The Traveler Read online

  As they approached they saw that the building was actually in far worse shape than its neighbors. The bottom row of windows were completely lined with broken safety glass and the brick had not been sandblasted since 1984. Large and flowing rust stains scarred the facade and weeds grew between her brick-and-mortar foundation and entwined the wooden structure above. Henri didn’t feel it, but Jack took an exasperated breath when he realized they were probably barking up the wrong tree. He made his way up the crumbling concrete steps leading to the front offices that had once witnessed the launch of the USS Arizona from the very same dry dock facility fronting the five buildings on this end of the yard.

  “I do not believe this is much of a going concern,” Henri said as he walked through the shattered front door with Jack in the lead. Once out of sight of any onlookers on rooftops, Jack pulled out his pistol and Henri, with raised brows, followed suit.

  Collins eased over a fallen file cabinet and saw papers and old files scattered across the floor. In the far corner Farbeaux was startled by a large wharf rat that scurried across the debris on the old green-tiled floor. Jack saw a place where a secretary and several others worked that looked as if it hadn’t seen a live person since the 1960s. Jack lowered his weapon and then looked at Henri with concern as he holstered the Glock.

  “Seeing as how the design of the two buildings in question are so similar, it would stand to reason they would secure anything they were trying to hide just as they did in building one-seventeen.”

  “Covertly speaking, is that what you would do, Colonel?” Jack asked, knowing how Henri’s criminal mind worked.

  Farbeuax also holstered his weapon and then smiled. “No, if I were to build a second doorway that I wished kept secret from my benefactor, I would have built it in Wyoming.”

  “I guess they are not quite as accomplished as you,” Jack said, and then made his way over the trash of the front offices and walked out through the door marked MANUFACTURING DEPARTMENT in chipping red paint.

  “No one is as accomplished as myself, my dear colonel.”

  The hope Jack had been feeling a few minutes before was quickly dashed when he saw the empty space where you could fit an old World War II battle cruiser. Rats scurried hurriedly from one place to another as the weak light filtered through the dirty and painted-over broken windows.

  “Colonel?” Henri said as he nodded to the darkened far corner. Jack saw the heavy elevator lift with several old wooden filing cabinets overturned and resting in front of the old gates. “It only makes sense that if one doorway is closed, go to another, in the exact same place the first one was hidden.”

  Jack nodded and they both started moving the detritus from the floor in front of the lift. Henri reached out and flipped the light switch two times with no result.

  “Afraid of the dark?” Jack quipped as he slid the old-fashioned wooden gate up and then the steel screen aside as he stepped into the lift.

  “No, I’m afraid of what’s hiding in that darkness, Colonel. That is how I’ve managed to stay alive for so long in a business that does not encourage active and peaceful retirement.”

  Jack pulled out his gun again and waited for Henri. “I see your point.”

  “Well, no power, let’s hope this thing still has gravity brakes.”

  Jack reached out and lowered the wooden gate and then slid the steel doors closed. He found the elevator’s annunciator handle and then pushed it forward. Henri ducked when a loud clanking sound was heard and then the sound of a hundred pigeons below alighting as the noise drove them to flight somewhere in the abyss below. The lift started to gravity-descend to the basement area. Both men flinched when the elevator became bathed in white, clean light from the fluorescent tubes lining the elevator shaft. Collins was suddenly feeling better about their odds.

  “The building has its own power source. This one should be as dark as building one-seventeen,” Henri said as he eyed the passing concrete of the reinforced shaft. “The explosion from the attack severed all of the conduit lines coming in under the river.”

  “This is considerably deeper than the first,” Collins said as he watched the hundreds of feet of reinforced concrete slide by as they continued down.

  Finally the huge car started to slow. Jack knew that the lift was governed by something other than gravity as the car sensed it was close to the bottom of the long shaft. Henri looked at Jack and he nodded at the Frenchman as he pulled open the gate and then slid the wooden doors up. He scanned the area in front of them and saw an exact duplicate of the viewing gallery that now lay smashed in building 117. The only difference between the two was the plush design and creature comforts. Two wet bars sat at each end of the gallery and would serve the twenty seats that sat arrayed over the gallery’s clamshell floor below them. Henri smiled and then looked at Jack and holstered his own Glock.

  Collins examined the gallery that looked as if it came out of a gothic novel where doctors sat observing a world-famous surgeon strut his knowledge below them upon the surgical stage. But who was it that occupied those chairs to watch the world of the impossible as it unfolded in front of them? Jack saw the plastic cover on one of the observation seats, which was different from the first in building 117. This button was situated on the arm of an ornate chair as if whoever sat there was in total control and wanted the others in the gallery to know it. Jack sensed power there. Whoever they were dealing with was smart and resourceful. As he approached the gallery the dim mood lighting came on and the soft hum of power generation was somewhere below their feet. Jack stopped and looked at Henri, who pointed at the walls and the glass-enclosed sensors there.

  “You tripped the motion detectors.” The Frenchman raised a brow as he studied the sensors after standing on a chair. “Not only did we switch on the power”—he tore the darkened glass fixture from the wall and tossed it to Collins—“we have alerted whoever is responsible for this. It’s also a silent alarm.”

  Jack shook his head and then placed the sensor in the chair. He quickly raised the plastic cover on the arm of the chair and with one last concerned breath he hit the switch.

  The lights dimmed and the silent world around them was shattered by an alarm that blared like a diving submarine. They both cringed at the loudness of the machinery hidden somewhere in the depths of the building. It was obvious someone had lied to the building planners, inspectors, and navy yard development corporation—this was most definitely renovated far beyond anything in the ancient shipyard.

  “Please stand away from section twenty-three,” a mechanical voice sounded from the speakers overhead. The announcement made both Henri and Jack momentarily believe they had been joined by the very men who had built the facility. “Please stand away from section twenty-three.”

  Suddenly the floor below them started turning like a record on a player. Jack smiled as he knew exactly what he was seeing. The floor turned and they heard another motor kick in somewhere and then the floor started to separate and begin to corkscrew into the depths of building 114.

  “All technical staff please initiate shielding procedures. Set condition Blue, nuclear safeguards are now in effect.”

  “Oh,” Henri said as he and Jack exchanged worried looks. Jack stood at the glass and saw the spotlights as they illuminated the descending floor below the thick viewing window. As they became exposed, the walls were lined in white plastic much like the Event Group complex interior. Collins knew that plastic was the best electrical grounding you could get out of most building materials. The walls were also lined in blue-colored fluorescents, which illuminated as they became exposed. What worried him were the nuclear triangular warning symbols that lined the shaft as it went lower into the bowels of Brooklyn.

  “My God,” Henri exclaimed when he saw what was buried underneath building 114.

  Jack smiled for the first time in what seemed like days as he took in the scene. He removed the secured cell from his jacket and then punched in only one number.

  “Boss, it l
ooks like we may be in business. Start Dr. Morales and Europa on finding that second signal we can lock on to.” Jack shut the phone down and then looked at Henri.

  Farbeaux watched as the world of tomorrow’s science came into its full glory. Glass, steel, and white ceramic glass gleamed in the controlled atmosphere of the laboratory. Row upon row of consoles sat silently waiting for orders that would send a traveler through to a past that had long vanished.

  Then Collins and Farbeaux lost their approving smiles almost as quickly as they had appeared.

  “Shit,” Jack mumbled as the lights came to full illumination below.

  “May I suggest you inform Commander Ryan and Captain Mendenhall the situation has become much more serious?”

  Collins reached for his cell phone as his eyes scanned the console stations below. Each station had a white lab–coated technician sitting at it. For his part Henri looked around and his weapon was no longer held without killing intent.

  The gleaming white skeletons stared at consoles that had been the last thing any of the twenty-six technicians would ever see again.

  Only the gleaming surfaces of the duplicate Wellsian Doorway that sat before them in all of its gleaming glory had been witness to their sudden and brutal execution.

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

  Julien felt his bladder release in a flood of wetness that he could not hide. Thus far the five men had not laid a hand on him, but their mere presence made him wish he were safely in the company of Madam Mendelsohn. He twisted the plastic tie that bound his hands behind him and felt the slicing pain as the sharp edges cut into his wrists. The five brutes watching him had nothing to say to his protests over his treatment. He knew he should never have trusted the men Madam Mendelsohn had expunged from her business and her life.

  He heard a door open behind him and the five men stepped away from the man in the wooden chair. He looked around but his view was limited. He saw beer kegs and other items associated with a drinking establishment. He twisted but could not see who entered the room. He heard a chair as it was moved behind him and wondered if he was about to receive a blind-sided blow he wouldn’t soon recover from. He was far more worried when he saw who had the chair.

  The man known as Mr. Jones, or more precisely, the man Julien knew as Alexi Doshnikov, turned the old wooden chair backward and then sat down. He smiled as he looked at the frightened Julien and then placed his crossed arms over the back of the chair and smiled. The Russian reached out and patted his right leg as he calmly and slowly lit a large cigar.

  “Why am I here? I told you everything you wanted to know.”

  The small Russian kept his smile and then removed the cigar. He slowly blew smoke into the frightened man’s face. His smile grew and then he looked up and gestured for one of his henchmen and he was handed a bottle of spring water.

  “You must try this water, it’s from the Ukraine. Artisan.” He clenched the cigar in his teeth and then uncapped the green bottle and held it to Julien’s lips and he drank. “Yes, that’s good stuff, isn’t it?” He pulled the bottle away, spilling a little on Julien’s shirt. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said as he handed the bottle back to the bodyguard. He used a silk handkerchief to wipe the water from the shirt. “I do have one more inquiry for you, my friend,” he said as he removed the kerchief and then tossed the just-lit cigar away. Doshnikov leaned over and pulled up the man’s left shirt sleeve. He saw the numbers on the forearm and smiled. He lowered the shirt sleeve and then fixed the former bodyguard with his most disarming smile.

  “I don’t know anything else,” Julien said as he watched the Russian start to place the handkerchief back into his coat and then thought better of it and threw it on the floor in mock disgust.

  “I can see by your numerical artwork on your arm that you have been through some hard times. I do not wish to add to those … distant memories.” He held a hand out and then one of his men placed a photo into it. The Russian held the picture up so Julien could see. “Which one of these five men can operate the machine you have dubbed the Wellsian Doorway?”

  Julien looked at the picture and then at the Russian. “The chairman placed the responsibility for the doorway into the hands of that man.” He nodded at the photo, making the Russian lose patience.

  “There are four men, which one?”

  “The younger man, Jodle.”

  “Aw, this makes sense. I find that man most disagreeable, but one who would protect a valuable asset with fevered purpose. I know the type. I have been surrounded by them my entire professional career.”

  “Most do find him dissagreable,” Julien said with a faltering smile, hoping the comment would assuage the Russian. He felt better when the forced smile was returned, he just hoped it was more genuine than his own.

  “Yes, you understand completely.” He turned to the five other men lining the basement of the Russian’s nightclub and handed the picture back. “You see, I told you these people are far more cooperative than any of you would believe.” He patted Julien’s leg once more and then stood up and twirled the chair around and moved it aside. He buttoned his sport coat and smiled down at Julien. “And you have actually witnessed this machine in working order?”

  “Yes, it is an exact model of the first doorway. It works, I know.”

  The Russian smiled wider as he rubbed at his gleaming black beard. He knew the large man was telling the truth because he had seen something few ever saw—he saw the tattoo. This time he patted the man on his shoulder as he made eye contact with one of his men.

  “I admire you, my friend, to overcome so much and to be so forthcoming in regard to my inquiries. I salute your past, and I have planned for you a brighter and far less frightening future.” With one last smile the man known as Mr. Jones, aka Alexi Doshnikov, left the basement as he whistled an old Russian folk song.

  Julien watched him go and was expecting his bonds to be cut. That was why he wasn’t expecting the send-off that he did finally receive. The plastic bag fell over his head and face and was pulled tight.

  The last thing Julien ever saw was the light dimming as the world slipped away in the distorted and obscured view of the plastic bag.

  At thirty-one years of age, one of the youngest survivors of a cursed event that claimed the lives of over six million members of his race, had finally succumbed to time and the new brutality of the modern world.

  BROOKLYN NAVY YARD

  Will eased the picked lock from the back of the old building and pushed the door open. He stopped and listened for movement and heard none. His eyes went to the front and he saw Jason Ryan as he advanced into the darkened warehouse. In the diffused light entering the renovated building from the outside, both could see the hundreds of pallets of plastic-covered, newly made boxes. They were flat and the area must have housed over a million of them.

  Jason used the muzzle of the Glock to indicate a stairwell. Will saw one also on his end. Both men made their way to the stairs opposite each other and eased themselves into the darkness. Mendenhall reached the top and saw the trapdoor. The broken lock was a clear indication that the men on the roof more than likely didn’t lease or own the property. Will used his elbow to ease the trapdoor up, hoping a loud squeak didn’t follow its opening. His eyes quickly fell upon the two men standing at the false facade of the building and they were not even attempting to hide their presence. The colonel and Farbeaux must have disappeared into building 114 and that was the reason they were so casual and indifferent.

  Before Mendenhall could react, the door was pulled from his hand and the muzzle of a small automatic weapon was pressed against the top of his head.

  “Tell me, little groundhog, do you see your shadow?” the voice said with a thick Russian accent.

  “God, I hate smug assholes with witty little sayings,” Will mumbled as he was roughly pulled out of the trapdoor space by the collar. He straightened and saw the stockless version of the world-renowned AK-47 leveled at his chest with two unnaturally large and bearded men
smiling at him.

  “Oh, look, little groundhog has a roommate,” said the second man as he nodded toward the far end of the green-painted roof. Will frowned as he saw Ryan, who was also being pushed out of that side. He was then poked in the liver and pushed toward the two men taking pictures with a telephoto lens. “You may stop that, Victor, we may have another source of information—well, two actually,” the man said as he nodded at the weapon-wielding man and Will was pushed toward the skylight where he met Ryan. “These two don’t seem to be very good at their jobs,” the man finished and the other seven men who had appeared on the roof laughed. The man examined the intruders’ two Glocks, and eyed closely the strange cell phones. He pocketed the phones and handed another man the weapons.

  “This is embarrassing,” Jason said as he counted his way to the conclusion that they stood no chance at fighting their way out of this one. He looked down and over the side of the building and saw that there were no witnesses on this side of the navy yard. He felt his hope dwindle further when he saw Flushing Avenue on the other side. No, the only way was to jump over the side and fall into the busy street, dodging a fifteen-foot-high fence in the process, only to die in the street below instead of on the roof.

  “Well, you’ll have to excuse us, we’ve had a hard few months,” Mendenhall said as his eyes fell on the fifteen-foot elongated skylight. His eyes went from there to Jason, who also spied the escape route. He closed his eyes and shook his head as he tried to remember just where the warehoused pallets had been stacked.

  “Call down and have the van brought around.” The man in charge gestured to Will and Jason. “We have some questions to ask. You don’t mind coming with us, do you?”

  “Actually, we’d rather not,” Will said with his hands raised as he stepped forward at the same moment Jason did, and then they both high-stepped into midair and gravity did the rest.

  The eight Russians were so stunned they actually laughed for a moment at the stupidity of the two Americans. They briefly exchanged looks and then stepped to the broken glass and looked down in time to see Ryan and Mendenhall scrambling from the palletized boxes far below, hopping from one stack to the next lowest. The small man with the horrid face tattoo stopped, looked up, and shot the men the finger. With a wide smile he saluted and jumped to follow the black man, but not before finding out that he had hurt his backside when he jumped. He cursed and limped after the black man yelling and asking a running Mendenhall, “How come you never hurt yourself?” The Russians broke for the trapdoors on both ends.