;)
Excerpt
FOUR
Mission accomplished. A pack of breath mints in hand, Jerry Ryder thanked the Pakistani newsstand vendor and turned back toward the elevator banks.
The double flash came first.
The burst of light was so rapid and bright that it froze the young lawyer as well as everyone else in the lobby with its brilliance. Before Jerry could begin to wonder as to what was happening, a horrific thunderclap followed. It was like nothing he had ever heard before. It was as if though something monstrous had just collided with the world itself. A thunderstorm? Jerry asked himself. On such a beautiful fall morning? He didn't even see any clouds --
The second thunderclap followed the first by only a few seconds. It was stronger, louder and seemed to go on for over a minute. The blast of sound drove Jerry as well as a number of other lobby bystanders to the floor. The revolving doors as well as the glass walls on either side of the lobby exploded inward, spraying the interior with razor sharp shards. Jerry hit the floor face down, covering as much of his anatomy as he could with his hands. The shaking was next. The building rocked with the impact, and even with his head covered Jerry could hear the screams of the bystanders in the street as well as those within the building.
Terrorists! Was Ryder's next thought. No natural thunderstorm could have ruptured the windows let alone shake the lobby. That had to have been man made. He stayed prone on the floor for several seconds as the shaking subsided. He tensed himself yet again as if awaiting a third blast. When it did not come, he sat up and dusted himself off. A quick inspection of his anatomy told him that he had come through the event unscathed. He shook his head vigorously hoping that the ringing in his ears would die down, when he realized that it was coming from the building's alarm system, as well as from numerous elevators stopped in between floors.
Finally finding the courage to get to his feet, Jerry surveyed the lobby. The glass façade that fronted the office building was gone. The lobby itself was coated with glass and debris. A score of people had been struck down by flying fragments and it was then that he realized with mounting horror that some of them would not be getting back up. He looked behind him and spotted the Indian vendor he had interacted with just seconds ago, busily dabbing a cloth at a bloody segment of his right forearm.
His curiosity suddenly got the better of him. Although his survival instincts were instructing him to go elsewhere, the dazed lawyer still shuffled to the sidewalk. He was still looking upward, expecting to see something on fire. Whatever the terrorists just attacked had to be close by. The streets told the story. A number of dazed, individuals were wandering about all over the place. They were emerging from nearby buildings or getting out of their vehicles. From his vantage point, Jerry could see that there were other buildings that had been damaged.
But what did they blow up? The Brooklyn Criminal Court building was the only likely target, Jerry thought, but after walking for several yards, he spotted the structure and saw that it was still intact. He walked for another half block past dozens of dazed and terrified civilians. It took a second or two for it to register, but Jerry finally caught on. All of the people he encountered were all looking in the same direction and it wasn't at any of the office towers in the immediate vicinity.
They were looking up.
"Michael Allawi" Ira Goldman said, reading off the cabbie's name from the employee ID plaque affixed to the back of the front passenger seat.
"Yes." Michael answered, wishing that the traffic would finally get moving so that he could drop off his already annoying passenger.
"How long have you been living in New York, Michael Allawi."?
"Almost as long as I've been driving a cab." Allawi responded proudly. "Ten years."
"Ok." Ira acknowledged. "And what is your real name?"
"My what?"
"Your real name. Michael Allawi. My name is Ira Goldman. I am so positive that there are no people named Michael from your natural place of birth."
"Look. I really don't think that's any of your business." The Lebanese cabbie replied, shifting nervously in his seat.
"I'm just making conversation." Ira countered with a shrug of the shoulders. "Just having a simple conversation with my cab driver the way most normal people do."
"Michael is my name."
"No. That is not what I meant. What was it before you changed it?"
The sudden double flash of light ended the tense exchange. It was as if a giant flashbulb went off across the entire sky.
Michael shielded his eyes with his arm, and then pulled down the sun visor.
"What was that?" Ira cried from the back seat.
There was no time for an answer. A terrible thunderclap tore through the silence. His instincts told Michael to hit the deck seconds before his windshield exploded outward.
The plastic partition that separated the cabbie from his passenger protected the yelling Ira Goldman from flying glass slivers.
Michael was all about self-preservation. He quickly undid his seat-belt and opened his driver's side door halfway. The second thunderclap came on the heels of the first, and it set the entire roadway to shaking. All of the vehicles on the on-ramp rocked violently from side to side. The ominous groaning emanating from the bridge's steel support cables did nothing for the cabbie's confidence. He quickly yanked his door closed and looked back to his passenger, who was seated perfectly upright, eyes wide with fear.
"Get on the floor and cover your head!" Michael instructed.
"What!! What is happening?' Ira asked fearfully.
"Get on the floor and shut up!!" Michael repeated.
He looked up just then, to see the tops of the buildings nearby rocking side to side. Some of the older buildings were shedding chunks of bricks and masonry like undulating concrete snakes. An earthquake in New York? Michael wondered to himself and then he sought the safety of the cab floor.
The large FDNY ambulance three cars behind Michael's cab endured the thunderclaps and the shaking rather well. Joyce and Jose remained seated, strapped in by their seatbelts but also clutching each other, their early morning argument all but forgotten.
Jose looked straight ahead watching vehicles, people and the on-ramp itself sway back and forth. It seemed that it was slowing down now, and he knew that within seconds, he would be out there doing what he felt he was meant to do, helping others.
The shaking had finally subsided. For a long minute, the two EMTs didn't dare move. Joyce rolled down her passenger side window and was greeted by an eerie unnatural silence. The two of them exchanged glances. Satisfied that his coworker/girlfriend was unharmed, Jose hit the street. Taking a quick breath, Joyce reached for the ambulance's dashboard CB. She fiddled briefly with the dials but could not seem to raise a working channel. She then reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone and flipped it open. The small screen informed her that it was searching for service.
She opened her passenger door and gingerly put one foot onto the roadway as if though her additional weight would have caused the whole thing to collapse. Taking two confident steps, she crossed over to the back of the ambulance and pulled out two portable aid kits. It was then that she straightened up to listen. The eerie calm was gone, replaced by a symphony of blaring car horns and sirens.
"Over here." She heard her partner's voice. Turning in its direction, she found her partner attempting to pull a motorcycle off of its rider's right leg, which was pinned underneath. The training took over, and Joyce hurried over to assist him. The two of them finally managed to set the bike upright, and Jose knelt down beside his patient.
"I. I think it's broken." The biker offered.
"Ok. Let me get in there." Jose suggested.
He studied the angle of the leg first but decided he wouldn't be able to determine much with the pants leg on. "Joyce. I'm gonna need scissors." She immediately reached into the first aid pack and handed him a pair, which he used to snip his way slowly and carefully up the pant leg.
Jose slowly peeled it back and saw that the flesh was badly bruised and bloodied, but there was no hint of bone sticking out and the kneecap seemed fine. "Damn it hurts." The young biker protested. "You gotta move your hand out of the way." Jose suggested.
He turned again to Joyce and noticed that she was not standing beside him. "Joyce I'll need your help to --"
He spotted her a yard or two away with a throng of other bystanders who were staring directly up at a sky, which was abruptly becoming darker.
A sudden mass of black, madly spiraling clouds seemingly popped up from nowhere and were now spreading out across the five boroughs. It covered the sky from horizon to horizon and as it began to spread apart and dissipate, large bizarre irregular shapes could be seen within.
Franklin Cook did not see the sudden burst of apocalyptic light that had bought New York to a stand still. His concerns were more immediate and earthbound. Eric Williams on the other hand would not have minded the distraction. It would have been more appealing than what he was staring at.
The first thunderclap shook the three-story warehouse with tremendous fury. Dust and plaster shook itself loose from the many corners of the decaying structure. It also managed to distract Cook for the space of a heartbeat. All the time Eric needed. The commando lashed out with a boot stomping at Cook's exposed kneecap. The surprised Texan staggered backward, his gun arm thrown off target. Even then, Eric still could have lost his life, because kicking his armed foe away from him only increased the gap between them. No chance at all of Eric grabbing that weapon now. Even a hastily fired round from the tall middleman from Houston would have wounded Eric enough to allow a follow up shot to finish the job.
Still, its not like Eric had a choice. He had no idea where his rifle fell and no idea if other gunmen were advancing on his location. Whatever the risk, he had to get that gun, count on his athleticism and training and hope that his foe was too disoriented to get off a good shot. It was then that the commando actually got to his feet that he noticed that the building was still trembling. He was attempting to right himself, when the second thunderclap came. The shaking was more pronounced this time, and the building trembled and groaned terribly.
Cook went down hard, tripping over the wounded gunman with the bad knees and hitting the floor with a loud smack. The gun went skittering off into the dark. Eric had to move faster now, and was about to close the gap between them, when the ceiling above their heads gave in to the sudden swaying. Large chunks of sheetrock and concrete rained down into the hallway, obscuring all vision with dust and debris.
Eric leaped away at the last second; his last sight of his opponent was of him scrambling over his wounded gunner, reaching for his hat. The two men disappeared behind a curtain of concrete dust and collapsing beams.
He turned and ran back the way he came, blinded and in an effort to escape the collapse, the lean vigilante almost collided into Roderick Banks who emerged from the darkness almost on top of him. Roderick reached out to his partner, and a disoriented Eric, batted the hands away, thinking he was in the clutches of another of Cook's flunkies.
"It's me, man." Roderick said loudly.
"What the hell did you guys do?" Eric asked still out of it but taking the strong arm offered by his teammate.
"Come on, we gotta go."
"Helmsman! Give me tactical!"
Admiral Levin stood aboard the control deck of the United Planetary Alliance's Patriot flagship. Alarms blared throughout its length, and the bridge was filled with running, yelling, disoriented officers who attempted to bring the large craft under its control.
"I can't sir." Was the reply from Levin's 1st Controller. "Nothing seems to respond."
Admiral Levin had been in charge of the combined peace keeping forces for over ten years. He recalled his service to his planet in the Dakkan uprising as well as the three-planet war that allowed Garian to become a major power in their universe. He recalled being the first officer ever to establish communication with the primitive Brute Guild.
His mind quickly flashed through his past and touched on all the highs and lows of his career, and this was the first time that the collected, intelligent veteran was ever unsure of himself.
The last thing Levin remembered was standing on the control deck with his top officers beside him, watching as a pure, bright light overcame then. There was no sensation then, and for only the briefest of minutes did Admiral Levin believe he was dead. But the noise rushing into his ears and the sensation of having suddenly regained his weight informed him that he was still among the living, still on the bridge, his men still alive, his battle group still intact.
But they weren't home. Garian, the lush blue/green planet of his childhood was not spinning beneath him; the twin suns of his native universe were gone. And below them? It was obviously populated. Just by simply looking out of the Patriot's main windows, He could see that whatever planet they were on, it was vibrant, and filled with life.
He could also see Admiral Jerrah's battlegroup no more than ten miles away.
"I'm trying to pick up on our ship to ship frequencies but can't seem to raise anyone." An excited communications officer declared from a far corner.
"I need engineering." The admiral ordered, fighting through his momentary haze and getting back into it.
"Sir!" an excited officer stated. "The Iron Monger has lowered its shields!"
Jerry Ryder was dumbstruck. His fellow New Yorkers beside him, he stared upward at what he believed where ships of some sort. He was fascinated and afraid all at once. His 9am meeting was all but forgotten (actually it would have started twenty minutes ago) He glanced at his watch and decided to head back to his office. Still eyeing the sky, the young attorney dashed back into his building's battered lobby and headed for the nearest stairwell.
Just as he made for the door handle, it opened abruptly, and discharged a steady stream of terrified office workers from the buildings upper floors. "Jerry." A voice cried out to him, he turned and recognized his legal assistant Wendy. The young blonde looked no worse for wear.
The smaller fighter ships that had been engaging each other in combat minutes before the firing of the time displacement cannon survived the trip as well and had retreated and regrouped to the vicinity of their respective capital ships.
Aboard the Iron Monger, Admiral Jerrah studied his status screens; plans of reaction and attack ran through his head. Ideas were quickly drawn up and discarded. The explosion and malfunction of the cannon was unexpected. It would have still suited his purposes if Admiral Levin's entire battle group was transported elsewhere. Then the victory still would have been his. The problem was that his own forces were swept up and taken away as well. Now they both found themselves far from home.
Jerrah was not entirely helpless. He believed that he knew Levin's mind and that alone would grant him an advantage. "Engineering has successfully shut down the temporal cannon's power core." An aide announced.
"Have we established any sort of contact with Tyrin?" Jerrah asked, already knowing the answer. "No admiral. Some sort of interference is making it impossible. I am also having trouble maintaining ship-to-ship communications." His first communications officer responded.
Jerrah was never the type of man who would admit to a mistake. He'd never done it before in the nine years of his brash, arrogant career and he wouldn't start today either. To admit to an error of judgment of this magnitude was unforgivable. To admit it to Senior Advisor Damack was unthinkable.
This had nothing to do with him, he rationalized. The temporal displacement cannon was supposed to work! As an offensive weapon, it was supposed to be capable of beaming its target out of existence by sending it through time or space or both. At least it was supposed to work that way. It took an eternity to complete and then the only thing the Senior Council wanted to do was have it tested under theoretical scenarios in hollow controlled environments with holographic simulations as test subjects.
What was the point in building the damn thing if you were afraid to actually use it?
Jerrah had no patience for weaklings who debated policies in secluded chambers. He was a man of action. A change in government was needed on Garian and Jerrah was the commander chosen to be the military spearhead of that change. Unfortunately, his superiors were all too content to threaten and bluster, but never act. That was never Jerrah's problem. Gathering loyal officers he laid out his plan and gathered his resources.
Before anyone knew what was happening, Jerrah's subordinates gained control of 6 capital ships while Jerrah himself took command of the Iron Monger. The cannon was removed from the testing facility and placed aboard his flagship. There was nothing the council could do except watch as Jerrah and his loyalist army strike at Garian from its closest moon, the prison planet Tyrin.
And everything was going as he wanted it to. He goaded Admiral Levin and his forces to meet him over proud Garian itself. Jerrah would have beamed Levin's ships right out of the galaxy leaving Garian and the weak kneed planets that depended on her defenseless.
But it didn't work out that way. Now he was just as stranded as his enemies, trillions of miles away from home with no idea if they were still in their present, past or future.
No matter. Jerrah thrived on impossible situations. And by the time he was done here, they would have to rewrite every military manual and history book in the galaxy, just as soon as he destroyed Levin and his forces.
Levin must still be unbalanced from his exposure to the cannon. He must still be disoriented and attempting to get his bearings. Jerrah presumed. The timing could not be more perfect.
He turned to his communications officer who stood beside him awaiting orders. "Can you open a channel to our fighters currently in the air?"
Within seconds, the remaining fighter ships buzzing about Jerrah's fleet suddenly power-dived toward the five boroughs of New York City. A heartbeat later, another two-dozen craft emerged from within the Iron Monger's belly. Like a swarm of angry metallic bees they dove down after their companion fighters.
The activity did not go unnoticed by Levin's officers.
"Numerous fighter class signals departing the Iron Monger." A controller reported.
"Jerrah doesn't waste any time." Levin exclaimed. "Our shields are operational?"
"No, admiral, they're not headed toward us." The same officer interrupted. "They seem to be descending toward the city below."
The commander's thought process was automatic. He knew what Jerrah was attempting.
Regardless of who occupied the planet below, the veteran officer was determined to defend them. "Have all group leaders report to their stations. Initiate all attack procedures and prepare my secondary flight crews! Get me an open channel to my primary flight leaders!"
On the congested Brooklyn Bridge on ramp, countless commuters stood beside and among their vehicles, gazing skyward. They were not sure what it was they were witnessing, but they could clearly see that some of the smaller objects that abruptly appeared in the sky were now descending toward them at a high rate of speed.
"What are they?" Jose wondered, momentarily distracted from assisting the wounded bike rider that lay beside him. "Fighter jets, maybe?" Joyce speculated.
"I've never seen any jets of ours that ever looked like that." Jose said.
The still descending craft were getting closer. The whines of their other worldy engines grew louder in the ears of the bystanders. "You know what?" Joyce began, "I think we need to get the hell out of here."
"Yeah." The Latino EMT agreed, his eyes riveted on the oncoming ships.
"I think you're right."