Chapter 17

"We don't get many folks in here who just want a plain van," the grinning car salesman told Ken. "Are you sure I can't talk you into a few upgrades? Some carpeting in the rear? Or at least some side windows?"

The van in question was a 2008 model. According to the research done by Spankworth in the computer records, it had just been delivered to Mission Motors from the factory two days before. It was as stripped down as a van could be. The paint was factory white, the floorboards were bare metal, and the only windows, aside from the windshield were on the driver, passenger, and rear doors. In short, it was the perfect vehicle for transporting a special forces team to Roseville and then bringing a captured enemy team back to San Francisco.

"That won't be necessary," Ken replied. "I'm gonna customize it myself. It's for a business I'm going to be starting up."

"Oh yeah?" the salesman said, feigning interest. "What kinda business?"

"A mobile coffee service," Ken told him, repeating the cover story he'd come up with back aboard the Calistoga long before they'd even come through the wormhole. "I'm gonna install espresso machines, cappuccino makers, coffee grinders, and brewing machines in the back. Once I'm set up I'm gonna go around to places where people work the night shift and deliver coffee drinks right to their work stations. I figure I'll make some contacts at hospitals, manufacturing plants, places like that."

"No kidding?" the salesman said. "You think people will go for that?"

"Fuckin' aye," Ken replied, only realizing after the words had come out of his mouth that it wasn't exactly a polite acknowledgment in this time.

The salesman-whose name was Bob-wasn't offended. He laughed loudly as if that was the funniest thing he'd ever heard and then began trying to get Ken to buy that carpet upgrade at least. "You don't want your coffee machines sitting on bare metal now, do you?"

"I've already got some carpeting in my garage," Ken told him.

"Well, I'm sure it's not like our custom carpeting though," Bob said, not missing a beat. He went on for several more minutes, explaining how Mission Motors' specially treated stain-resistant carpet was designed for use in a commercial van where standard home carpeting was not.

Ken listened respectfully, keeping a neutral expression on his face throughout the spiel despite the fact that he was annoyed as hell. He had always hated dealing with commission sales people of any kind but had a particular hatred for car salesmen. Being on Mars for the past few years, where there was no such thing as commission sales, had served to increase the annoyance he was feeling now. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing that Bob and all like him would one day be made obsolete by a common sense revolution.

"That all sounds very intriguing," Ken said when he finally wound down, "but I think I'll just take the van as it is."

"Whatever you want, Mr. Frawler," Bob said. "That's the way we like it here. Just like that hamburger place. So, how about we go talk some business, huh?"

"Sounds like an ass..." he snapped his mouth shut, cognizant that he'd just about told him it sounded like an ass fuck. He was really going to have to watch his Martian expressions. "It... uh... sounds like a plan."

They went inside the building, walking past the showroom, where shiny models of the latest SUVs and hybrids were set up on display. Attractive women in business dresses staffed a reception area in one corner. Soft music played on an overhead speaker system and a few salesman wearing suits and ties wandered here and there, eyeing for potential customers. Bob led him into a small office with a table and a few chairs and gestured toward a chair. Ken sat down and Bob gave him a Styrofoam cup of coffee unasked. Ken took a sip and almost gagged at the taste. Even the crappy coffee aboard Calistoga was worlds better than this garbage.

"Now then," Bob said. "I can see you're interested in the van there. That's one of our best models, even stripped down like that. The list price is $38,000 and I'm afraid there's not a lot of room for negotiation on that figure. That's not very much above invoice you know."

"Of course not," Ken said dryly.

"Why don't we start with what kind of payments you're looking for? You said your credit was good?"

"My credit is excellent," Ken said, hoping that was true. After all, the man named Ken Frawler hadn't even existed 48 hours before, but Sampson up on Calistoga had created an ideal person as far as Bob and his sales manager would be concerned. Ken Frawler owned his own home in Marin County, in which he had accumulated 35% equity. He had worked for the past ten years as a well-paid aircraft mechanic for United Airlines at San Francisco International Airport. He had very little credit card or other consumer debt. He also had more than twelve thousand dollars in his savings account, an amount that promised a nice down payment on an automobile loan.

He dickered back and forth with the salesman for about twenty minutes, more to keep in character than out of any real need to bring the price down. After all, when one could create money in one's account at will, one hardly had to worry about the price of a van. Finally he conceded the bickering after bringing the price down to $36,000, though he was sure he could've dickered down another two or three grand had he really wanted to. The Sales Manager came in at that point and collected Ken's driver's license and had him fill out the credit paperwork. As he did so, the Sales Manager took his shot at selling him a few upgrades and an extended service warranty, all of which Ken politely declined.

Ken's information was run through the computer and everything turned out to be just as perfect as promised. He was given nearly the highest score possible on his credit rating. That, coupled with the $3600 check he wrote as a down payment, entitled him to a 24-month loan at an interest rate of 5.3%. The first monthly payment-which Ken knew would never be made-was due on December 1. By that time he should be well on his way back to deep space and the return wormhole and all records of the van's manufacture, ownership, and purchase would have been purged from Earth history by Sampson and his Intelligence Department. The only record of the van ever having been sold to anyone would be in Bob the salesman and Rick the Sales Manager's memory. And how likely would it be that they would remember him by then? Not very likely since he'd gone to great pains to make himself a forgettable customer.

The paperwork took the better part of an hour to complete but finally he was handed a set of keys and led out to his new van.

"Good luck with that coffee thing, Mr. Frawler," Bob told him as he climbed into the driver's seat. "And thank you for doing business with us."

"No skin off my ass," he said automatically.

"Huh?" Bob said, his eyes wide.

Ken winced internally. Gotta watch that, he chastised himself. "Uh... I mean... you're welcome. Thanks for all your help."

He closed the door quickly before he could make any more verbal errors and fumbled with the key for a moment, finally locating the ignition slot. This would be his first time driving an automobile in... well, nearly 195 years, but in a relative six years. Now he would have to drive a large vehicle with limited visibility in San Francisco traffic, which was among the worst in the nation. He hoped like hell he didn't crash the thing pulling out of the parking lot.

He fired up the diesel engine and spent a few moments familiarizing himself with the controls on this model. Things had changed little in the three years since he'd been placed in storage as far as dashboard layouts went so he took a deep breath, fastened his seatbelt, and dropped the gearshift into drive. He released the parking brake and pulled forward, ignoring the friendly wave of Bob the salesman as he weaved in and out of rows of vehicles in front of the service center. He waited a long time for a break in traffic on the main road but finally was able to pull out. He began heading toward the hotel.

The skills of driving, he found, were like riding a bicycle or performing cunnilingus. One did not forget them or lose them easily. Within three blocks it was like he'd never been away. He was stopping and starting smoothly, checking his mirrors when appropriate, his confidence high that he would be able to complete the driving portion of the mission flawlessly.

He arrived at the hotel and pulled into the parking lot, easing the van into a spot near the very back. Once the engine was shut down he pulled out his cell phone and dialed it up on Martian communications mode. Spankworth, the mission commander, answered his hail.

"I'm down in the parking lot," Ken told him. "Everything went well."

"That's what I like to hear," Spankworth replied. "We're on our way."

They came down and gathered around the van, all of their bags, including Ken's, with them. There was no need for them to officially check out of their accommodations. Spankworth had already accessed the hotel computer through his cell phone and erased all record of their ever having been there in the first place, even going so far as to remove the money Ken had paid from the hotel's bank account in case some auditor down the line noticed a discrepancy.

"We're going to be riding in this fucking thing?" McGraw asked nervously as she looked over the van. "It's a Laura-damned death trap!"

"It's safer than most of the small cars," Spankworth said reassuringly, although it was obvious that he was less than thrilled about riding in it as well.

"Yeah," said Wing. "The way a pistol is safer than a rifle."

"We knew this would be a dangerous mission when we signed up for it," Spankworth told them. "No sense complaining about it now. Come on, let's get these identification placards put on so we can get our asses out of here."

The identification placards were a set of forged California commercial license plates, part of the belongings they had brought down with them from Calistoga. While Ken used a screwdriver to install them on the bumpers, Spankworth used his PC to access the DMV computer and make them legitimate. He matched them to the vehicle identification number, or VIN, in the dash of the van and just like that, the van was officially registered to Ken Frawler of Mill Valley, California. A few more minutes and he had accessed the Interstate Insurance Corporation computer and programmed in full coverage for the vehicle.

"Everything's set," Spankworth said when he was done, which happened to be at the same time as Ken finished his task. "Let's move."

"Fuckin' aye," Ken said, stowing the screwdriver away. "Let's move."

They piled in and Ken closed the doors behind them. Spankworth, pulling rank, climbed into the passenger seat and spent a few moments fumbling with his seatbelt before finally figuring out how to secure it. Bingbutt, McGraw, and Wing sat unsecured on the bare floor, their backs against the metal walls. Ken fired up the engine once more and pulled out of the hotel's parking lot. He drove with the flow of traffic, making his way toward the freeway entrance that led to the Bay Bridge and their route out of San Francisco.

Traffic was about as light as it ever got during a weekday in San Francisco and it took only fifteen minutes before they mounted the span. At the far end of the bridge the highway split into two separate Interstates. Ken looked at the sign as they approached. Staying to the left would take him to I-80 East toward Sacramento. To the right was I-880 South, towards San Jose. He stared at the sign for a long time as they approached, his heart pulling him strongly to the right. He listened to his head instead, and kept the van in the far left lane.

"We have engine shut-down, Huff," reported Darla Ogle. "That oughta put us right where we want to be."

"Thanks, Darla," said Huffy, who was strapped into her command chair and smoking a cigarette. They had just completed a three-hour deceleration burn at .05G, about the lowest specific thrust their fusion engines were capable of producing. The artificial gravity generated by such a burn was so slight as to be unnoticed. Crewmembers could still float around and propel themselves up and down through the decks, the only difference a slight tendency to drift toward the floor. Huffy hadn't even bothered to sound the acceleration alarm at the beginning of the burn.

"Should I spin us around now?" Darla asked next.

"Hold off on that for a few," she answered. "Detection, how we looking on the target? Confirm matched velocities."

"Working it, Huff," Spammer said, his head bent over his screen. "At a glance, it looks good though."

"Facts, Spammy," Huffy said. "Get me some ass-tapping facts. I don't want what it looks like at a glance. It would be kind of embarrassing if that tub of shit detected us because we were moving a hair faster than they are and got into their feeble little range."

"Sorry, Huff," he said, somewhat taken aback by her gruff tone. Well, she was under a lot of stress, being in command of the most important mission in the history of the solar system. He began to work the numbers, confirming what he already suspected. "Okay, got it," he told Huffy. "We're ten kilometers from Rumsfeld, right in their baffles, orbits and velocities matched exactly. They've made no move that would indicate to me they know we're back here. No radio or laser transmission, no evasive maneuvers."

"That's what I wanna hear, Spammy," Huffy said, smiling. "That earns you a rim-job later. Helm, go ahead and turn us around so we can bring weapons to bear. Use minimum thrust. We aren't in a hurry here."

"Right, Huff," Ogle said, her fingers going to her controls.

The maneuvering thrusters began to fire, burning at their lowest settings. Slowly, meter-by-meter, Calistoga turned around on its axis, so its front end was facing Rumsfeld's rear end in the classic pursuit formation. It took the better part of thirty minutes to accomplish but the heat signature generated by the thrusters remained well outside the detection range of a front line WestHem stealth ship, let alone a Cheney-class.

"Weapons," Huffy addressed the weapons panel once the turn was complete, "how we looking? We got a lock on them?"

"Oh fuckin' aye, Huff," replied Lieutenant Kelly Killigan, the officer in charge of that particular section. "We got the lasers locked on their engine room, their APU, and their environmental control section. You just say the word and that piece of shit is Swiss fucking cheese."

"That too is what I like to hear," Huffy said, smiling in a predatory manner. Though they were much too close to use their matter/anti-matter torpedoes against Rumsfeld (not to mention that the Earthlings would surely notice a two gigaton explosion taking place in low orbit, especially since it would fry most of their communications satellites), the high-energy lasers would be more than enough to take out the ship if it became necessary. Hopefully, when the time came, they would surrender peacefully. Having a disabled WestHem stealth ship in Earth orbit would create complications for the exit strategy. Not that a contingency plan had not been made for such an event, it would just be easier for all concerned if they didn't have to tow Rumsfeld out of orbit and sling it into the sun on their way back to the return wormhole.

Now that Rumsfeld was safely bracketed, Huffy was able to turn her attention to other matters. She turned the con over to Killigan and unstrapped from her seat. With a few acrobatic twists and turns, she was facing the inter-deck ladder. She kicked off her chair and pulled herself down, arriving in an upside-down orientation before the Intelligence Department's secured doorway. A tap of her hand on the control gained her entrance and she pulled herself inside, flipping over to right-side-up orientation as she came in. The room was crowded, as usual, with off-duty crewmembers occupying every spare computer terminal to view Earthling broadcasts. A group of them over in the corner were watching something called Fear Factor with horrified concentration mixed with hilarity. In the other corner, Rigger Johannesburg and Slurry Frazier were sharing a terminal to continue gathering every cellular phone conversation they could home in on.

Sampson was in his own command chair, smoking a cigarette and paging through two screens worth of text files. A sealed cup of coffee sat secured in the magnetic holder beside him. He looked up as she came drifting over. "How's the juices flowing today, boss?" he asked her, picking up his pack and offering her a smoke.

"Nice and slippery," she told him, taking the smoke and leaning in to get a light from him. She blew out her drag and then positioned herself over his shoulder. Sampson and most of his staff were attempting to find the WestHem team's hideout location so they could be taken down there instead of at the hospital. Like the attempt to intercept the ship before it established orbit, it was a mission that didn't hold much hope. "Any luck?" Huffy asked.

"Nothing," Sampson told her. "I've been pouring through the records of every hotel, motel, and sleazy fleabag room rental establishment in the entire Sacramento region looking for something that stands out. There's just no way of knowing if I'm seeing anything or not. The rest of the team is looking through the credit reporting agencies, DMV, and automobile sales records, hoping to find an entry that doesn't fit well. Nothing from them either."

She nodded, taking another drag. "Well, what can you do? If nothing else, we've got the ship bracketed and our own team is almost in position. Things are still looking good."

"I just wish we could figure out how many people they sent down," Sampson said. "That's the vital piece of information."

Huffy shrugged. "I know what you mean," she said. "Hopefully, we'll bag everyone at the hospital. I can't imagine why they'd send down more than they need for that part of the mission. If worse comes to worse, though, and we do miss someone, at least there's the inoculation they gave them. If we have to leave one of their agents on Earth when we leave he won't be able to do too much damage since he'll be dead in ten days anyway."

"Cold comfort," he said gloomily. "There's just no telling how much damage to the time stream a person can do in ten days."

"Not as much as he could do in a lifetime," she said optimistically. "We work with what we get."

"Fuckin' aye," he agreed. "I'd just feel a lot better if we had a handle on every one they've put down there."

Roseville, California October 27, 2007

The house where Mark Whiting lived with his mother, father, and older brother was unremarkable for the time period. It was a simple two-story tract house in a middle-class neighborhood full of similar houses. The neatly mowed front lawn was covered with a carpet of maple leaves from the tree planted in the middle of it. The window shades were all pulled, blocking visual examination of the interior, but Ken and McGraw knew their subjects were in there.

They were in the front seat of the van, parked two blocks away, pulled legally to the curb adjacent to the side-yard of one of the houses. In case one of the neighbors became curious about their presence and called the Roseville Police to come check them out, Spankworth, back at the motel, was monitoring the police radio frequency and had tapped into their computer-aided dispatch system. If a patrol car was sent in their direction, they would know about it long in advance.

"How much longer until they leave?" McGraw asked him, a hint of impatience in her voice.

Ken looked at the display on his forged Timex watch. It was 9:30 AM. "Any time now, I would think," he told her. "Mark's appointment is at ten. Most people like to get there a little early."

"Static," she said, leaning back in her chair and stretching.

The appointment he was referring to was with Mark Whiting's pediatrician-Dr. Martin Still. Today was the day that Laura Whiting's pre-pubescent great-great-great grandfather would visit Dr. Still, suffering from a nasty case of laryngitis, and the recommendation for surgery would be made. The Martians considered it unlikely that the WestHem team would attempt to move on Mark Whiting today, but it was not something that could be ruled out entirely. Therefore, Ken and McGraw had been assigned to tail him during his travels just in case. Ken was glad for the assignment, even though it would likely not bear fruit. It got him out of the motel room for a while and let him explore his time period a bit. As they drove around he relished almost everything he saw that was absent in his Martian life. He loved the traffic jams, the haze of smog that hung over the city, the smell of burned hydrocarbons, even the clothing of the natives. It had been years since he'd seen a woman dressed in anything but shorts and a half-shirt. Now he saw them in tight jeans, in business dresses, in pantsuits. He was forced to conclude that Martian dress did get a bit old after awhile and that there was at least something to be said for fashion.

"The vehicle access door is opening," McGraw said suddenly, perking up a bit.

"You mean the garage door?" Ken asked, looking and seeing that it was indeed sliding up on its track.

"Whatever."

As soon as the door was open a burgundy Chevy Suburban backed slowly down the driveway to the street. Zooming in with a pair of period binoculars, McGraw was able to make a positive identification of the two occupants. "It's the Whitings," she said, a bit of religious awe in her tone. This was, after all, the relative of a figure that Martians worshiped like God.

Ken fired up the engine of the van. "Right on schedule," he said. "I'll wait until they pass and then slip in behind them. I don't think Mrs. Whiting will notice a tail." Mr. Whiting might have, since he was a federal agent. He thanked Laura the patriarch of the family had gone to work today.

He pulled out and stayed about two blocks behind them, the large vehicle easy to tail through the light mid-morning traffic. Mrs. Whiting made his task very easy. She was a cautious and courteous driver, never running through yellow traffic lights or speeding. McGraw had the isotope scanner open on her lap. It was probing the surrounding area for any trace of the genetic manipulator device the WestHems planned to use. So far, nothing was jiggling it.

"Why are they driving in an all-terrain vehicle to the doctor's office?" McGraw asked. "They don't have to go onto unpaved roads to get there, right?"

"Right," Ken said with a chuckle. "Most of the people who own those things in this time have never taken them off the road and don't even know how to put them in four-wheel drive. They're just status symbols. Families buy them because they tell others that we're an exciting family that does off-road things and goes on adventures, even though that's rarely the case. What ends up happening is that the SUVs use so much gas and are so expensive to operate, that the person who stays home and shuttles the kids around ends up driving it while the person who commutes to work drives something smaller that gets better mileage."

McGraw took her eyes off the scanner to give him a look. Seeing that he wasn't kidding, she shook her head a little. "No wonder people like Slurry make a living out of trying to understand your people, Frazier," she said. "It's something that will take a career or two to accomplish."

Dr. Still's office was in a medical building about half a mile from Roseville Community Hospital. Mrs. Whiting pulled into the parking lot and slid her Suburban into a spot near the back. Ken pulled the van into the parking lot of a strip mall across the street and parked facing the building. They watched as Mrs. Whiting and young Mark got out of the vehicle and started heading for the entrance. Mrs. Whiting was 36 years old, a brunette, slightly overweight but attractive. She was dressed in a pair of jeans and a fashionable sweater.

"I'd do her," McGraw said analytically. "A pity she'll be dead in a few years, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Ken said bleakly, watching young Mark instead of his mother. He was dressed in a pair of jeans and a sweater as well, his hair cut short and spiked upward in what was apparently the latest rage. Even from this distance it was obvious the child wasn't feeling well. His skin was flushed as if with fever and he seemed to be shivering.

"What's it like to be sick, Frazier?" McGraw asked him once their targets had entered the building. "Have you ever had this tonsillitis thing?"

"I had it once or twice when I was a kid," he replied. "Not enough that they wanted to take them out. They just gave me antibiotics."

"Does it hurt?"

He shrugged. "It makes it hard to swallow," he said. "And when you get a fever, you get the chills and you shiver a lot and your muscles all ache."

"Sounds like torture," she said with distaste, the words of wisdom of a woman who had never been sick and never would, who lived in a world where fever and sniffles and body aches were a thing of the past.

The Whitings remained in the medical office for 48 minutes. During that time there was no sign of the WestHem team and their genetic manipulator. From the medical office, Ken tailed them to a Short's Drug Store pharmacy where a computer check by Spankworth confirmed they were filling a prescription for amoxicillin. From the pharmacy, they went home, pulling the Suburban back into the garage from which it had come. The WestHem team did not make itself known.

"Well, that's that," McGraw said once the door was shut behind them. It was now just before noon. "How about we pick up some of that so-called food for the troops on the way back?"

"Sounds like an ass-fuck," Ken told her, dropping the gearshift into drive.

The motel they were staying in was not nearly as luxurious as the accommodations they'd enjoyed in San Francisco. In fact, the Family Inn, as it was called, was little more than a dive. It was a three story building surrounded by parking lot on the corner of Douglas and Sunrise, just two miles from Roseville Community Hospital. Their room was what passed for a deluxe model there. It had two king beds, a television, an alarm clock, and a bathroom. A few cheap pictures hung on the wall and the television remote was bolted to the nightstand to keep it from being stolen.

When McGraw and Ken entered the room at 12:35 PM that day, the smell of sex assaulted their noses. Bingbutt and Wing were both naked on one of the beds, Bingbutt lying on his back while Wing ground up and down on his cock. Both were sweaty and seemed to be near the grand finale of their act. They didn't acknowledge the return of their teammates. Spankworth was sitting at the desk, his cell phone/PC before him. Ignoring the sexual activity going on behind him, he was grinning at whatever he was monitoring with the computer.

"What you got, Spanky?" McGraw asked. "Something good?"

"Fuckin' aye," he said. "I'm tapped into the good doctor's phone line. He just called Roseville Hospital to make the admission arrangements for Mark Whiting. He's now scheduled for a tonsillectomy at 1500 hours on October 31. Just like history says."

"Was there ever any doubt?" Ken asked, tossing the McDonald's bags on the unoccupied bed and grabbing a seat. On the other bed, Wing was in the throes of orgasm, her breath tearing in and out, her mutterings graphic and obscene.

"Nothing is a given," Spankworth told him, reciting a fundamental training credo of the special forces. "So what kind of shitty Earth food did you bring us today? Could it be worse than that Taco Bell crap you fed us last night?"

"Yes," agreed Ken, who had found Earth fast food just as distasteful as his companions did after so long enjoying Martian food. "It is worse, but it won't kill you. That's the best that can be said about it."

They opened their food bags and dug in unenthusiastically. They continued to wait.

October 31, 2007 (Halloween) Roseville, California

The Roseville Community Hospital was the centerpiece of a vast medical center campus that stretched over nearly seventy acres of land in the northern portion of the suburb. Surrounding the main ten-story hospital building were dozens of outpatient clinics, medical office buildings, and administrative offices. Access roads wound between the buildings, and parking lots were strategically placed amid groves of oak trees the real estate developers had been forbidden by law to remove during construction. Since it was a weekday and since Halloween was not a national holiday, business was brisk at all of the medical center's offices and all of the parking lots were moderately full of cars.

In the northwest corner of the emergency room parking area the white van sat, its front end facing both the ER entrance and the side hospital entrance where it was assumed the WestHem team would attempt their entry. All five members of the interdiction team were in the van, Ken and McGraw in the front seats scanning the area visually, while Wing, Bingbutt, and Spankworth sat in the back scanning computer equipment that would detect the genetic manipulator isotope as well as provide digital images pulled from any of the hospital's 272 security cameras. The team had been in position since 7 AM. By 12:30 PM, they were all getting a bit restless.