THE FIRST MIGRATION

THE FIRST MIGRATION

Daniel Logan

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NASA Time Travel Research Leads to the Discovery of Our Missing Link

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Read Excerpts from The First Migration:

An Evening with Tracey

PROLOGUE

The Anomaly

“Our fuel’s running low. I don’t know how much time we have

left,” Skeeter grumbled, frustrated by the heavy layer of frost

that obscured his view through the snow cat’s windshield. He

rubbed a small circular patch on the glass with his gloved hand

and peered into the darkness. The shrieking winter storm cre-

ated a whiteout condition in front of him. Skeeter shivered and

glanced at the thermometer, registering sixty-seven degrees be-

low zero and dropping. His mind, already numbed by the fumes

from grease and diesel fuel that permeated the cabin, fought

the maddening vibration from the staccato thuds of the treads

on the ice.

“Jesus, how’d we get in such a mess?” he asked Taylor, his

passenger. “Do you see any sign of ’em?”

“Nope,” Taylor answered. “Nothing.”

Skeeter and Taylor were members of a United States geo-

physical team studying the shrinking ice pack on the Ross Ice

Shelf. Skeeter drove the last snow cat in a convoy of seven

returning to the Admundsen-Scott Base Station at the South Pole,

but in the storm he had lost sight of the others. The lead cat,

Delta One, contained the electronic equipment necessary to

navigate back to the base. Tense with concern about straying

off course, Skeeter grabbed the mike with a trembling hand

and shouted a transmission above the growl of the snow cat.

“Delta One, this is Delta Seven. Do you read?”

“Delta Seven, you’re readable, but weak. Do you have us in

sight?”

Skeeter squinted through the clearing in the windshield and

swore to himself, “Damn it, all I see is snow streaking right into

the headlights. I feel like I’m diving into an abyss.” He clicked

the mike switch and answered, “Negative, Delta One, I can’t

see shit.”

“Delta Seven, stop for a minute and turn off your lights.

We’ll shoot a flare.”

Skeeter turned off the headlights and in the darkness said

to Taylor, “You watch out back. I’ll watch the front. Our

situation’s pretty simple. If we don’t find them . . . we die.”

“Delta Seven, did you see the flare?”

Skeeter looked at Taylor and saw him shake his head.

“Christ,” Skeeter swore, “they could be anywhere—ahead

of us, behind us, or right next to us—and we’d never see them.”

Again he shouted into the mike, “Negative, Delta One, we have

no visual contact. Can you wait a few minutes and try another

flare? The snow might let up.”

“Delta Seven, we’ve been stopped now for over fifteen minutes.

We’re low on fuel, too. We can’t chance running out in

this storm,” came the weakening reply. “If you don’t see us in a

minute or two, we’ll have to go on to the base without you.

We’ll bring back a search party.”

“For corpses,” Skeeter muttered, staring into the blackness.

After a few minutes, he snapped the lights on and said, “Taylor,

we’re going outside and drop the sledges to save fuel. Then we’re

going to push on by ourselves.”

“But Delta One has the global positioning navigation equip-

ment. How can we get back to the base without following them?”

Taylor asked.

“We’re going to stay on the same heading we were on before

we got lost.”

“You’re crazy. We don’t have a chance of finding the base

that way.”

“Maybe we can get within radio range. Do you want to die

here?”

“No.”

“Okay then, we’re going outside to drop the sledges. Don’t

get more than an arm’s length away from the snow cat. Let’s do

it.”

Skeeter opened his door and scaled down the side of the cat

over the ice-encrusted treads. The wind tore at him, making

even the act of standing difficult. He struggled back to the hitch,

using a hand-over-hand grip on the treads. Taylor came around

from the other side. With Taylor’s help and all the effort Skeeter

could muster, he disconnected the sledges. He brushed the ice

from his eyebrows and beard.

“We’ve got to hurry,” Skeeter shouted over the shrieking

wind. “Take a can of kerosene, and I’ll get one too. If we get

snowbound, we’ll need a fire.”

Skeeter struggled with one of the ten-gallon cans and made

sure Taylor kept right beside him with another can. He reached

the relative safety of the snow cat when the wind howled to a

level that made further progress impossible. He had survived

Hurricane Ito many years before, but this gale was worse. The

wind began a strange and rapid reversing, slamming into the

snow cat from first one side, then the other. Skeeter dropped

the kerosene can and flung Taylor to the ground against the

side of the cat, grasping for any available hand-hold to keep

from being blown away. He felt the air being sucked out of his

lungs and his eardrums resonating from a sudden drop in pres-

sure. He saw an iridescent haze similar to Saint Elmo’s fire

cascade over the snow cat. The occurrence, unlike anything he

had ever experienced, terrified him.

“God help us!” Skeeter screamed. He was astounded when,

as if in answer to his plea, the wind abated and in a few minutes

became a mere breeze. The snow stopped, and the temperature

warmed to above zero. The moon became visible in the clearing

sky.

“There they are!” Taylor shouted, pointing to a row of pin

lights. “Look! Over there. There’s the convoy.”

“I see ’em. Dump the kerosene and start a signal fire. I’ll get

the radio.”

Skeeter opened the door and reached into the cab for the

mike. He barked his transmission as the signal fire bathed the

snow cat in a flickering, orange light.

“Delta One, Delta One, this is Delta Seven. We have you

in sight. Do you see our signal?”

Silence.

“Delta One, Delta One, this is Delta Seven here. Do you

read?”

Nothing.

He checked the radio’s frequency and volume. He tried again

to raise Delta One but had no luck.

“Damn, now the radio’s gone bad. Taylor, keep the fire going.

Maybe they can see it,” he said. He climbed back into the

cab and retrieved a pair of binoculars. He peered through them,

focusing upon the lights, and swore again. “Son of a bitch! That’s

not the convoy,” he yelled.

“What?”

“It’s some kind of a large base camp. I see buildings.”

“Your brain’s frozen,” Taylor shouted. “There’s no camp

within sixty miles of here, and there are no buildings anywhere

on this whole continent.”

“Well you come and take a look, smart ass!” Skeeter said.

“They’re buildings, I tell you.”

Taylor put the binoculars to his eyes. “No way! That can’t

be. What do you think it is?”

“It looks like a city—it’s too big for a camp,” Skeeter said.

Pointing to the sky, he yelled, “Look at that!” He thought he

saw the lights of a plane streaking over the city.

“It’s some kind of an aircraft. But nothing can fly down

here this time of the year,” he said. “What the hell is going on?”

Skeeter felt a wave of nausea. He tossed the binoculars onto the

seat and grabbed the door with both hands, struggling with

vertigo. He fought off the urge to throw up and yelled to Taylor,

“Get in. Whatever those lights are, getting there is better

than freezing to death here. Let’s go!”

Skeeter slammed his door shut and wrenched the cat into

gear, not waiting for Taylor to get his door closed. He jammed

the accelerator to the floor. Freed of the drag of the sledges, the

cat now jolted ahead like a huge, lurching snowmobile. Steering

toward the lights, Skeeter could see the image of the city

become clearer. Behind them, the signal fire weakened in intensity

and went out. Skeeter drove the snow cat up a slope

toward a ridge visible in the moonlight, but at the crest, he saw

the edge of a steep bluff. He braked to a skidding stop.

“We can’t go down that. We’ll have to find a way around.”

Across the valley beyond the bluff, Skeeter could still see the

lights of the city. His bewilderment turned into disorientation.

Things didn’t add up, and his mind couldn’t deal with all the

strange inputs. Skeeter sensed the lull in the storm was ending.

In an instant the wind intensified and slammed into the snow

cat. The snow began again, obliterating the lights of the city.

The snow cat rocked and began to slide on the ice toward the

edge of the bluff. Skeeter racked the transmission into reverse

and floored the accelerator. The engine screamed. The treads

spun at first but then gained traction. The snow cat crawled

away from the edge. The wind gusted and buffeted, constantly

reversing its direction. The temperature plummeted once again.

“We’re in trouble! We can’t stay on this heading, and now

we don’t have any chance to get back to the base,” Skeeter said.

“Trip the emergency transmitter. Our only hope is to conserve

our fuel and wait here for rescue from the station.”

Skeeter set the brake and powered down all the equipment

that drew electricity—even the windshield defroster. Watching

the windows become glazed over with ice, he worried that he’d

never see his family again. Skeeter kept up a conversation with

Taylor, trying to force both of them to stay awake, but after a

few hours, he lost his battle with exhaustion and nodded off to

a tortured sleep.

(To find out what happens to Skeeter and Taylor—Read the Book!)

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

CHAPTER TWO

Tracey

—Three years later—

“It’s time to quit, Darren. We’ve done all we can do today. We

need to leave something for tomorrow,” said Jeff Ryder, the

construction superintendent for Project TIME. “Let’s go get a

cold one.”

Jeff ’s suggestion hit Darren the wrong way. Yeah, as if we

needed to leave work unfinished so we’d have something to do

tomorrow, he thought. We’ve been working on this $3.7 billion

project in the middle of the White Sands Missile Range for

three years. Facing the wartime priority deadline for startup of

the facility, it seemed to Darren that the stack of items remaining

to be finished got larger, not smaller. Darren had assured

his boss that they would begin the final systems checks on schedule.

He and the whole organization had been working twelve- to

eighteen-hour days for longer than he cared to remember.

“That’s okay, Jeff, you go on,” Darren said. “I’ve still got a

lot to do before I quit today. I’ve dreamed all my life about time

travel, and we’re too close to finishing this project to let up

now.”

“Come on, man, this job’s getting to you,” Jeff said. “A

good-looking stud like you ought to be scoring all the time, but

you spend your entire life at this place. When’s the last time you

got laid? Not since your divorce, I’ll bet, and your obsession

with work caused that.”

Darren thought long and hard about Jeff ’s comments, not

sure whether he was pissed at Jeff ’s meddling or jolted by the

truth of his insight. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “You’re

right, Jeff, let’s get a cold one before we head home.”

“Okay, but drinks are on you. I bought the last time,” Jeff

said. “Wanna try the Stealth Landing again?”

Darren knew that Jeff liked the Stealth Landing, a bar in

Alamogordo frequented by stealth fighter jocks from the

Holloman Air Base near by. Jeff ’s choice of the Stealth Landing

did not surprise Darren. It had more to do with the women

who flocked there because of the pilots than with the quality of

the drinks. Darren laughed to himself. What business did two

men their age have in a place like that? Although Darren had a

pilot’s license, he had never flown fighters. He would take to

the sky in an acrobatic plane and wring it out whenever he

needed to rejuvenate himself. He knew, with few exceptions,

that women who were attracted to pilots were after the men,

not the joy of aviation. If aviation meant being upside down in

a plane pulling enough negative Gs to overcome the stomach’s ability to hold down its contents, then most women lost interest.

Helen had been one of the few women he knew who loved

flying. But she left him four years ago when his work on the

NASA research grant ruined his private life. Darren remembered

the happy times when they were first married. She taught

mathematics. He ran a government-funded research program

in the physics lab at M.I.T. on possible modes of time travel. At

that time their lives were in balance. But, when NASA took

charge, Darren’s hours and commitments overwhelmed his abil-

ity to maintain a good relationship. Small disagreements led to

major conflicts, and after one vicious argument, Helen stormed

out with the words straight out of a soap opera: “Get a lawyer.”

Darren had not seen her since. Her lawyer handled the divorce

proceedings in court, and—

“Hey man, did you hear me? Do you wanna try the Stealth

Landing?” Jeff ’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“Sure, Jeff, go on ahead. I’ll fill my briefcase and be there in

twenty minutes. Don’t let any leggy blonde fool you into thinking

you’re a fighter jock. Your heart wouldn’t last.”

“Yeah, but what a way to go, huh? See ya there in a few

minutes.”

Darren gathered up the instrumentation diagrams he and

Jeff had been checking and put them into a locked file. He

stepped into the men’s room to wash his face and comb his hair.

Thinking of Jeff ’s comments, he studied his reflection in the

mirror. He had the build and natural good looks of a quarterback,

but he had never even stepped onto a football field during

college. He concentrated on his study of physics instead.

His face featured a wry smile, no matter what his mood. Sometimes

the smile came from the humor he saw in things, but

other times it caused people to wonder what he knew and wasn’t

sharing. Strands of gray added a touch of dignity to his wavy

brown hair. In a suit and tie he could be quite distinguished

looking, but he hated suits and seldom wore one. His weathered

jacket gave him a bit of a disheveled look, belying the constant

worry and turmoil going on in his head. The unassuming

looking man he saw in the mirror had control of a project vital

to the survival of the country, if not the world.

Darren left the men’s room and walked up the metal stairs

to leave the underground complex. The sterile, gray interior,

illuminated by the cold, flickering glow of fluorescent lights

added to his somber mood. The hum of computer-controlled

equipment, running unattended, amplified the inhuman feeling

of the surroundings. Darren felt minuscule, and a sense of

being alone overcame him. His footsteps resonated in the cavernous

chamber and gave him the eerie feeling that someone

was following him. Turning around, he realized he had been

startled by an echo. Embarrassed, he thought, This place is enough

to make anyone feel spooked. The enormous responsibility he

carried for the project dwarfed all the other priorities in his life.

And the immensity of the task sometimes made him question

his ability to pull it off.

Darren reached the top of the stairs and opened the door

to the outside. The sight of the brilliant stars in the desert

night sky and the rush of a cool dry breeze restored his faith

in himself. Gazing at the stars always helped him put things

in perspective. As big as his responsibilities were, they paled

in comparison to the sheer size of the universe. And the stars

contained an implicit message of an order, a purpose, a meaning

to life.

Jeff had no doubt ordered his second beer by now. Darren

closed the door behind him and hurried to his car, the only

one remaining in the parking lot. Pulling into the Stealth

Landing lot a short time later, he heard the unmistakable

beat of an electric bass guitar going full tilt. The place looked

crowded.

Once inside, Darren searched for Jeff. He spotted him at a

table stacked with empty beer glasses and surrounded by a couple

of Stealth pilots and several women. Seeing Darren, Jeff waved and

shouted above the din for him to come join them. Darren wasn’t sure

he was in the right mood yet. His mind remained on the myriad details back at the missile range. He went over to the table anyway.

“Darren, this is Kyle, Jim, Amy, Kim, and, and . . . uh . . .”

“. . . Tracey,” she said, with a smile.

She was stunning, well-dressed and poised, but she looked

like she felt out of place. She seemed happy to meet someone

who didn’t appear to belong there, either. Darren could not

believe how pretty she was. Trying not to be obvious—but failing—

he couldn’t resist making a visual assessment of her features.

His gaze settled on her face, surrounded by shoulder length,

auburn hair. The sounds and images around him faded

into a dream-like background.

“Tracy was my grandfather’s name,” Darren heard his own

awkward detached voice say, “but, you . . . you’re . . .”

“A woman!” she laughed. “I’m happy you noticed. Tracey’s

a woman’s name these days. My parents added an ‘e’ to the spelling,

but there are lots of other ways to spell it.”

Now Darren felt stupid. You would think a man his age

could be more suave than to stammer like a teenager calling a

girl for the first time. He tried for a save. “Yes, but however you

spell your name, you’re a beautiful woman,” he recovered, hoping

in the dim light she would not notice the red tinge of embarrassment

creeping across his cheeks. The sensation surprised

Darren. He met pretty women all the time in his work and

conversed with them at ease. This woman knocked him off balance,

taking him outside his comfort zone, yet the give and

take fascinated him.

“Thank you, Darren,” she replied. “Now tell me about your

name.”

Darren sensed trouble ahead. He tried to slough off her

question with a quick answer. “My dad named me. His parents

came from Ireland, and Darren’s an old Celtic name.”

“Go on. What does it mean?”

Darren swallowed. “My dad always had high aspirations for

me. Well . . . uh, roughly translated, it means ‘Great One.’”

Tracey’s response relieved Darren. Rather than taking advantage

of his awkward position, she gave him a genuine smile,

tipped her glass toward him, and winked. In that moment their

eyes connected and would have remained so had it not been for

Jeff ’s intrusion.

“She’s Kim’s sister. Here visiting for awhile,” Jeff yelled. “But

don’t start talking politics because she’s a professional woman

. . . er, I mean, she’s on President Earlman’s staff.”

“Well, welcome to Alamogordo,” Darren said, feeling his

anxiety return upon learning this beauty who already had him

somewhat tongue-tied was a White House staffer. “I hope you

don’t think all the people on our project are as unsophisticated

as we have been.”

“No, I know I caught you off guard in this pub,” she replied.

“I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. It doesn’t help that

they put the time travel project in such an out-of-the-way place.

Maybe there’s hope for you to get up-to-date by putting your

machine on fast forward!”

Darren recognized Jeff must have been talking to her about

the project. “Perhaps I can go back in time a few minutes and

do a better job of introducing myself. I’d like that chance. You’re

visiting Kim?”

“Yes, she’s my baby sister, and I haven’t seen her for four

years—not since the election. But the main reason for my trip

is to prepare a background piece for the president on Project

TIME.

“I knew a member of the press secretary’s staff was scheduled

to visit next week. We’ve been working hard to put our

best foot forward. But I never dreamed I’d get off on the wrong

foot before the visit began.”

“No one said you got off on the wrong foot. You do have an

uphill battle to help the president win support for the continued

funding of this project. Getting your project through Congress

will be a big hurdle for him because this is an election

year. But let’s forget this meeting happened tonight. We’ll begin all

over again Monday at the start of our official visit. Right

now, I’m going to have Kim take me home. I’ve had a long

day.” She arose, bid her farewells, and worked her way toward

the door. Darren noticed a number of envious eyes followed

her all the way.

( (To learn where Tracey went—Read the Book!)

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CHAPTER FOUR

Project TIME

As the group reassembled at 8:00 the next morning, Darren

noted that all had taken his suggestion to wear casual clothes.

All except Jennings, of course, who had on dress pants and a tie.

At least he hadn’t worn his suit jacket. Oh well, Darren thought,

let him sweat a little and get some grime on his pants; it’ll serve him right. Tracey, as usual, was dressed in good taste for the occasion in tan khakis and an open-collar blue chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled up part way.

“Good morning,” Darren announced to the group. “We

have three stops to make on the tour this morning. Then, following

refreshments, we will conclude the visit with our panel

discussion.”

“What all are we going to see?” someone asked.

“First, we are going to the control center so you can see

how we operate the complex. Next, we will go down into Sector

1 to see the VME—the Vimmy—and some of the other

equipment. For the last stop we will go to the bunker in the

center of the complex. The HumVee we will use to penetrate

the time vortex and the associated gear are housed there. We

plan on about an hour and a half for the tour. We must stay on

time because the question-and-answer session is scheduled to

begin at ten.

“One thing I need to point out,” Darren said as he pulled

his ID holder from his shirt pocket, “is that your ID badges

have the markings of a radiation dosimeter on them. As he

opened the holder to show them his ID badge, white sand spilled

onto the conference room table.

“Ah-h . . . uh . . .,” he began as he struggled for words to

explain the embarrassing occurrence. Darren saw a knowing

smile break across Tracey’s face—just before she placed her hand

in front of her mouth to suppress a chuckle. “Um,” Darren

went on, “. . . this wind-blown sand gets in everything around

here. But as I started to say, you needn’t be concerned about the

radiation dosimeters, because we have not brought any radioactive

materials onto the site yet.”

“Why will you have radioactive materials?” Jennings asked.

“I thought you said the mass extraction process wasn’t like a

nuclear reaction.”

“Oh, it’s not,” Darren answered, trying to brush the sand

off the table without being noticed. “The radioactive materials

are used in some of our precision instruments. There is a minimal

potential for any exposure but OSHA regulations require

the dosimeters.”

The conference room door opened, and Sandy and Jeff

Ryder entered. “You all met Sandy yesterday,” Darren said, “and

I would like to introduce our construction superintendent, Jeff

Ryder. They will assist me in conducting the tour. Before we

divide into three groups, are there any questions?”

“Why do you call it Sector 1?” came the question.

“Remember, our circular tube—let’s call it a ring from now

on—is 100 miles in circumference. We have to keep the ring at

the correct temperature. We have to keep a precise vacuum in

side it. We have to brace it and provide vibration dampening

and lots of other things too technical for me to go into here. To

keep track of things, we have divided the ring into 360 sectors,

or one degree per sector. Each one is about 1500 feet long and

contains all the necessary equipment and instrumentation for

that sector. Sector 1 is the first, and it is the home position for

the Vimmy.”

“Any more questions?” Darren asked, pausing for a moment.

“If not, I’ll turn it over to Jeff to get us going.”

In mock military tones, Jeff said, “All right, everyone, you

are in my command now. Darren’s the easygoing one, but I’m

the General. You will follow my instructions! In the alcove outside

the conference room we have hard hats, goggles, and ID

badges. Let me know if anything does not fit. Okay, let’s go.

Snap to it.”

The visitors got up. Some ran for the restrooms and others

walked to the alcove to get their gear. Darren always enjoyed

this portion of any visit. Many guests had trouble with their

hard hats—some would even put them on backwards. He liked

to watch Jeff try to remain calm while assisting with the equipment.

Darren knew that Jeff could not understand their inability

to do the most basic and simple things. Darren caught bits

and pieces of the conversations.

“No ma’am. You must wear a hard hat, I know they muss

up your hair a little,” and, “Sir, the strap for your goggles goes

around your head, not your hat.” And last, “Let’s see, we have

eight visitors and three of us, so that’s four each in the first two

cars and three in the third. Let’s go, people.”

Darren got in the third car and Tracey and Jennings joined

him. Darren drove with the convoy to the control center building

and parked. Everyone assembled once again in front of Jeff.

“We’ll go inside,” Jeff instructed the group, “but I ask you

to remain clear of any barricaded area where construction work

is going on, and please do not touch any of the controls. We’re

not in operation yet so you wouldn’t start any equipment, but

we are fine-tuning the controls, and you might cause an erroneous

reading. Thanks, and stay close to me.”

They went inside and climbed two flights of stairs. They

entered a room that looked similar to Mission Control at NASA

in Houston, but with one major difference. This room had a

huge panoramic window overlooking the complex. The visitors

rushed to the window and looked out in awe at the view. For

the first time they were able to see the scope of the undertaking.

They were amazed by the image of a huge circle of blockhouse-like

structures, interconnected with concrete beams, disappearing

to the horizon.

Tracey exclaimed, “It’s like a giant, modern-day Stonehenge!”

“What you see are the concrete beams and pillars that carry

pipe and cable to each of the 360 sectors,” Jeff explained. “You

don’t see the ring itself, since it’s eighty feet underground, but

you can see the concrete covering it. The concrete is there to

keep any rainfall from seeping down to the ring and causing

havoc with temperature changes.”

Jeff pointed out the thirty-six stations inside the control

room. “Each station allows a specialist to monitor ten sectors,”

Jeff explained. A huge bank of video displays dominated the

front of the room. “Those screens provide information about

the Vimmy—speed, temperature, stability, and so forth,” Jeff

said, “and we also can monitor the bunker at the center and

receive data from the HumVee and the timers.”

“What kind of timers?” the intern asked.

“Oh, I forgot,” Jeff said. “We call the people in the HumVee

the timers, short for time travelers. It’s a good thing Darren isn’t

scheduled for the first mission,” Jeff continued, warming to the

moment, “because we’d have to call him the old-timer!” He began

to laugh his booming laugh.

“How many timers are there?” Tracey asked, joining the

laughter at Darren’s expense, “and who goes? What are the

qualifications, and are there any women participating?”

“I want to keep you on schedule, so please hold those questions

for the Q&A session,” Jeff suggested. “Besides, I’d prefer

Darren give you those answers. Well, we’ve used up our allotted

time here in the control center,” Jeff said. “Let’s go on.”

As they got back into the cars and began the drive to Sector

1, Darren told Tracey, “We haven’t finalized the list of timers

yet. It will include several women. There will be three timers on

the first trip. One will be a scientist. Another will be a special forces

expert. And the third will be a communications specialist.”

“Why the special forces expert?” she asked.

“We hope we will not need that expertise, but remember,

we will be traveling into an environment that may contain any

number of physical threats. Our number one priority is to be

observers, but as a last resort, we may have to counter physical

threats to protect the lives of the timers.”

“Wouldn’t it be a violation of the ‘Grandfather Paradox’ to

kill something in the past?” Tracey asked.

“Of course it would,” Darren answered, noting that Tracey

had done her homework. “As you know, the Grandfather Paradox

suggests that if a person were to travel back in time and, for

example, slay their great-grandfather, then that person would

never have been born. All the future events associated with that

person and his or her descendants would be changed.”

“We are prepared to risk the lives of the timers when they

are in the past to avoid any potential harm to future humans.

That is a fundamental understanding the timers must accept

when they are selected. But the last resort killing of a single

member of non-human life forms, such as wild animals, dinosaurs,

and so forth, offers almost zero risk of altering subsequent

events. It’s a risk we are prepared to take.”

By that time the three cars had pulled up to the entryway

closest to the control center.

“This is Sector 1,” Jeff pointed out

as the members of the group gathered in front of him, “Remember,

it’s the sector where the Vimmy is housed. Watch your

step as we go down the stairs.”

As they descended the stairwell, the sound of footsteps and

voices echoed in the chamber. The hum of the fluorescent lights

provided white background noise. Upon reaching the bottom,

the visitors were astonished by the complexity of the equipment.

In the center of the curved corridor they saw a smooth

round tube about eighteen inches in diameter.

“That’s the ring,” Jeff said. It had all kinds of piping, wiring, and

pieces of equipment connected to it and was anchored to the outer

wall by massive braces and springs. A huge vacuum pump driven by a gas turbine occupied the center of the sector.

As Jeff was explaining the purpose of each piece of equipment,

someone asked, “Where’s the VME?”

“Stand over here,” Jeff suggested, pointing. “I’ll show you.”

He pressed a button on a miniature control panel. A section of

the tube opened, and the visitors could see the reflective interior

surface. As the hatch opened all the way, the visitors could

see the impressive VME resting in its home position. It was a

marvel of miniaturization with a myriad of circuits and mechanisms

visible through a transparent center section. Each conical

end and each of the two collars had the same shiny finish as the

inside of the ring. A few visitors stepped forward to get a closer look.

“Sorry,” said Jeff, as he pressed a button to close the hatch

covering the VME, “that’s as close as we can let you get. We

can’t risk someone touching the surface or dropping something

on the surface. That might cause an imperfection that could

lead to a failure. Let’s go back upstairs.”

((To find out what happens upstairs—Read the Book!)

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CHAPTER SIX

Pangaea

Darren awoke at dawn the next morning with a dizzying headache.

He rummaged through his bag for his coffee pot and aspirin.

Too much stress yesterday, he concluded. Plus it didn’t help

being awakened by those Nighthawks flying over. With a hangover

like this, I should’ve at least enjoyed a few beers last night.

As Darren warmed the water for coffee over a camp stove,

he wondered how Tracey had spent the evening—and how she

had spent the night. Had Rick managed to sway her to say yes?

Had she spent the night with him? He didn’t care to dwell on

that possibility. Darren shivered in the brisk morning air, wishing

he had packed a jacket. He gulped down his coffee and

began to think about the day ahead. He got out the cinnamon

rolls he’d brought and wolfed down the entire package as he

anxiously waited for the front gate to open so he could leave.

Darren gathered up his gear and tossed it into the car. When

he started the engine, the blare from the car’s radio startled him.

With a reflexive action he punched the power button to shut it

off. I don’t need any damn racket until my headache lets up a little,

he thought.

He left the park without any challenge from the gate attendants and drove to his apartment. He checked his answering

machine for messages and was disappointed that there were none.

He had hoped for a message from Tracey saying that she had

returned early the night before and that the thing with Rick

was over. But there was no word from her—besides, she had his

cell phone number and could have reached him.

Darren got ready for work and drove to his office. Before he

even got close to Sandy’s desk, she called out to him with excitement,

“Did you see it? The whole town’s buzzing about it. It

was even on CNN this morning! I tried to get a glimpse, but I

didn’t—”

“Hold on, Sandy. Whoa! Slow down! What are you talking

about?”

“Jeff said he saw it. It shook him up,” she exclaimed.

“Sandy, what the hell is it? Tell me.”

“You know. A . . . uh, UFO,” she gasped, out of breath. “It

must’ve come right over where you were last night. It was west

of town. How could you have missed it?”

Jeff Ryder walked up with some work authorization forms

in his hand.

“Darren, you need to go catch the TV broadcast,” he said.

“Alamogordo is experiencing its fifteen minutes of fame.”

“I’ll go, too,” Sandy said.

Darren was still trying to catch up with all of this. Three

cups of coffee hadn’t been enough. His headache was worsening.

He poured a fresh cup from the community pot and followed

the two to the video-conference room. Sandy tuned the

TV to CNN and took a position right in front of the screen.

Framed by a “Breaking News” banner, the anchor was voicing

over a panoramic aerial view of Alamogordo. “Some residents

of this sleepy town in New Mexico awoke at about one

o’clock this morning to see the image of a UFO in the distance

over the White Sands National Monument.”

“See, what’d I tell you?” Sandy said. Darren had never seen

her so animated. She could not sit still.

The anchor went on. “Radar at the nearby Holloman Air

Base locked on the UFO’s image, and F-117 Nighthawks were

scrambled to make an intercept.”

Now it was Darren’s turn to feel excited. Those must have

been the jets that had awakened him. No wonder they were going

flat-out. They were on a full military intercept of an unidentified

intruder.

“The fighters were unable to see the UFO,” the anchor continued,

“but we have accounts from eyewitnesses who did see

it. We take you now to our reporter, Jim Raymond, on the

scene in Alamogordo. Jim, are you there?”

“Yes,” Jim replied. “Standing beside me is Hector Ramirez,

who saw the UFO. Mr. Ramirez, please describe what you saw.”

“I had just got home from the evening shift at the base

when something caught my eye west of town.”

“What did it look like?” the reporter asked.

“Well, it’s hard to describe, but it had a ring of bright lights

around its edge. It came in from the north and hovered right

over the park for a few minutes. Then it sped up and streaked

out to the southwest over the mountains, going fast, man—real

fast.”

“Did it make any sound?”

“No. I didn’t hear nothing,” Hector answered.

“What do you think it was?

“I wish I knew, man. I mean, I’ve heard about them UFOs

for years, but . . . well, uh . . . this thing was real.”

“What did you do after it disappeared?”

“I went inside my house and gathered up my family. I told

them to stay close by me until we were sure it was gone. I was

scared,” Hector said.

“Well, that’s one eyewitness’s account. We will bring you more

after the break,” concluded the anchor. During the commercial,

Jeff stepped into the anteroom to refill his coffee. Darren

joined him, but Sandy remained glued to the TV.

“Sandy said you camped out last night at White Sands. Did

you see anything, Darren?” Jeff asked.

“No. I was sound asleep,” Darren answered, “but the fighters

woke me up. You wouldn’t believe how low they were and

how much noise they made when they came over. They were

screaming. But Sandy told me you saw something that bothered

you.”

“I sure did,” Jeff answered. “I was working late last night

and something out to the west caught my eye. I don’t think it

was any aircraft.”

“Jeff, you’re sure it wasn’t the fighters you saw?”

“Remember, Darren, I was a gunner in the air force,” Jeff

said.

“Yes, but what does that have to do with what you saw?”

“The only ones of us who made it through gunnery school

had to demonstrate special skills. First of all, we had to be able

to identify any type of aircraft by its silhouette. When we trained

on simulators, we had to anticipate the target’s trajectory and

its capability to change speed or direction.”

“So?”

“What I saw was no airplane. It wasn’t shaped like a plane.

It didn’t have the navigation lights and strobes of a plane. And

it didn’t move like a plane. No plane I’ve seen could have changed

direction and accelerated like it did. I know I didn’t imagine it,

but I also know it wasn’t a plane.”

Jeff ’s serious comments dumbfounded Darren. As they returned

to the main room, Darren noticed the work authorization

forms Jeff was holding.

He switched off the TV and said, “Come on, both of you, we

don’t have time for this; it’s almost ten o’clock. Let’s get back to work.” Jeff agreed and gave Darren the forms for his approval. Darren signed them, and Jeff hurried out to the complex to get the authorized tasks started.

(To find out if it was a UFO or something else—Read the Book!)

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CHAPTER SIX

Pangaea

Darren opted to stay late and complete some pressing work,

including polishing a presentation he intended to make before

a Congressional oversight committee hearing in two weeks. He

had made little progress when his phone rang. “This is Darren,”

he answered. He recognized the voice on the other end of the

line as Tracey’s. His pulse quickened and a wave of excitement

went through his system.

“Darren, could you come over?” Tracey pleaded in a muted

voice. “I just got back, and I don’t feel like being alone right

now.”

Darren showered in the bathroom adjacent to his office and

drove to Kim’s apartment. Tracey opened the door to greet him

as he came up the walk. She had on a pretty sun dress and was

wearing high-heeled open sandals. She looked stunning, and

Darren was glad he had taken a few minutes to freshen up.

“Darren, thanks for coming over. It’s been a tough day. Kim’s

still in Albuquerque,” she said. “I have to go back this weekend

to pick her up.” As Darren got to the front porch, she put her

arms around him and hugged him. Darren put his arms around

her and held her.

“Are you okay?” he asked. He knew she had been crying.

“I am better now that you’re here, but I didn’t think I would

get through last night,” she said. “Rick didn’t expect me to turn

him down. He felt certain I would marry him.” She stopped,

unable to speak further. She turned her head away from him to

hide her expression.

“It’s okay,” he assured her, gently turning her face back toward

him.

“I hope so,” she said. “Well, I thought about what you said—

you know, about listening to your inner self—and about that

being the hardest thing to do. When I did, I knew Rick and I

were not meant to be. Before it was over I cried a lot. Rick got

angry at first, then he cried some, too. But he’s on a plane back

to D.C. now, and—it’s over.”

“If you were listening to yourself, you did the right thing. I

dreaded the thought that you would agree to marry him because

I knew your heart was not in it,” Darren said. “I also have

to admit to a selfish motive, Tracey. My life is brighter since I

met you. I would not have handled it very well at all if I had lost

you before I even had a chance to try to win you over.”

She relaxed, as if agreeing with him. Loosening her embrace,

she took his hand and led him inside.

“Come in,” she said. “As long as we are being open with each other, I have a confession to make.”

“What’s that?”

“My relationship with Rick has been over for a long time.

We just made it official. He used me to help promote his political

ambitions, and I used him as a defense against having to

deal with other men. It all worked pretty well for me until you

came along and made me realize I wanted more. That night in

Santa Fe I, uh . . .,” Tracey hesitated, then she abruptly changed

the topic. “Have you eaten? Are you hungry?”

“No, and yes,” he replied with a grin.

“Kim doesn’t have a thing here, but I brought back a good

bottle of wine, and we should be able to find some cheese and

crackers,” Tracey suggested. “That’ll tide us over until we decide

what to do about dinner.”

“Sounds good,” Darren answered.

Tracey began rounding up the wine and cheese. Darren

looked around the living room at Kim’s apartment. It was decorated

with Southwestern furnishings, including a kiva fireplace

in one corner. Darren stacked a few piñon pine logs into a pyramid

atop some kindling, took a match from the hearth and lit a

fire. Exploring further, he opened the heavy Spanish wooden

doors to see a small courtyard’s rock garden filled with a variety

of cactus plants, yucca, and sage. The pleasant aroma of the garden

complemented the smell of the wood burning in the fireplace.

Tracey came into the room with a platter of snacks and an

open bottle of wine. She motioned Darren to a seat on the

couch and set the platter on the coffee table. She poured the

wine and as she handed Darren his glass, she said, “I found this

wine on the way home this afternoon. It’s rare. I want to recognize

the promise of a new relationship with it. Here’s to us.”

“To us,” Darren responded.

Tracey clinked her glass against his and took a sip. “The fire

is pretty,” she said, and curled up against him on the couch. “I

love to hear it crackle.”

“It reminds me of the campfires we used to build when I

was a boy,” Darren said. “Nothing better than being under a

starry sky with a campfire.”

“Do you like it out here?” Tracey asked.

“I love it,” Darren answered, looking out to the courtyard,

“but I miss one thing this time of year.”

“What?”

“Fireflies.”

“You mean lightning bugs? That’s what we call them in the

South.” Tracey said.

“Yes. On summer nights all the cornfields would be filled

with them,” Darren said. “You know the process by which they

make light is—”

Before he could go into the scientific explanation, she interrupted

with, “The thing I hate about it is that they live only

a few days.”

“I know.”

“Wouldn’t that be awful—to have only a few days to experience

life? Think of all they miss out on,” Tracey said.

“Our lifetimes are comparatively shorter,” Darren replied.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, humans live on average seventy-five years. That’s a

micro-second compared to the age of the Earth. Our recorded

history goes back only three or four thousand years, and

archaeological records trace our species back to no more than

100,000 years.”

“That’s a long time.”

“It’s the blink of an eye relative to the timescale of the universe.

Think of it. We estimate the universe to be between twelve

and fifteen billion years old. Our species has existed for a smaller

fraction of that time period than lightning bugs live compared

to us,” Darren said. “There’s so little we know. I guess that’s

why every time I look to the stars, my mind tries to understand

the meaning and purpose of the universe.”

“Do you believe there’s a God who created it?” Tracey asked,

startling him with her directness.

“Yes, I do,” Darren replied.

“I’m surprised,” she said.

“Why?”

“Well, being a scientist,” she answered, “it seems like you

would understand how things worked and not believe there

was anything supernatural to it.”

He laughed. “It’s because I am a scientist that I believe in God.

Many physicists do and make no bones about their belief.”

Now it was Tracey’s turn to wonder. “Why?” she asked.

“Anyone who understands natural laws knows that the universe

is no accident. There’s an order behind all of it. It’s been

said by physicists that the natural laws are a view into the mind

of God. Even Einstein said he believed God ‘reveals himself in

the harmony of all being.’”

“What a spiritual thought,” Tracey said. And then in a lighter

vein added, “I believe in God, too. That doesn’t mean I have to

study physics, does it?”

“No,” Darren laughed as he put his arm around her. The

evening light softened with the approaching sunset, and the

glowing colors cast by the fireplace danced on the walls.

“You’ve always been fascinated with the prospect of time

travel, haven’t you?” Tracey asked.

“Ever since I first understood Einstein’s theory and the possibilities

it allowed,” Darren said.

“When was that—kindergarten?” Tracey joked, poking him

in the ribs.

“No, it was before that. I taught the theory in kindergarten,”

Darren kidded.

“Aren’t you excited about being on the verge of time travel

now?”

“The irony is that, as hard as I’ve worked and as much as

I’ve dreamed, I won’t get to travel in time myself. That’ll be left

to the timers. Even worse, rather than going to the future where

the advancements will be awesome, we’re going to the past first.

I don’t give a flip about dinosaurs,” Darren said.

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. I’m being selfish. After all,

Goddard never flew in a rocket, Von Braun never landed on the

moon, and Hubble never witnessed the birth of a star in deep

space,” Darren said.

“That puts you in good company,” Tracey said, “but remember

that Orville and Wilber got to fly and John Glenn

returned to space years later. You never know what might happen.

You may get a chance. Cheer up.”

“Okay,” Darren said.

“What do you want to do about dinner?” she asked.

“Let’s talk about dinner later,” Darren said. He pulled her

to him and kissed her slowly. This time there was no resistance,

no turning of the head, no pulling away. She kissed him back

with an equal intensity. He leaned her back on the couch and

kissed her neck and one exposed shoulder.

Darren’s caresses made Tracey forget about D.C., about career,

about men who were future senators or presidents. Her

moves showed Darren she wanted him. She breathed in his ear,

“Please—don’t stop.”

He ran his right hand down the side of her body to her

waist, feeling the curve of her hip. She moved with him, whispering

to him as he kissed her forehead and her eyebrows. She

grasped his collar with both hands and began to unbutton his

shirt.

He reached down to the inside of her ankle and unbuckled

her sandals, then slipped them off.

“There you go again,” she whispered, “taking off my shoes.

Remember me telling you before how that approach wouldn’t

work?”

He took the instep of her left foot in his firm grip, squeezing

it with his fingers and stroking the top with his thumb. “I

think it has a better chance this time,” he replied.

“We’ll see,” she teased. Darren eased his hand up the calf of

her leg and beyond her knee. Tracey stood up and grabbed his

arm. “Come with me,” she said, leading him to her bedroom.

(To learn what they talked about in the bedroom—Read The Book!)

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