"The Metropolis Police fished Thompson's body out of the harbor last night," Freeman told Straker the next morning. He noted the other man didn't seem overly surprised at the news.
"Any evidence that Trask was involved?" Straker asked.
Freeman shook his head. "Only that Thompson's last known location was at the Bureau's Bessalo warehouse. There are witnesses to that. I've already dropped a friendly hint to one of my buddies over at PP-One that Thompson wasn't the suicidal type and that he had an appointment scheduled with a disgruntled employee."
Straker chuckled at that. "'Disgruntled employee'? Interesting description of Trask." Straker sat back in his chair and contemplated the view outside his office window. "With Thompson out of the way, there aren't that many people left who can positively identify Trask or know the details of Bureau 39's mission, or how Trask had misinterpreted them."
"I'll have Paul assign some people to General Newcomb," Freeman said. "He'll be the next one on Trask's list."
Straker nodded and picked up the phone from his desk. "Get me General Burton Newcomb, please."
Freeman knew there was little love lost between the two men. Newcomb had been with James Henderson when he first uncovered the danger from U.F.O.s and had been instrumental in setting up Majik - the 'above-top-secret' agency put together to put together to gather unassailable evidence of alien intrusions within the United States. That was back in 1947, less than a month after the now famous 'Roswell Incident'. Bureau 39 was the field operation arm of Majik.
But Henderson's plans had been much larger than Majik, larger than just defending the U.S. against alien marauders. The entire planet needed to be defended from the marauders.
Henderson wanted an international paramilitary organization that answered to the United Nations Security Council, not the U.S. government. That was something Newcomb could not bring himself to support – it was a given that the U.S. would be footing most of the cost for the new organization and, according to him and many of his associates, that should have given the U.S. some clout in the decision making processes within SHADO. And that simply hadn't been politically viable.
Henderson won and Newcomb lost. It didn't matter that Henderson's ideas on the matter had been given the backing of the President of the United States. It didn't matter that Henderson never got his fourth star because of his insistence that SHADO be international in scope and utterly politically neutral. And to add insult to injury Ed Straker, Henderson's assistant, was given the task of commanding SHADO. Burton Newcomb was never even suggested for the job.
Then for various reasons, only some of them political, SHADO had chosen not to bring the members of Bureau 39 into its operation. Majik was officially decommissioned and Newcomb's group was transferred to the control of a 'civilian' intelligence agency. Officially, Bureau 39 ceased to exist. In fact, all records of its previous existence were classified above top secret. Burton Newcomb was shuffled off to an obscure corner of the USAF infrastructure to - supposedly - wait for retirement.
Freeman knew better. Newcomb had been charged with keeping Trask and his people under control. He'd done a credible job until he was forced to retire due to his age. And now there was little doubt that without Newcomb's restraining hand Bureau 39 had gone rogue.
"Well?" Freeman asked when Straker hung up the phone.
"He already suspected something had happened to Thompson," Straker said. "And he doesn't really care if Trask comes after him. He's dying. Maybe six months to live. But he also said that he had some insurance in place if anything untoward did happen to him, and that we need to move fast if we're going to get our hands on Trask's collection of alien tech. Stuff he told his bosses had been transferred to us, but hadn't been."
"How much are we talking about?" Freeman asked.
"A whole damned warehouse."
-o-o-o-
Freeman assigned himself to the 'acquisition mission'. There had been rumors around SHADO for years that Bureau 39 had been keeping back many of their more interesting finds. Now they knew it was true.
Three moving trucks blocked the alley behind the 'furniture warehouse', and barricades were set up to block the adjacent streets. The doors to the building on the opposite side of the alley were wide open, making it look like the movers were moving things in, rather than out.
Freeman looked over the alley. The surveillance cameras and motion detectors had already been dealt with. The phone lines had been blocked – anyone calling in or out would get a 'temporarily out of order' recording. Advanced radio frequency jammers were in place and the antennae in the building's roof had been 'disabled'. If Trask and his people were in the building, they were cut off from the outside world – at least Freeman hoped they were. SHADO had no idea what alien tech Trask's people may have adapted for their own use.
"Sir, what about the rest of their security?" one of the security people asked.
"People usually just lock their doors and windows," Freeman said. "The only people who guard their walls and ceilings are banks."
"This doesn't look much like a bank," one of the drivers commented.
"Let's see what's inside," Freeman ordered. They had already checked the building out using the scanners at their disposal, but now they needed to actually look.
Drilling a hole in the side of the building took less than a minute, as did threading the miniature camera into the hole. A picture of the building's interior came onto a monitor inside the first truck. It looked like an ordinary warehouse except for the heavily reinforced door and the chicken-wire room partitions. Blue tarps covered odd shaped objects. File cabinets stood against the chicken-wire. The camera didn't pick up any movement until…
The heavy door swung open and two people walked into the warehouse. Freeman recognized them from their pictures. Lane and Kent from the Daily Planet. How the devil had they gotten past Trask's magnetic keycard lock and the second combination locked door?
"Have we got sound?" Freeman murmured. The man in charge of the miniature camera handed Freeman a pair of headphones and turned on a recorder. Freeman watched as the two reporters started looking around the room, opening file drawers, seemingly at random.
"I don't know about this, Lois. Where is everybody?" Kent said. He sounded worried.
The woman shrugged it off. "Clark, the thing about luck is, don't question it." She peered at one of the photos then held it up to her companion. "Give me a break. I've seen this movie."
"Lois, these look like the genuine article," Kent protested.
"They're too good. It's got to be a set-up," Lane stated. Freeman stifled a chuckle.
"What if it's not? What if people actually travelled in these? People from far away..."
"There's a story here, Clark, but I don't know if it's UFO's," Lane stated, shoving the photos back into the drawer.
"I thought you were the one who said if it walks like a duck…"
"Don't quote me to myself, Clark," she groused. Then she stopped and stared at him. "How did you…?"
On the monitor, Freeman caught Kent's glance at one of the folders just before the reporter slammed the drawer shut. The young man grabbed the woman's arm and led her away from the cabinets.
"What are you doing?" she grumbled.
"You don't like their pictures, let's see what else they have," Kent explained
"I suppose you think we're going to pull one of these off and find a U.F.O.?"
"I don't know what we're going to find," Kent said.
The woman shrugged off his hand and stood in the center of the floor. "Eeny, meeny, miney, mo..." she called out, pointing at the covered objects around her. She pulled off one of the tarps, revealing the shattered shell of an Aurisian escape pod. Lane stared at it, unimpressed. "This is just an Unidentified Salvage Yard."
Kent exposed a different craft. Another escape pod, this one was intact. "This doesn't look like any scrap metal I ever saw."
The woman seemed to reconsider her skepticism. "Clark, do you really think...?"
But the man had already moved on to a third tarp covered craft. This one caught the man's attention. Freeman couldn't see what was under the tarp, but whichever one it was seemed to strike a chord with the reporter. Kent's lips moved but the microphone didn't pick it up.
"Clark!" Lane called out. Kent pulled the tarp back over the ship and Freeman thought that he put something from the ship into his pocket.
"Somebody's coming," Lane continued. She obviously hadn't seen what Kent had done. But now the microphone picked up what sounded like footsteps from some other part of the building.
Trask and several of his men appeared, guns drawn.
"And how did you two get in?" Trask demanded.
"That's your problem," Lane stated. Freeman found that he was impressed by her aplomb while faced with Trask's obvious threat.
Trask wasn't impressed. "That's correct. Getting out however, that's your problem."
"People know where we are," Kent said.
"Like... Superman," Lane said a little too cheerfully. "He's going to come looking for us."
"Oh, I hope so. In fact, I'm counting on it," Trask stated. Freeman and his team watched in dismay as Trask forced the two reporters to go with him. Four of his men stayed behind to secure the 'exhibits'.
The ship that had attracted Kent's attention was the first one they moved.
"Find out where Trask is taking those reporters," Freeman ordered two of the security people. To the rest of his team: "Let's open up this can, swat the bugs, and salvage what we can."
-o-o-o-
"How much did we get from the raid?" Straker asked when Freeman got back to his office.
"Three of Trask's goons, a lot of junk," Freeman answered. "It looks like they'd already moved the good stuff, or maybe they never had any."
"Any idea what the piece they got away with was?" Straker asked.
Freeman shook his head. "It was something that seemed important to Kent, though. I thought he was going to pass out when he saw it. …and speaking of Lane and Kent, any idea how they managed to get through Trask's supposedly impenetrable security?"
"Oh, I'm sure they had help," Straker assured him with a flicker of a smile. "Just like they, and the Daily Planet Building, had help this afternoon to avoid getting hit by an air to air missile."
"Superman?"
Straker nodded. "Bureau 39 has been declared a terrorist organization. Interpol has posted a black notice on him and his known confederates. The FBI is not well pleased to find out he'd targeted government officials. Every airstrip in North America has been asked to keep an eye out for his plane. Luckily there aren't all that many Gulfstream Twos out there with jungle camo and missile mounts. Throwing two reporters out of one of their airplanes at 20,000 feet didn't do anything to endear him to his supposed masters as the NSA, either. And now half the U.S. military is falling all over the other half to prove that Trask didn't get the missile from them."
"Do we know where he did get it?"
"It's possible he traded some of his finds to some foreign power," Straker suggested.
"Or?" Freeman prompted.
"Or some arms dealer just happened to lose a couple of missiles in trade for something he had."
"Scary thought, arms dealers having access to tech that advanced," Freeman admitted.
"Assuming Trask gave them anything they could use," Straker said.
"Have we any idea where Trask is holed up?"
"He hasn't left the planet," Straker said. "And we're pretty sure he hasn't left the country."
"Well, we both know he isn't going to just give up," Freeman reminded Straker. "He's just going to lay low until he thinks the heat is off then go after Superman again."
"He won't stay low for long," Straker warned. "Lane and Kent humiliated him in front of his men, and so did Superman."
"I'm surprised nobody's said anything about me letting Trask take those reporters away with him," Freeman commented. "It could have gone very badly for them."
"What were you supposed to do? Break through the back door and get into a fire fight with him? You had no idea what Trask planned to do with them when he left. Besides, they were trespassing."
"It still could have gone very wrong," Freeman said.
"Yes, it could have," Straker finally agreed. "And we're damned lucky it didn't. We may not be so lucky next time."
-o-o-o-
Freeman's dreams were filled with horrific visions of a cold dead world with a soot black sky.
"What's the date?" a young Straker asked a glum looking little man in an old-fashioned suit. Freeman couldn't place the man's name but thought he ought to.
"November 15, 1994," the man answered. His accent was cultured British with a touch of something else as well. "It is now one year since Nightfall collided with the planet Earth."
Freeman looked around at their surroundings. There was nothing but rubble a far as the eye could see – broken concrete, twisted steel, broken glass. The air was dank and there were smells Freeman didn't want to identify. Half-buried in one of the nearer debris piles was an object Freeman was surprised to see – the brass globe that had adorned the Daily Planet Building.
"Did anyone survive?" Straker asked. His voice was hushed and Freeman wondered if Straker was a shaken as he was. "Anyone at all?"
The little man's expression turned even more glum, if that was possible. "Lex Luthor had been told that his shelter beneath his building would be able to withstand all but a direct strike. But his engineers had underestimated the effects of such a large strike on the crust of the Earth. The crust cracked like the shell of a hard-boiled egg. The earthquakes… the volcanoes… not to mention the dust thrown into the upper atmosphere, blocking out the sun."
"Nuclear winter," Straker said. "How long until the atmosphere clears?"
"A thousand years, perhaps."
"And you say this all happened because this Superman person was murdered?" Straker asked.
"The best of Earth's technology was unable to divert the asteroid," the little man said. "You, Ed Straker, even brought in the help of the people you knew had access to technology not developed on Earth. All for naught."
"And why should we believe that this is anything but some fantastic trick?" Freeman demanded.
"Commander, what can I do…?" the little man began.
Straker didn't pay him any attention as he looked at the devastation around them. "This can't be real. But…" He shook his head. "I've seen the future and this isn't it. So if this is real we're looking at a paradox. They both can't be right."
"The future you remember will unravel, unless you stop Jason Trask from killing the one being capable of saving the Earth and saving the future."
"And if I don't?"
The little man looked at Straker with sad eyes. "Then the future dies."
-o-o-o-
"More bad dreams?" Straker asked Freeman on coffee the next morning in the cafeteria of their office building.
"Is it that obvious?" Freeman asked. Sometimes Straker was downright eerie in his ability to pick up what was going on around him.
"Want to tell me about it?"
"It's probably just my subconscious working overtime, what with Trask and Superman and Nightfall…"
At the mention of Nightfall, Straker suddenly went very still. "You dreamt about the asteroid?"
"You and I and someone else were in the future, one year after the asteroid hit the planet. It felt very real." Freeman took a sip of his coffee. "I don't usually remember my dreams, you know. I wonder what Jackson would make of this one?"
"Was there a date mentioned?" Straker was staring at his half-empty cup as though he could read something in the reflections.
"November 15, 1994."
Straker muttered something under his breath. It sounded like an obscenity, something Straker rarely indulged in unless it was for theatrical effect. Freeman was certain that Straker wasn't swearing for effect right now.
"It wasn't a dream, was it? It really happened, or will happen?"
Straker didn't answer.
"You were younger," Freeman continued. "We both were."
"Tens years younger," Straker said.
"That dream you said you had ten years ago… that wasn't a dream either, was it?"
"I thought it was at the time," Straker admitted. "But then I found the notes I left for myself about the asteroid."
"And now we have the real reason why you didn't throw a fit when Superman showed up," Freeman stated.
Straker managed a chuckle. "Knowing a little about the future does have certain advantages."
"You said you'd seen the future…" Freeman prompted.
"I experienced a possible future, one where my life was saved by people who won't be born if Nightfall hits," Straker said. "But there are flows and washes and eddies in the time stream. Apparently, in at least one possible future, I survived the effects of the X-50 drug long enough to try to use SHADO's technology to divert the asteroid," Straker said, referring to an incident more than a year before. Straker and Lake had been trapped in a time bubble. In order to counter the effects of the bubble, Straker had used an extremely dangerous drug. The side-effects had nearly killed him.
"So, the future hasn't been written?" Freeman prompted.
"Well, I gather there are people who are very much invested in preserving their past," Straker said.
"Including the little man in the old-fashioned suit?"
"I surprised you didn't recognize him."
"I have a feeling I should have, but I didn't," Freeman admitted.
"He's a time traveler, Alec. A famous one."
"How can you be a famous time traveler?"
At that Straker actually laughed. "Well, if the first rule of time travel is 'don't get caught', then the second rule is 'tell the truth about it in such a way that nobody will believe it's the truth'."
The name came to Freeman in a sudden burst of clarity. "Wells. Herbert George Wells. He came to talk to you at the studios…"
-o-o-o-
February had brought its usual miserable rain. Freeman turned his coat collar up as he left his parked car to head for the main entrance of Harlington-Straker Studios. He wondered a moment at how much longer the studios would remain active as SHADO's cover. The war with the aliens was effectively over as of last Christmas. December 25, 1983, a day to be celebrated in history if the fact that there had even been a war wasn't so secret.
Freeman still wasn't sure he agreed with Straker's plan to allow the non-warlike faction of aliens to emigrate to Earth, but so far everything had gone well. They were sharing their technology with SHADO, and that technology was enabling SHADO to deal with the attacks from the violent alien factions. The peaceful ones called themselves the Rokan-shou. It was strange to realize after all this time that they had a name. To know that the aliens they'd been at war with for so long had faces and names and personalities.
Freeman nodded a greeting to Miss Ealand who was seated in her usual place in the outer office. The door to Straker's inner office was closed.
"He has an odd visitor," Ealand told him. "Claims his name is H.G. Wells."
"And you let him in there, alone, with Straker?" Freeman was horrified at the thought. Even though the war was over, there were still people who wanted Ed Straker dead.
"Mister Straker didn't seem overly worried," Ealand told him.
That statement didn't mollify him. He reached over her desk and keyed the switch to open the door to Straker's office. Then he hurried inside.
Straker was seated at his desk, hands steepled in front of him as he regarded his visitor, the man claiming to be H.G. Wells.
"I implore you, Commander, you must help me stop this Trask person, or all will be lost," Straker's visitor was saying.
"Well, I will say you have an interesting story, Mister Wells," Straker said. "But I make movies. You know… pretty pictures for the masses. Now, if you have a story treatment, I'm sure our acquisitions department wouldn't mind taking a look."
"How can I convince you that I'm telling the truth?" Wells asked. "I've already told you more than I should."
"But why ask me to take care of this problem," Straker asked. "If he's as dangerous as you say, why not just notify the police?"
"There are reasons that would not be advisable."
"Like they'd lock you up," Freeman suggested. "H.G. Wells died in 1946."
"I'm well aware of that, Mister Freeman," Wells said, a touch of asperity in his voice. "Nonetheless, I'm stating the truth. I am Herbert George Wells and Jason Trask is going to destroy the only person capable of saving the world, unless you stop him."
Straker shook his head. "Tell it to the Marines, Mister Wells."
Wells looked surprised at Straker's decision then his lips thinned with determination. "I suppose my only recourse is to show you that I'm telling the truth," he said, pulling a small device from his pocket. Alarms went off in Freeman's head as Wells reached across the desk to grab Straker's arm. Freeman reached for Wells and…
The office in the outskirts of London shimmered and vanished. They were standing under a soot black sky in the midst of the broken rubble of what may have once been a major city. It was hard to tell. Nothing moved and the place stank of death.
"What have you done?" Straker demanded.
"If you do not act, this is the future. Your future," Wells said solemnly. "Earth's future."
"What is this place?" Freeman managed to ask.
"It was Metropolis."