Chapter 1

Author's note: [ and ] delineate mind-to-mind dialog.

God ... Damn ... It! Where am I this time? Ever since I put on that damned ring, I keep getting bounced from adventure to adventure. After eight years in the military, most of it as a SEAL, and a promising career as an accountant when I got out, I have bounced through time from one era to another, not knowing what will happen to me next.

It all started out when I got that funny looking envelope in the mail one day addressed to Johnathon Wilson. What was peculiar was that everyone knows me as John. Inside was nothing but a short note and a very simple ring, a white gold band that looked a lot like a man's wedding ring. The note said, "Slip this ring on the little finger of your left hand and enjoy an adventure like you have never before experienced." That was all.

Hell, I don't know why I didn't just pitch the whole thing in the trash and go on about my life. Well, yes, I do know why—I was bored to death. I had been at the accounting business for several years and had gotten my CPA. I was making a fair living in a small town, but life had settled into a deep rut. I was not married and had no immediate prospects. I didn't even have a steady girlfriend. Here I was in my mid-thirties and had hit a dead end.

I had no idea what I was getting into when I slipped the ring on my finger. It was way too big for my finger when it went on, but, unaccountably, it immediately shrank to be a proper fit. The problem, now, was that there was no way for me to get it off.

A few moments after the ring settled into place on my finger, the whole world seemed to disappear in a cloud of smoke and a flash of bright light. The next thing I knew, I was stark naked and standing in a line of people, also naked, up on a platform. Other people in a crowd below me were bidding for my services as a slave. I was bought by a man to be trained as a gladiator. I went through that for a while, and, from there, I went through several other adventures of an equally exciting and dangerous sort until this last transfer.

Well, this time was a little different. I found myself seated in a small diner beside a two-lane highway. A full cup of hot coffee was on the table beside me, and that was a welcome change. I sipped the coffee and was further surprised at how good it tasted. I looked around and spotted a calendar on the wall opened to May of 1930. Five of the dates were crossed off, so I figured I was in the early stages of Depression America. Another glance out the window showed me a great expanse of mostly nothing, so I had to be somewhere on the Great Plains of what I would call the Midwest.

That's when I heard the voice of my mentor in my head. [Ah, yes, John, I am glad to see that you are alert. Possibly the coffee had something to do with that. This is a special case for you, and not one of your general adventures. A situation is developing that needs attention on the spot that you are supremely suited for.

[The case involves a potential major change in the time stream of an alternate reality, and it will be up to you to prevent that. A kidnapping will take place in a short while that could cause the demise of a very important ancestor of my current time. The second person is a scientist that makes a discovery that enables the kind of time travel that you are familiar with. We MUST maintain that person's existence.

[The first person of interest is a woman who is the daughter of an industrial baron who has managed to keep his fortune and is doing everything that he can to break the grip of the financial depression that is gripping the world. Yes, he is a major supporter of Franklin Roosevelt, and one of his most important advisers. Your job is to prevent the kidnapping of the woman. This kidnapping is not a part of your familiar time stream, and we do not know very much about it. All we really know for sure is that the kidnapping could cause the death of the woman who is a great-great-grandmother of the scientist in question.

[One of the things we do know is that the person intimately involved with the girl is a man about her age who rides a motorcycle. They get to know each other, we assume, because the girl is a "motorcycle nut" by her own admission. She owns and rides her motorcycle at every opportunity. We want you to be that man, John.

[At present, the woman, Arlene Worthy, is living at a vacation retreat about 10 miles from where you presently sit, and she will be headed in your direction in about 15 minutes. You have some papers in your wallet which identify you as Johnathon Wilson, a special agent of the secret service. They will support your claim if that should become necessary. Your job is to roam about as necessary to look for counterfeit money. That is why you normally wear the clothes of a common working man and drive a motorcycle, as it is much less expensive than an automobile.

[Your motorcycle is special in that it is equipped with two Army BARs (Browning Automatic Rifles) in fixed positions on each side of the fuel tanks. These weapons are hidden behind a special fairing that appears to be there to add streamlining to your motorcycle. There is a special locker affixed over the rear wheel, disguised the same way, which holds a Thompson sub-machine gun (SMG). Affixed to the handle bar is a special bracket which holds the SMG in such a way that it can be fired by your right hand. The bracket allows the SMG to be pivoted horizontally 140° and vertically from -10° to +90°. You will probably keep the SMG in its locked box that only you can open by pressing your thumb against the release button.

[For your personal weapon, we have outfitted you with a .45 caliber automatic Colt pistol (ACP) of the Army 1911A design. It is carried in a shoulder holster under your left arm. Obviously, you have already noticed it. Extra ammunition for all of the weapons is stored in the locked box behind your motorcycle saddle. As usual, you already know how to use all of these weapons and are an expert with them all. Also, you are a champion-quality motorcycle rider.

[Sometime in the next few minutes, I suggest that you pay for your coffee, 3¢, and don't forget the 1¢ tip. Get up and go outside to sit on your motorcycle waiting for the woman to come by. Follow her and somehow get to know her. The rest is up to you. That is all for now.]

I followed instructions and turned my bike so that it faced the road. In less than 10 minutes, a foreign motorcycle in a brand I did not recognize blasted past me. A woman was driving, and she was letting her hair stream loose behind her. Naturally, in this era, nobody wore a safety helmet or even would recognize one if they saw it.

I kicked over my starter and tore through the parking lot to chase the woman. I left quite a plume of dust from the unpaved parking lot as I accelerated onto the highway. Luckily, there were no cars coming from from either direction. Man, she must have been doing over 80 MPH (Miles per Hour). My machine could do 120 MPH, so I had no doubt that I would catch her very quickly.

The ground was mostly gently rolling hills that did not rise very high, so I could see her in the distance. I was pouring on the gas and began to close the distance between us, but suddenly, she seemed to be going faster. Did she speed up to keep me from catching her? Well, I would find out in a few minutes.

It took longer than I would have bet on, but I finally pulled up beside her and glanced at her speedometer—it said 170, so that must be Kilometers per Hour (KPH) or about 105 MPH. I throttled back to stay even with her, and she looked at me and grinned. She pointed to a side road up ahead, and I nodded.

We pulled off there, and she said, "Why haven't I seen you around her before? Oh, my name is Arlene."

I said, "Hello, Arlene, my name is John. I'm new to the territory. That's an interesting motorcycle, what is it?"

"Its a Brough SS100 from England. It's supposed to be damned fast. How did you catch me?"

I grinned as I answered. "You are the most recent victim of the Wilson Racer. I call it that because it can go up to 160 MPH under the right conditions. Actually, it's a reworked Harley-Davidson with so many changes done by my friends and me that the only thing left is the frame and the wheels from the original machine. We started out reworking it as long as five years ago with the idea of winning a few races with it and starting our own company, but this damned Depression caught up to us. We ran out of money about two months ago, but I still had a few bucks left, so I bought out my friends. I might go into production if the economy ever straightens out."

"Wow, that sounds great for the machine results and damned bad for everything else. So, what are you doing now?"

"Mostly, I travel around the country entering races for the few dollars that I can pick up with the winnings and side bets. I manage to get by, but I sure ain't getting rich! How about you? With a machine like that, you aren't missing many meals."

"My dad did well in manufacturing and has managed to hang on to his money. I'm living at the country place about 20 miles over that way. Come on by for a drink, unless, of course, you are some sort of government agent." Fortunately, she laughed at her remark, and I agreed to follow her home.

We pulled into a country place that was more like a palace for Sleeping Beauty or somebody else from fairyland. To call the mansion sumptuous was an insult. I have never seen a more lavishly decorated home, but every bit of what I saw was in good taste and not garish. Yep, it was obvious that this woman's family had money to burn. Furthermore, the more of her and her surroundings that I saw just emphasized how ripe she was for a kidnapping. It looked to me like her father could hand out a million dollars in ransom and not notice the change in his bank account.

We went into a room near the living room and there was a bar complete with a resident bartender. Now that was conspicuous consumption! He dropped the newspaper that he was reading and jumped to attention the moment we walked in. He looked like he relished the chance to do something beside relax.

Arlene ordered a vodka martini, and I ordered scotch on the rocks. Our drinks were produced with dispatch, and she led me onto a balcony where we could relax and enjoy the drinks and conversation. I couldn't help wondering if she was sizing me up for a visit to her bedroom, but I made a point of not leaning on that possibility.

We sat in the shade and sipped our drinks while talking about nothing much, but spending a lot of time doing it. It was obvious that she was measuring me for something, but I could not tell what it was. All I could do was let the words flow and see where they led.

She did react when I removed my leather jacket and she saw my .45. Her eyes got big at that, and I had to say something. "I see that you saw the obvious. I carry the gun because I have been held up twice, but I only lost my money the first time. In the second case, I couldn't afford to pay for the funeral, so I just left the body at the side of the road. I don't know how many unlucky people he had previously stopped, but he had a little over $100 in his pocket. That carried me nicely for a month."

"I guess that means, then, that you know how to use that weapon and are well versed in the mechanics of the job."

"Yes, I guess that you can say that. My father was an expert with all kinds of firearms, and he taught me all that I could learn."

"How about a demonstration? We have a shooting range behind the house that we use for tuning up shotguns. Would you show me what you can do with that ACP?"

Well, Arlene just proved that she knew something about guns, though I didn't know how much. She continued with, "I could get my 9 mm Luger and we could have a little contest. Are you interested?"

"Absolutely! I have never yet turned down a challenge at any sort of shooting. I don't always win, but I also never embarrass myself."

We took our glasses back to the bar and I waited there while she went to fetch her pistol. The bartender said, "My name is Jack. You will need to know that if you hang around here for very long."

"Hello, Jack. My name is John. Honestly, I don't know how long I will be welcome because I plan to whip Arlene's ass at the range." We both laughed at that just as Arlene returned.

"Come on, John. Let's see if you can shoot better than li'l ole me." She led me out to a shooting range that fit with the rest of the house. That is, it was as modern for 1930 as a shooter could hope to find. There was even ear protection, and I was glad of that because the ACP has a real bark to it.

We took a minute getting set up before Arlene mounted a silhouette target on the frame and sent it 50 feet away. "I'll shoot first to give you some idea of what you have to beat." With that, she fired a full magazine of 9 mm bullets at the target. When she rolled it back, there was a neat hole about 4 inches in diameter where the heart would be. Dammit, that woman was right—she could shoot!

I had to try to beat that, and this was my first time at shooting an ACP in a very long time. However, I trusted the muscle memory that had been implanted in me and confidently drew my pistol. I didn't try to do anything fancy, I just shot at a fresh target. I fired the moment the pistol had cycled and I had reacquired the proper aiming point.

I emptied the 7-shot magazine at the target and took the time to reload before I did anything else. Arlene nodded in approval as I did that. She pushed the button to retrieve the target and laid her target over mine. We both had hit very close to the position of the heart, but the hole left by my bullets was smaller than hers. She gasped when she saw that and stuck out her hand. "It is a supreme pleasure to meet a man who actually can shoot better than me! May I try your ACP?"

Well, I really had no choice and handed her my pistol. I ran out a new target and she set herself to begin shooting. Her grouping with the unfamiliar ACP was almost as good as what she had done with her Luger, and I was impressed. She handed the pistol back to me, and I reloaded while she retrieved the target and laid it over my target. Naturally, she did not have my advantage with the honed muscle memory, so her grouping was larger than mine; however, it was not much larger than the pattern from her Luger.

I congratulated her on her accuracy, and she smiled prettily at me. It was obvious how pleased she was with herself. Hell, it was a damned good example of pistol shooting and would have made any instructor happy. I said, "Maybe you should switch to the ACP if there is any chance that you might need to protect yourself. After all, it does have much better stopping-power than the 9 mm."

"I think that you are right. I'll go into town tomorrow and buy one."

"Was that the first time that you had fired the ACP? If so, you did an impressive job."

"No, I have fired one before, but that was my first time back then. I think that I could do better with some practice."

"I think so, too. Do you have an instructor?"

"No, I don't. Would you be interested in the job? I assure you that it would pay well, and there are fringe benefits."

Now, I had been propositioned before, but never so blatantly. Whatever you might say about Arlene Worthy, she was not the coy type. Well, I could not afford to turn down this offer. It fit exactly into my assignment from my mentor, so I jumped at the opportunity. Of course, I was careful about the way I did it.