The Eternal War

CHAPTER 48

2001, New York

‘I presume you are referring to our divisional communications hub?’ said Wainwright.

Becks nodded. ‘Colonel Devereau has explained that the hub services communications between this section of your front line and your High Command back in Fredericksburg, Virginia.’

He cocked an eyebrow at Devereau. ‘It appears you have spies at work over here, Bill.’

‘We know where it is. Have done for some time. Just south of what used to be Times Square. We’ve seen the dish and the antennae. If our sky force was worth spit in a barrel, we’d have bombed it to rubble years ago.’

Wainwright got up and paced towards one wall of his office. A huge map all but covered the entire wall, pin heads protruded, notes were tacked to it and pen marks and scribbles identified troop deployments and defence concentrations all along the east side of Manhattan. In a war with some movement to it, that information would have been critical military intelligence. But for Devereau most of the information on the map was old news. Bunkers, pillboxes and trenches built many decades ago when both he and Wainwright were boys in shorts. Devereau knew as much about the deployment of Wainwright’s men as he did his own.

The Southern colonel tapped the map with a finger. ‘Here … as you say, just below what used to be called Times Square. Not so very far away from here.’

‘So?’ said Maddy. ‘Let’s go and get it.’

‘Not so far away … but the communications bunker is garrisoned by a detachment of British troops.’ He shrugged. ‘They don’t trust regular Confederate troops with guarding it — just a bunch of dumb ol’ corn-seed hicks … that’s how they see us.’

He turned to look at the map for a moment, then back to them. ‘That would mean taking it by force, attacking it.’ He let those words ring off the hard walls of the room. Eventually he shook his head and sighed. ‘I’m sorry. That is the only communications equipment we have along this section of the line. Is there no other way to fix your machine?’

‘Negative,’ said Becks.

Wainwright looked at them, at the magazines open on the table, at the small glowing screen of the device the girl had called an ‘iPhone’. The evidence of another world was there. He was more than certain the North didn’t have this kind of technology, or the knowledge, the imagination, the ability to produce the images in those magazines. And he was doubly certain they could never have constructed such a device.

‘What you’re asking … is for me to carry out an act of treason.’

‘Being here, talking to you now, James, I too am guilty of treason,’ said Devereau. ‘We are both already guilty enough to face a firing squad.’

Wainwright nodded, accepting the point. ‘But this … taking that bunker, exchanging fire with British soldiers — ’ he bit his lip — ‘you do understand what that means?’

‘An act of mutiny … yes.’

The words had a sobering effect on both officers.

Maddy picked up on that. ‘Look … maybe there’s another way.’

‘Negative,’ said Becks again. ‘A radio communication transmission dish is the component we require. Modification would have to be made to — ’

Maddy raised her hand to hush her. ‘You guys’ll never face a firing squad, because as soon as we’re done fixing your dish to our technology we can change this world back.’

Devereau turned to her. ‘But, should this plan fail for whatever reason, then the consequences for our men as well as ourselves would be … dire to say the least.’

Wainwright sat down at his table. ‘Colonel Devereau and I being guilty of treason is one thing. We would both face our firing squads. But a mutiny …?’ He poured himself the dregs of cooling coffee from the chipped jug between them. ‘Every man of the regiment would be punished whether they took part or not.’

Devereau nodded slowly.

‘I can’t ask my men to do that.’

‘We could show them all what we just showed you,’ said Maddy.

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘No. I fear not many of them would fully understand. And, not understanding, they would not dare risk facing charges of mutiny.’

There was a knock on the door to his room.

‘Enter.’

A young man’s face with a grey forage cap perched on a thatch of ginger-coloured hair looked round the door. ‘Sir?’

‘Yes, Corporal.’

‘You asked me to warn you when the British were coming … Well, they are, sir.’

‘Thank you, Lawrence. Instruct the men to prepare for an inspection.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The door closed behind him.

‘You’ll need to leave immediately,’ said Wainwright. ‘It should take them ten minutes to make their way down here. Best you’re long gone by then.’

‘Please!’ said Maddy. ‘Please … think about it!’

‘Here, ma’am … you should take your things with you,’ he said, gathering up her magazines.

Becks grabbed the magazines and the iPhone and placed them in a shoulder bag.

‘Well, just think about it. We have to fix this history!’ begged Maddy. ‘You think this war is bad enough? … It could get worse!’

Wainwright stiffened, ignoring her pleas. ‘Colonel Devereau, will you please take these ladies with you back to your lines?’

Devereau nodded. ‘Of course.’ He offered Wainwright a salute which the Southern officer returned crisply. He turned on a boot heel, opened the door and stepped into the concrete corridor outside.

‘Come on, Miss Carter,’ he said, grasping Maddy’s arm, ‘we have to leave right now.’

‘But …’ She gripped the edge of the table to stop him ushering her out. ‘But … he’s our only freakin’ hope! We have to — ’

‘Sergeant Freeman!’

Freeman’s head appeared in the doorway.

‘A little help here, please!’

Becks, surprisingly, agreed with the colonel. ‘It is advisable to leave now, Madelaine. We should recalculate our options back at the archway.’

Five minutes later they were on the launch chugging sluggishly back across the East River. Maddy stared at the slowly approaching rubble-and-ruin landscape of Brooklyn and wondered if their only hope was to try to convince Colonel Devereau and his men to launch their own attack to capture this communications bunker.

Looking at him, looking at Sergeant Freeman, the other soldiers, old and young alike, sitting in their threadbare uniforms with the same patient look of defeat etched on each face, she realized they weren’t fighting men. They were draftees … men serving whatever period they were required to serve, counting away days until they might one day see their homes again.

Unless there was some other option, some other course of action, they were well and truly stuck in this mess. Forget helping Liam and Sal. Forget worrying about handwritten warnings from the future … she and Becks were nothing more than two civilians stuck in the ruined and contested wasteland of an eternal war.