Meridian

25

Whether by chance or great good fortune, Paul’s quiet presence on the roof of the officer’s coach was not noticed as the train made its way inexorably north. He passed a moment of anxiety when the train went through another small outpost. Several of the buildings at the station there were high enough to spy him from an upper window, but no one seemed to be looking. He remained utterly still, appearing no more than a vagabond stowaway to any who might see him. One soldier did make a passing glance as the train rolled through its last depot before Minifir. The mail bags had been thrown from a box-car while the train was still moving, and the soldier gave Paul a curious look. Apparently he had seen such stowaways before. A lone Arab hardly seemed worth the effort to raise an alarm. It was an insignificant trespass and nothing came of the incident.

Paul clung to his precarious post, cold and wet; still shivering from the night and taking little comfort from the occasional fingers of sunlight that filtered through the dark gray clouds. The train made its way north, and he soon spied a telltale rise in the ground ahead, which resolved into the looming shape of a double hillock. They were approaching Minifir at last! Kilometer 172 lay nestled in the lee of these inconsequential hills, though Paul knew they marked the outermost edge of a twisted Nexus Point of history. The Meridian of Time would pass beneath their unknowing watch, like the rail line, and lead on to events of overwhelming significance.

Who would have thought that the fate of the Western World would be decided here, he mused. What was it? He strained his eyes against the gloom, as if he could ferret out the telltale sign of the Pushpoint that was nestled in the tumbled folds of those hills; as if it might be glowing with significance and impossible to miss. Was it a thing, an object, or merely something Lawrence or Masaui does, that unleashes the wrath of the Holy Fighters years hence? Then his thought returned to more immediate matters. At their present speed those hills could not be more than an hour away. How could he act to spare this train? All his hopes rested on this single chance, he realized. The train had been making frequent stops to move coal forward from the tender to the engine. It often slowed to a near crawl on any upward grade they encountered. Paul gambled that, as the train approached the higher ground at Minifir, it would slow enough for him to leap from the roof. If I don’t break a leg, he thought, I just may have time to slip away and do something—but what?

His heart raced and he tried to fend off that awful feeling of rising anxiety in his gut. It had to be something with the charges Lawrence laid, or the wires. He had to find a way to get ahead of the train. Oh, God, stop this thing for me! Burn that coal. Do something! Lawrence had lookouts on the south hill by now. The raiders were already taking their positions, ready to cast their pent up anger and frustration at the train in reprisal for the failed mission at the Yarmuk Bridge, the same anger and frustration that would eventually lead to the Palma Event. I’m riding a death train, he thought. If I don’t get off I’ll be completely exposed to fire from the hills above when Lawrence ignites his charge and derails the locomotive.

The minutes rolled past, each one marked by the barren spike of a sun-bleached telegraph pole, and the Meridian of Time seemed to be strung between them, extending forward and backward from this point with awful certainty. He had to cut that wire. It was the only thing he could think of now. He had to get off this train and run ahead to find and sever the buried nerve that would fire the explosive charges. It was imperative.

The train pulled on, chugging and panting up a gently rising grade. It began to slow perceptibly, its engine wheezing along with the added effort of the climb. It was as if he had passed some imperceptible event horizon, and was falling toward the hungry void of a black hole. Each moment seemed longer than the last as the train continued to slow. Time was stretched out thin, with impossible suspense, and he could do nothing but wait, hoping for the moment he knew must be here for him. Then it came. The engine belched and came to a halt, very near the base of the southernmost hill. It was time.

His senses sharpened in response to the flush of adrenaline in his system. His heart raced, pumping blood to animate his cold, stiff limbs. It was now. He struggled up, burdened by the sodden, muddied robes of a sheikh. He managed to perched himself on hands and knees. If he jumped now would the Colonel see him? What about the two guards?

He started to move, as quietly as he could, to a place on the roof where he thought he would have the best chance at escaping unseen. Then the harsh sound of the Colonel’s voice came to him from the back of the coach. The man was up and yelling something at the two guards that had been posted on the outer porch. They responded with quick movements, jumping down and running forward toward the stalled engine. They were probably carrying orders or questions from the Colonel, Paul knew. He froze, terrified, while the men ran past the car. He was afraid they would cast a casual glance and see him poised on the roof like a rain drenched cat. Thankfully, they were too eager to obey their officer, and sped away without incident.

Paul caught the aroma of burning tobacco and realized that the Colonel must be savoring one of his cigarettes as he stretched his legs on the other side of the coach. He could not just sit here, he had to move. Gathering his resolve, he edged to the side of the coach and peered down to be certain the Colonel had not wandered to this side of the car. You just have to throw yourself in sometimes, he thought, but he knew if he jumped from this height the sound would certainly be heard. Then he was saved by the high pitched squeal of the engine as it vented steam and smoke. Without a second thought, he plunged over the edge.

The ground came up hard and fast and he tumbled on the stony bank, taking a painful fall. His lanky frame shuddered, but he was not seriously hurt, save for the jab of a sharp flint on his left shoulder when he rolled down the bank. The engine hissed to silence, but the noise of the venting had been enough to mask the sound of his fall. He surveyed the ground, crouching low and edging back from the rail line to seek cover in the undulating terrain. Now he was thankful for the threatening, overcast sky. A brief squall of rain was sweeping in, and it would keep heads and faces tucked away inside the train. There were many open cars crammed with Turkish soldiers near the front, but he was far enough away to have a reasonable chance of hiding.

He moved again, picking his way from one small rock to another leafless patch of desert scrub. There was very little vegetation, but he made use of any cover he could find. As the minutes passed he saw that he had put a hundred meters between himself and the train. Then he spied a low rise in the ground that ran parallel to the rail line. Once he got behind it, he could move faster, hastening forward to the relative safety of the hills.

By the time he had cleared the front of the train he was already breathless with his effort. The anxiety drove him on, however, and he forced his tired limbs to stagger forward. He reached the hills, and skirted the lower edge of the southernmost hump. He was very weary, his arms and legs moving with leaden sluggishness now. What’s wrong with me, he thought? I can’t be this much out of shape. He was very near the culvert where Lawrence had most likely placed his gelatine mine. For a brief moment, he realized that he might be walking forward in the last few moments of his life. The train whistle blew, its raucous call cutting the cold morning air. It was followed by the telltale chug of the engine as it strained to gather momentum. They were coming.

Sweat streamed from his brow and clouded his eyes as he forced himself to struggle forward. He realized he was losing any hope of stealth, for the effort to walk was draining enough. God, give me strength, he whispered, show me the way. Show me what to do…

“Who is that?” Khazen, the servant of Ali ibn el Hussein spoke in a low whisper. He was peering from the lip of a ridge on the southern hump of Minifir, pointing at a lone figure far below them near the rail line. “Is that your son again, Hamud? I told you to send him back with the animals!”

“I did as much. He is tending the camels on the other side of the hill.”

“Then who is that? The idiot! He will draw the attention of the Turks and give our position away. What is he doing there?”

“I do not know him.” Hamud was squinting into the pale light, grateful that the rain squall blowing in from the north was thinning out a bit and a spot of sunlight was breaking through the clouds.

“Where is his headdress?” Khazen’s voice gathered more urgency. He was reaching for his rifle. “Strange… He has no beard. Could it be one of the horse tenders?”

“You cannot fire,” said Hamud with a wide-eyed glance. “That will warn the Turks for certain!”

“Curse the man, look how he stumbles about like a drunken fool!”

“Yes, something is wrong with him—See? He has fallen behind that rock.”

“Let us hope he has the good sense to stay there. When Aurens fires the charge I will go to see about this fool. If he is one of the Serahin, I will strike his face for what he has done here. Was it not one of the Serahin who slipped and fell near the Yarmuk bridge?”

“He claimed his rifle strap broke. It was the will of Allah.”

“Perhaps, but this is the work of a fool. Has the man no sense?”

“Quiet now,” Hamud whispered. “The train comes.”

The two men hunched behind their ridge, waiting out the interval of time marked by the slow chugging progress of the train. It crept along, gathering a little speed as it came. The smoke from the squat engine was thick and black, freshly fueled by new coal that had been brought forward from the tender. Khazen looked and saw that it was very near the low arch support where Aurens had laid his mine. Even now his hand would be on the plunger of the exploder, ready to strike a blow against this infernal machine and set loose the wrath of the raiders. He rubbed his palms together in restless anticipation. God is great, he prayed. Let him strike down those who dare to trample the Pilgrim Road to Mecca. He waited, knowing that Allah would certainly hear him and answer with the explosive din of righteous anger when the charge went off.

It was written.

26

Kelly breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, we’ve got one back. Indicators are showing a successful retraction. Can you get down there and see about it, Maeve?”

Maeve hesitated, afraid to leave the room, her thoughts beset with the same inner fear that had been nagging at her for the last hour. “Aren’t you coming?” She seemed unwilling to leave Kelly’s side.

“I’ve got to set this last particle infusion. Lord, look at the time! We’ve one more fish on the line. If I don’t get this particle density right, we may lose him.” He was already sliding to the Particle Chamber controls, his features furrowed with the intensity of his effort. Maeve lingered near the main console, biting at her fingernail. Kelly gave her a sidelong glance with a gentle verbal nudge. “Come on, lady. Who knows what’s happened to them? You’ve got to clear the Arch corridor before I can ramp back up to full power. I’ll hold it at 85% until 4:05. Can you get down there quick and see what’s up?”

“Right…” Maeve forced herself to move. Kelly was correct. What could she do for him here but get in the way? She found herself eyeing the clock on the wall and then the desk drawer where Nordhausen’s copy of the Seven Pillars had been secreted away. It was 4:00 AM! The success or failure of the mission would be detailed in the passage where Lawrence described the raid at Kilometer 172. It was written. If they were successful the second train should have passed unhindered. If they failed then Kelly would have one last shot at adjusting the retraction scheme to give them a little more time, but that already seemed well underway. She started towards the heavy doors that would lead to the lower chambers but her curiosity was just too strong, pulling her back, and dragging her over to the desk.

As she reached for the drawer handle, she saw that her hand was shaking. What was wrong with her? Someone was down there in the Arch and she was dallying about like a frightened doe. A moment’s weakness or a moment’s resolve, she knew not which, found her lunging at the drawer and pulling it open. She closed her eyes as she did so, afraid that the book might not even be there when she looked. When she opened them she saw the same worn volume that Nordhausen had been reading from earlier. Greatly relieved, she snatched up the book and started for the door. Kelly was so intent on his adjustments that he never even noticed her. She fought the urge to open the book right then and there, while she was still here in the room with Kelly, and this time she mastered her impulse and tucked the volume safely under her arm. She was head of Outcomes and Consequences, and she had the result of this mission clearly penned in the lines of Lawrence’s narrative—at least that was her hope.

Clinging to that possibility, she turned her mind to the Arch and the help that might be needed there. Someone was already in the tunnel and, with any luck, Kelly would bring home the last of the travelers in just a few minutes. She leapt through the door, making sure she closed and sealed every portal as she went. The brief ride in the elevator seemed an eternity. Her arm tightened on the book, tensely holding it in place so she would not be tempted to look at it. Then the elevator whisked open and she started through towards the last heavy lock, intent on what she would find on the other side.

When she finally opened the inner door the intense cold reached out for her with clammy fingers of ice. The lights in the corridor were moving in a milky sheen of auroras, sweeping along the curved walls of the tunnel with a ghostly effect. She was shaking with fear as she stepped across the threshold of the inner door, peering into the montage of frosty light for any sign of life.

“Paul? Robert?” Her voice quavered out a plaintive call. “Is anyone there?”

“Maeve?” The words seemed to resound from the walls with a tremulous echo. “Is that you, Maeve?” There was more clarity now, and more presence in the voice that spoke to her from the glimmering heart of the Arch. It sounded like Professor Nordhausen! She edged up the corridor, but when she came to the thick yellow line her instincts told her to stop and go no further. It was a safety protocol that had been drummed into them many times in the long meetings before the project launch date. Never cross the line during retraction. The Arch was still active, and there would be no pattern signature on an outsider stored in the memory buffers. The traveler had to come to you. That was something they would have to fix, she told herself. What if someone came through unconscious at a moment like this? She tucked that thought away and focused on the situation at hand.

“Robert? Yes, it’s Maeve. Are you alright?”

“What? Thank God! I can see again. Lord, let me get these damn boots off!”

“Robert, you need to move now. Understand?”

“Just a moment… damn things…”

The lights in the corridor dissipated somewhat and Maeve could see a shadowy form seated square in the center of the Arch, tugging at his boot and muttering something inaudible. “No Robert, leave the boots on. You have to move right now. You need to get out of the Arch so we can bring Paul through. Do you understand me?”

There was no reply, but she could hear Nordhausen grunting with the effort to pull off his boot. God, what time was it? Another voice came to her, thin and distant on the intercom system. “Clear that Arch corridor, Maeve! I need to ramp this baby up again…” the cellophane crackle of static drowned out Kelly’s voice. She had to do something quickly, and her emotions finally snapped with the weight of all the stress and tension.

“Damn it, Robert! Get your ass over here! Now!”

The sharpness of her tone had an immediate effect. Nordhausen had heard that edge in her voice before, but never like this. He stood up on shaky legs. “Well, this is a fine greeting—”

“Move it!”

He moved. The shadow became a familiar face and form swaddled in long muddied robes and clumping along like a crippled man, one boot half way off. She grabbed him with one arm, taking a firm hold on his sullied robes as she pulled him over the yellow line. “Let’s go,” she ordered. “You can tell me all about it on the other side of the lock!”

“Oh yes,” said Nordhausen, remembering the cautions at last. “But what about Paul?”

Maeve dragged him along and he nearly fell as she guided him firmly through the inner lock and squeezed through behind. The lights in the corridor were swirling again, spinning over the walls with dizzying speed. She shoved the door closed and secured the lock. Nordhausen had collapsed in a heap to the floor, but her only thought was to signal Kelly. She spied the intercom and pressed the send button.

“It’s Nordhausen, and we’re clear, Kelly. Go get Paul!”

“Roger that…”

The sound of the turbines surrounded them as they revved up to full power. She looked at Nordhausen, and breathed heavily, granting him a moment’s sympathy. “Sorry, Robert, but we were in a little rush there. Here, let me help you get those boots off.”

She set the copy of the Seven Pillars down and moved to render assistance. Nordhausen had a glassy-eyed expression on his face, and he seemed listless and unfocused. Must be the effects of the shift, she thought, feeling more concern for him now. She got the boots off, and then removed his headdress, surprised to see how drenched he was, wet with grit and sandy mud.

“How did I get here?” Nordhausen was looking around him, still quite confused. “Kelly botched the damn numbers… Just like I said…”

“There now, take it easy.” She wished she had brought along some food or at least fresh water. The poor man was shivering with cold, and she felt an icy chill just being near to him. That was another thing they would have to fix. There would be a trained reception team for reorientation and first-aid during every retraction. “We’ll get you upstairs and see about some warm clothes and a blanket. Can you hang on here for just a moment?”

Robert’s eyes searched for her face, struggling to focus. “Oh Maeve… It’s so beautiful… So beautiful when you go through. But I’m a bit queasy. Where’s Paul? Did he make it back? Lord… do you realize where we were? I was sitting by the fire and then it started. Paul was off somewhere and we got separated—”

“Yes, we followed everything on the monitors.” Maeve ran her hand gently across his cheek, swiping away a clump of mud.

“I couldn’t find him after that. God only knows what happened to the poor devil.”

“He’ll be fine,” her voice soothed. “Kelly’s bringing him through in just another moment.”

The sound of the turbines wailed around them and Maeve knew that the final retraction was only seconds away. The breach they had driven into the fabric of the continuum was yawning open and the secret arts of quantum physics were reaching in to reclaim the last traveler, jealously pulling him back to the time where he belonged.

“I couldn’t find him…” Nordhausen blanched and passed out, keeling over to one side. Maeve moved quickly to cradle his fall, lowering him gently to the cold floor. She checked his eyes and saw that retinal response still looked good. His pulse was strong and steady. He would be fine. She settled him as best she could and waited out the impossibly long seconds that remained. Then a strange sound came to her, rising from the din of the turbines.

She listened, trying to place the sound into some familiar frame of reference. There was a long distended wash of noise, punctuated by the rhythmic panting of some metallic engine. Her first thought was that the turbines had fallen out of sync, but the more she listened the more she came to feel that she was hearing the sound of a passing train! A high pitched whistle added weight to the impression, and then the sound faded away, a desolate echo, empty and forlorn. Something brayed at its heels, like a pack of dogs chasing in its wake. The sound of the turbines devoured the echo and it was gone.

Her eyes were drawn at once to the copy of the Seven Pillars. It would take about three minutes for the retraction scheme to play itself out. She had to know.

Anxiety pulsed at her temples again as she reached for the book to open it. The place was clearly marked. All she had to do was read the passage now to see what had happened. She began turning the pages, her eyes mirroring the terrible sense of dread she felt. A part of her did not want to know what fate was ordained in those lines, but she pressed on, the dry pages rattling as she made her way to the passage Nordhausen had marked. Her finger traced down the page with a tremulous quiver, and she began to read.

27

The train was making good time, but as they approached the higher ground leading up to a pair of low hills, the gentle upward grade began to slow the engine down. It was time for another infusion of coal. They had been four hours since their last stop, not even pausing to offload cargo at Zerga, the largest town along this stretch of the rail line. There was no time. The train had to get up to Mafrak north of these hills as soon as possible. Better yet would be Deraa, for the rail spurs there were plentiful, and this was a long train.

The Colonel in charge of the train looked at his watch. It was just after 1:00 PM and they were moving again after a very brief coaling stop. The engineer seemed intent on making the last bend and heading up past the hills of Minifir before he stopped again. This was a dangerous place, for the Arabs often came here to watch the movement of the trains from the ruins above. The Turkish rail patrols were not so enthusiastic in the rain, and this stretch of the line was not well guarded. It was a good place for an ambush.

He squinted at a streak of bright sunlight as it pierced the dark clouds that still hunched low over the landscape. The sky was beautifully backlit with the mid-day sun, but it only managed to finger its way through the clouds in places, with long amber streaks of gold. The head of the train reached the middle point of the twin hills where a shallow runoff channel made its way down from the cleavage. There was a low rail support arch there that might make a tempting target. The Colonel had read reports about an attack here earlier in the year, and the Arabs, like a bad habit, always continued to bother.

The Colonel leaned out of his coach window, the wind ruffling the careful smear of his oiled hair a bit. He looked ahead to see the engine pass the bridge without mishap, and then something caught his eye a little ways up the culvert of the channel. It was an Arab! His eyes narrowed with suspicion when he saw the man, and he instinctively scanned the hills above for any sign of movement. The train gave a high pitched whistle, adding a note of urgency to the moment. He could see that the soldiers in the open cars at the head of the train were taking notice of the solitary figure as well. Some of the officers were leaning out of their cars with spy glasses to get a better look at the man. The Colonel did not have his handy, but his suspicions were sharpening his senses with each passing moment.

The man was just sitting there. He seemed no more than a solitary Bedu shepherd come down to watch the train pass by. To the Colonel’s surprise, the man began to wave at the soldiers as the cars rolled by, one by one. He was sitting by a low desert scrub, as lonesome and solitary as this single man, its leafless branches waving in the rising wind, even as the Arab waved at the train in greeting. There was almost something impudent in the man’s movements—a haughty sense of ridicule. The Colonel gave much thought to the notion that this could be the escaped prisoner, returned to mock his would be captors one last time. Would the man be such a fool?

Anger burned at the back of his neck, and he pushed himself back into the coach, striding over to pull on the bell. Three harsh clangs were the signal to stop the train. He would have a look and see if this man would wave and smirk at him in the end. When he returned to the window, however, the Arab was gone. The Colonel’s suspicions redoubled, feeding coal to his rising anger.

By the time the long train stopped it had taken his trailing coach and brake car far beyond the point where the Arab had been sitting. The Colonel tramped to his porch and fumed at the brakeman in the last car, shaking his fist at the man. He jumped from the porch, shouting for a sergeant and another officer to join him. A glance at his watch told him that the slow progress of the last hour was putting him behind schedule again. No matter. He would have a careful look at the rail lines at least, and see if there were any telltale signs of hidden wire or explosives.

Why would the man just sit there if he meant to blow up a mine? The question ground on his mind even as his boots crunched the rocky soil of the rail bed. Where could he have gone? He scanned the hills, shielding his eyes from the sudden brightness of the luminous clouds, but saw no sign of movement. A careful search of the rail bed revealed no trace of mischief. Curse the man! His commander, Jemal Pasha was on the next train, probably hurtling south to Deraa by now. This delay was more time than he could afford. He had to clear the line. He had to reach Deraa, or Mafrak at the very least, before his Corps Commander arrived. He could at least report that he had stopped to scout this place, and found nothing of interest or concern here but a lone Arab shepherd. As for the American? He would keep that matter to himself. Perhaps he could assuage the Bey’s curiosity when he reached Deraa by finding him someone soft and willing. With a last reluctant kick of his boot on the sandy soil, he waved at his sergeants and started back to the train.

No one could have been more surprised than Lawrence when he pushed down on the plunger of the exploder to detonate the train. Nothing happened! He pulled it back and plunged down again and again, but the exploder would not ignite his mine. Something must have gone wrong with the wires, he thought, or the gear inside his rusty old box. Now he was fifty meters from the train with eight open cars crammed full of curious Turkish soldiers! He was completely exposed, and there was no point in trying to make a run for it. The Turks would just leap from their train and hunt him down like a rabbit. He had sixty men in the hills above, but this train was laden with nearly two hundred rifles, and a host of overly curious officers who were peering from the windows of the trailing coaches, peeping at him through spy glasses. The mine would have evened the odds, but it did not go off.

He considered what to do, realizing that his only option was to sit exactly where he was and let providence decide. Leave it to fortune and fate, or as the Arabs might say, ‘let it rest in the bosom of Allah.’ He passed a few tense moments, smiling inwardly at the ridiculous quirk that had set him here in plain sight of his enemies, a wholesome piece of fruit, ripe for the plucking. His smile soon became a smirk, then a wave as he warmed to the moment, a feeling of invulnerability cloaking him as the train rolled by.

When it had finally moved a good distance off, he carefully buried his wires. The last cars slid around a bend in the culvert, so he scooped up the exploder, and stole off like a shadow into the hills. This entire mission had been plagued by bad luck! First a loose gun strap at the Yarmuk bridge set them fleeing wildly across the desert with mad dogs, Turks and distressed peasants on their heels. They cut a few telegraph wires but needed more than that to assuage their bruised sense of pride and honor. So they decided to blow up a train, and sat for twelve long hours beneath the sodden twin humps of Minifir. They missed the first one in the thick morning mist but were well prepared to meet the mid-day train from Amman. Now this… The Arabs would soon begin to say that there was an evil eye among them, and that the mission was doomed to failure.

There was nothing to be done, he thought. He would pull them together and they would try again. He looked at the rusty exploder as he made his way to a hiding spot a safe distance from the rail line, wondering what had gone wrong. The clanging of a bell gave him pause. He passed a moment of concern when the train glided to a halt about 500 meters up the line. It was an old, wheezing engine and perhaps they needed more coal to get up a good head of steam. He watched while a small patrol of officers made their way up the rail line to inspect the area. If they discovered his wires he would have to give the signal to flee to the animals and run shamefully back into the desert. Thankfully, they found nothing and the train was soon underway again.

In war, he thought, recalling the words of Caesar, ‘actions of great importance are often the result of trivial causes.’ They would simply have to wait it out and hope for better luck when the next train came down from Damascus. One way or another, he knew, he would strike his blow and bring his Arab brothers home with all the loot their greedy hands could carry.

It was only a matter of time.