hook he could manage felt solid, fully real. Jack’s hand hurt. Already, the time might have passed to rejoin Ellen and the men of the Seventh on their way to 1996. Jack might be trapped in 1900 along with Easley—and along with Lester Matthews and his Lakewood henchmen.
Jack’s impromptu left—from a shallow angle and closer to a jab than a solid swing—merely deflected their assailant, didn’t stop him. The man’s submachine gun swung upward. Jack didn’t have time to get to his own. Easley shouted, distracting the man for a split second. What Easley’s intentions were—aside from fighting—Jack didn’t know. Jack snatched the long barreled Colt revolver from the gunfighter style holster at his right thigh, his left hand snapping outward, palm open, straight-arming the Lakewood man in the chest. Jack’s revolver cleared leather, and, punching it forward, the hammer cocked, he snapped the trigger.
The Lakewood man’s eyes went wide. There was a sudden smell of burning flesh. Jack shouted, “Jump for it now, Lieutenant.” Jack threw himself from the tank, hitting the floor of the capsule in an awkward roll that made his left elbow and shoulder seize with pain. Easley landed more gracefully. Jack didn’t know what to do, saw no sign of Ellen and the others, just called out to Easley, “Run deeper into the capsule, Lieutenant!” Jack’s elbow and shoulder hurt, but still worked. Somewhere behind them, mere feet only, were armed men who would kill them in the blink of an eye. And it might already be too late to reach 1996.
Jack heard shouts from the tank. One took his full attention. “It looks like they’re disappearing, Matthews!”
Jack shouted again to Easley, “Whatever we’re doing might be working! Keep running in the same direction!” The capsule hadn’t really seemed that deep, but it was impossible to judge distance, the light very poor again, nothing truly distinguishable except up and down, a fog that wasn’t really fog but was impenetrable surrounding them, all but ingesting them.
Jack felt something hard, and he almost lost his balance, wheeled round and started to raise his submachine gun. It was Harek, the Turk. “Allah be praised that you are alive!”
Jack only nodded. “The lieutenant?”
“Here, sir, right beside you.”
Jack could see Easley clearly, standing beside him, Ellen joining them. “Alan says we are there, in 1996. The capsule will open in a second or so.”
Jack Naile took Ellen into his left arm and embraced her, his elbow hurting. “Jensen didn’t make it, kid. Pass the word when you can.” Raising his voice so all could hear him, Jack announced, “Guns up, guys. When the chamber opens, the fight starts! Be ready!” Glancing at his wife again, Jack cautioned, “And you stay right beside me or behind me. Got it?”
This was a day for amazing things. His wonderfully independent, brave-as-they-come wife leaned up, kissed him on the cheek and said, “Yes.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
The capsule door began to open.
Returning to the 1990s—Jack wanted to take time, time just to breathe, to see familiar things, do things. He realized that he missed the stupid and the pleasant almost equally—everything from getting caught in an Atlanta traffic jam to junk faxes to the ubiquitous unwanted telephone solicitations to Wendy’s wonderful double cheeseburgers and fries to the latest Jerry Goldsmith movie music. But he had other things to do. Save the world, or at least its history and probably its future.
Jack inhaled, treated himself to that before he would start shooting, and he kissed his wife full on the lips. “I love you, whatever time it is.”
Turning to Easley, he asked, “Are you and your men ready, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir. With regrets for what we must do, I am ready. God willing, they’re all combatants.”
Jack nodded, walked toward the nearly fully lowered door, addressing it as if it were a ramp, the angle progressively gentler. Ellen was on his left side, Easley to her left, the five remaining men of the Seventh Cavalry volunteers spread out, flanking them. Somewhere along the way, perhaps while the fight at the tank had been going on, Standing Bear had etched a few streaks of black war paint to his cheeks.
A Lakewood man, dressed in urban-cammie pants, a black T-shirt and white track shoes, just stared into the capsule. “Who the fuck are you guys?” The Lakewood man drew a pistol from a black fabric shoulder holster under his left arm.
“It begins,” Jack almost whispered. The H-K submachine gun was already to Jack’s shoulder. It was merely necessary to fire it. Jack let