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  QUESTION: What had the colonel taken with him?

  ANSWER: Gold, the gun, the blueprints.

  QUESTION: How did these fit together?

  ANSWER: Think. Gold is money, good any time, any place. When McCulloch arrived back in 1858 he would dive into Dixie, good old slave-holding Dixie. He would be right at home there.

  But he had taken the gun. The approaching war—and the deadly submachine gun. They went together.

  The psychiatrist’s report had suggested that McCulloch was a paranoid with criminal schizophrenic tendencies. And his idea was as insane as he was. Just about the most insane idea that a certified nutcase had ever dreamed up.

  Colonel McCulloch wanted to alter history so the South would win the Civil War.

  QUESTION: Who could stop him?

  ANSWER: Only you, Troy Harmon. Only you.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Tor Copyright Notice

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY- FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX - July 1, 1863

  Also by Harry Harrison

  Copyright Page

  ONE

  The Capital Beltway wraps Washington, D.C. in a concrete noose. Its six lanes of traffic swing wide through the forest land of Virginia, brush the outskirts of the dormitory town of Alexandria, then cross the Potomac into Maryland. Land is cheaper than in the District so that office buildings and pollution free factories have been located here, appearing suddenly in forest clearings. Exit 42 branches off in this area and leads to a divided highway. But just before the stop sign there is an unmarked country lane that disappears away among the trees.

  The old Pontiac rumbled out of this beltway exit and turned down the lane. Just around the first bend there was a large, white and windowless building. The driver took no notice of this nor of the sign above the entrance that welcomed him to Weeks Electronics Laboratory 2. He drove past it and continued along the lane until he was out of sight of the building. Only then did he pull off into a roadside clearing and kill the engine.

  After emerging from the car he carefully pushed the door shut behind him, instead of slamming it, so that it made no sound. Then he stood with his back to the fender, looking at his wristwatch, oblivious to the first glorious russets and golds of the autumn foliage around him. He was single-minded and intense, with all of his attention concentrated on the watch. A casual observer would have seen a man who was a bit over six feet tall with a not unhandsome face, although his nose was perhaps a little too sharp for his features. However his smoothly tanned skin, his brown hair just touched with gray at the temples, gave him a most distinguished air. His forehead puckered as he stared intently at the watch; a familiar expression that had left a permanent cleft between his eyes. He was dressed in a nondescript trenchcoat, dark blue trousers and black shoes.

  He nodded with sudden satisfaction, pressed a button on the watch, then turned and walked off among the trees. He moved quietly, but swiftly, until he reached an oak tree that had been blown down by a storm; quite recently because the leaves were just beginning to drop. Then he eased himself down onto the ground and crawled for at least fifteen feet in the shelter of the tree before climbing to his feet again and hurrying forward.

  Less than twenty yards further on, the grove ended in a grassy ditch that ran along the base of a chain-link fence. Beyond the fence was green parkland interspersed with occasional clumps of trees; a corner of the Weeks Electronics building was just visible through the foliage. The man started down into the ditch—then drew back quickly to the cover of the trees. A moment later a uniformed guard holding a German Shepherd on a short leash walked by on the other side of the fence. As soon as they were out of sight the man hurried forward again, down into the ditch, pulling on a pair of leather gloves as he went. Without stopping he swarmed up the fence until he stood, balancing on the top, just below the double strand of barbed wire. He flexed his knees, extended his arms to keep his balance, then jumped smoothly over the wire to land on the other side.

  Then he ran, head down, fast, aiming for the nearest clump of trees. But before he could reach it a jeep raced into sight, cutting sharply across the grass, braking to a skidding stop before him. The guard seated beside the driver had his carbine raised and aimed at the intruder who stopped, then turned slowly to face him. The guard looked on in silence as the tall man lifted his arm slowly, glanced at his watch, then pressed the button in its side.

  “Exactly six minutes, nine and three-tenths seconds, Lopez,” he said. The guard nodded expressionlessly and lowered the gun.

  “Yes, colonel,” the guard said.

  “That’s not good, not very goddamned good at all.” He climbed into the back of the jeep. “Let’s get to the guardhouse.”

  They drove around the laboratory to a low building that was concealed from the road by the larger building. A group of uniformed men stood beside it, watching in silence as the jeep arrived. A gray-haired guard with sergeant’s stripes on his sleeves stepped forward when the vehicle ground to a stop. The colonel stepped down then pointed to his watch. “What do you think of six minutes, nine and three-tenths from the time I went into the woods from the road until the time I was intercepted?”

  “I don’t think very much of that at all, Colonel McCulloch,” the sergeant said.

  “Neither do I, Greenbaum, neither do I. I was halfway to the lab before the guard turned up. If I had been an intruder I could have done a lot of interesting things in that time. Do you have anything to say?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you have any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “None? Aren’t you interested in how I got as far as the fence without being detected?”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Good.” Colonel McCulloch nodded as he would at an idiot child. “But your interest is a little late, sergeant. Exactly one week too late. That’s how long ago I noticed that a newly fallen tree had blocked part of the field of vision of one of the remote TV cameras. I waited one week for you or one of your men to notice it. None of you did. I therefore arranged this demonstration to show just how lax security is around here.”

  “I’ll see that it’s tightened up, colonel …”

  “No you won’t, Greenbaum. Someone else will. You are losing those stripes, taking a salary cut to match, and a reprimand goes into your record …” br />
  “No it doesn’t, McCulloch. Because I’m quitting this job. I’m through.”

  McCulloch nodded agreement. “Yes, you are through. And you have just described yourself as well. A quitter. You quit after serving twenty years in the Army too. Now you’re quitting—”

  “Bullshit, colonel, if you will excuse the expression.” Greenbaum glowered in anger, fists clenched. “I got out of the service to get away from chickenshits like you. But I just didn’t get far enough away. You’re in charge of security at this lab. Which means you got responsibilities too. If you gave a shit you would have reported that tree. We’re supposed to be in this together, you’re supposed to help us. Not pull this boyscout and indian crap. Well I’m getting just as far away from that kind of stuff as I can. Beginning right now.”

  He turned and stamped away. McCulloch watched him go in silence. Only when Greenbaum was out of sight did he turn to the silent guards.

  “I want a written report on this exercise from each one of you. On my desk in the morning.” He waved Lopez out of the jeep and took his place. “Get me back to my car,” he told the driver, then turned to the other guards as the engine started up. “Every one of you is expendable. Screw up like Greenbaum and you go just the way he did.”

  McCulloch did not look back as they drove away.

  At the car he unlocked the trunk while the jeep turned and vanished back down the lane. He took off his coat and threw it into the trunk. He was wearing his uniform underneath. It was empty of all decorations and identifying insignia, other than the silver eagles on his shoulders. He reached into the trunk again and took out his uniform cap, settled it firmly on his head, then took out a black attache case as well before slamming the lid shut. A few minutes later he was on MacArthur Boulevard driving south towards the District.

  It was a short ride. A few miles down the road he turned into a large shopping center, where he parked close to a branch of the D. C. National Bank. He locked the car and went into the bank, taking the attache case with him. It was a brief visit. He emerged less than ten minutes later, got into his car and drove away.

  He was watched most carefully by the man in the black Impala that was parked two rows away. The man raised a microphone and spoke into it.

  “Able One to Able Two. George is now leaving the lot and turning south on MacArthur. He’s yours now. Over.”

  “Will do. Out.”

  The man replaced the microphone on the dash and got out of the car. He was lean and blond and unremarkably dressed in a gray suit, white shirt and dark tie. He entered the bank and crossed to the receptionist.

  “My name is Ripley,” he said. “I would like to see the manager. About some investments.”

  “Of course, Mr. Ripley.” She picked up the phone. “I’ll see if Mr. Bryce is free.”

  The manager stood up from behind the desk and shook his hand when he entered the office. “Mr. Ripley. Now just what can I do to help you?”

  “This is a government matter, sir. Would you please look at my identification.”

  He took a leather wallet from his breast pocket, opened it and passed it across the desk. Bryce looked at the gold badge and the accompanying card behind the plastic window and nodded. “Well, Mr. Ripley,” he said. “How can I be of aid to the Federal Bureau of Investigation?” He started to hand back the ID but the agent stopped him.

  “I would like you to authenticate the identification, sir. I believe that you were given an unlisted number for use if the occasion should arise?”

  Bryce nodded and opened the top drawer of his desk. “Yes, I’ve used it once before. Here it is. If you will excuse me.”

  The bank manager dialed the number, then identified himself to the party at the other end. He read off the ID number from the wallet, then placed his hand over the receiver.

  “They want to know the case reference.”

  “Tell them Investigation George.”

  The bank manager repeated the words, then nodded and hung up. He passed the ID back to the FBI agent. “I was instructed to cooperate with you and to give you any information that you might need about one of our clients. But I must say that this is not a normal practice …”

  “I realize that, Mr. Bryce. But you are now involved in a security investigation with a top priority. If you refuse to cooperate I must go to your superiors and—”

  “No, please! That’s not what I am suggesting. Please don’t misunderstand me. You have my cooperation, of course. I was just saying that information about our clients is always confidential—in the normal course of events. But in a matter of national security, very different, naturally. How can I be of aid?”

  Bryce was talking rapidly, unaware when he took the handkerchief from his breast pocket to pat his suddenly moist forehead. The agent nodded, unsmiling.

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Bryce. I hope you understand that your voluntary cooperation makes you liable to prosecution for violation of national security should you mention this to anyone else?”

  “Does it? I didn’t know—but of course, I’ll speak to no one.”

  “Very good. A few minutes ago a man left this bank after transacting some business. His name is Wesley McCulloch and he is a colonel in the United States Army. No, don’t write that down. You won’t have any difficulty in memorizing this information. You will find the bank employee he dealt with and bring back the record of any transaction or transactions the colonel may have made. You will tell no one the reason for your interest.”

  “Of course not!”

  “We appreciate that, Mr. Bryce. If you don’t mind I will wait here until you return.”

  “Yes, please, make yourself comfortable. This should not take a very long time.”

  The manager returned in less than five minutes with a file folder in his hand. He carefully closed and locked the door, then opened the folder before him on the desk.

  “Colonel McCulloch made a purchase …”

  “Did he pay by check or with cash?”

  “Cash. Large denomination bills. He purchased gold and paid for it in cash. Eight-thousand, five hundred and thirty-two dollars. He took the gold away with him. Is that the information you wanted, Mr. Ripley?”

  The agent nodded and smiled, ever so slightly.

  “Yes, Mr. Bryce. That is exactly what I wanted to find out.”

  TWO

  Sergeant Troy Harmon rode the Metro in from the Pentagon, wondering just what the hell this assignment was all about. It was so hush-hush that he had been told nothing, absolutely nothing about it. Other than to get over soonest to this address on Massachusetts just up from Union Station. Transportation was not provided. He rode the Metro, looking down at the thick, sealed envelope he was carrying. His own records, the history of his nine years in the Army. Decorations, promotions, goof-ups, Fitzimmons Hospital records when they dug the shrapnel out of his back. Two years in Nam without a scratch—then a short round from his own supporting battery. A Purple Heart from a chunk of Detroit steel. Then a transfer to the MP’s, then G2, military intelligence. The records were all here. It would be interesting to look at them. And military suicide if he were to open the envelope.

  And what organization was he going to on Massachusetts Avenue? He knew most of the spook outfits, starting with the CIA out in Langley right on down. But he had never even heard of this one. Report to Mr. Kelly. And who the hell was Kelly? Enough. He’d find out soon enough. He looked up to check the station, McPherson Square, then looked back down just in time to catch the eye of the girl sitting across from him. She looked away quickly. A very foxy girl, what they used to call a high-yellow when he was a boy. She glanced back again and he gave her his toothpaste commercial smile; lips pulled back so his white teeth showed in nice contrast to his dark-brown skin. This time she raised her nose slightly and sniffed as she turned away.

  Rebuffed! He had to smile. Didn’t she see what she was missing? Five foot ten of handsome, clean-cut soldier.

  The train slowed as it entered Met
ro Center. Troy was the first one off and he stayed ahead of the pack as they rushed for the escalator to the Red Line. He rode up into the indirectly lit cavern, more like a futuristic spaceship hangar than a subway. It made the old Independent in New York look like the filthy hole that it really was.

  There was a cool, autumn bite to the air as he walked down Massaschusetts checking the numbers. There it was, a tall, brownstone house, just across New Jersey. No name, no identifying plate, nothing. He climbed the steps and pressed the polished brass button, well aware of the fisheye of the micro TV camera above it. The door buzzed and he went through into an airlock arrangement, with another door ahead of him that did not open until the outer one had closed. Very neat. And another TV pickup here as well. Inside was a marble-floored lobby with a desk at the far end. His heels clacked as he walked the length of it. The receptionist, a very cool redhead in a very tight sweater looked up at him and smiled.

  “May I help you?”

  “Sergeant Harmon. Mr. Kelly is expecting me.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Harmon. If you will take a seat I’ll let him know that you are here.”

  The couch was too deep and soft to be comfortable, so he sat on the edge of it. There was a copy of Fortune and a copy of Jet on the low table in front of him. What was this—catering to his special needs? He tried not to smile as he picked up Jet. Maybe they were trying to tell him something. If so he had got the message a long time ago. Pics of a big party at the Hotel Theresa, then babies with rat bites in the slums just a few blocks away. It was a different world to him. He had grown up in Queens, in South Jamaica, a nice, secure middle-class area of frame houses and green trees. He knew as much about Harlem as he did about the back of the Moon.

  “Mr. Kelly will see you now.”

  He dropped the magazine, took up his envelope, and appreciatively followed the receptionist’s sweetly rotating bottom into an adjoining office.

  “Come in, Sergeant Harmon. Pleased to meet you,” Kelly said, coming from behind his desk to take Troy’s hand. The way he pronounced Harmon was positive proof that he was from Boston. His elegantly tailored three-piece pinstripe suggested Back Bay and Harvard as well. “I’ll take that envelope, thank you.”