jack joined them, crouched beside the driver’s side wheelwell. “We can’t let those Lakewood Industries men get into the time-transfer capsule. They may have some means of operating the time-transfer device remotely, or may have the system set on some sort of timer.” Unintended puns were the most embarrassing kind. “If they get into the capsule and escape into 1996, we’ve had it.”
“Had what, sir?” Lieutenant Easley asked, his voice as grave as his countenance.
“It’s a figure of speech, Lieutenant. If they get to 1996, they’ll send back men and equipment we can’t hope to defeat, and they’ll not only retake the time-transfer base here, but also kill any chances we’d have to stop them from selling their military equipment from the future to the highest bidder in 1900.”
“What if we were to destroy this capsule thing?” Easley asked.
“They could just build another one in 1996—probably already have a spare one for backup—and get here anyway. The only way to stop them is in the future, not here in the subjective present.” There were seven men, actually, Jack counting as the Lakewood personnel began leapfrogging their way toward the capsule again. Three men stayed in cover, laying down suppressive fire while four men moved to the next position, a standard fireand-maneuver tactic.
Jack touched at the skin just inside his shirt collar. Another little piece of glass. As he threw it away, he had an idea.
“Lieutenant. Take one of your men and come with me.” It was a desperate idea, but one that might save the day. And, as a commodity, time was the enemy. With Lieutenant Easley and one of his troopers, Jack made his way back toward the motor home’s door, hoping all the while that he could find what he needed and quickly enough.
Once inside, he started rearward. “Lieutenant, check the kitchen area. We’re looking for glass bottles of alcoholic beverages. Vodka, whiskey, anything like that. If the liquor is stored in anything other than glass, we need to find some glass containers which have small openings at the top. Get your trooper to search for sheets, handkerchiefs, like that. We need fabric, material. It’s no good to rip down the curtains or skin the cushions from the couch or anything because all of that stuff would be fire-retardant.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but what are we doing, Mr. Naile? What’s the purpose here, sir?” Lieutenant Easley inquired earnestly.
“A man by the name of Molotov, a Russian revolutionary, will forever be associated with what we’re doing, although I doubt he invented the procedure.” Before Easley could ask another polite question, Jack told him, “We stuff rags down the mouths of bottles containing alcohol, then set fire to the rags and throw the bottles. When they shatter, they spray fire. In my day, we call them Molotov Cocktails and I sure hope they work as well as they do in the movies—magic-lantern shows. It would work better with gasoline.”
Frantically, Jack, Easley and the trooper tore through the motor home. There was a nice little liquor cabinet in the master bedroom at the rear. Jack picked up one of the bottles. “Now, somebody find me a corkscrew! And fast!” The longer this battle dragged on, the greater the chance of Lakewood’s leadership interdicting. And interdiction could translate into a helicopter gunship or a jump jet from the future, not to mention one of the VSTOLs or the Long Ranger already at the base getting airborne. If the marksmen hadn’t reached the backside of the fenced enclosure yet, one of the armed VSTOLs could get airborne vertically, change to horizontal flight mode and strafe the time-transfer base, putting an end to the attack.
Submachine gun fire hammered into the motor home, blasting through what glass hadn’t shattered on impact. As Jack, Lieutenant Easley and