"Bad guys!" shrieked big Caiti.

Zane started for the door, but he hadn't taken more than two steps before little Caiti began to wail.

Screaming child in one room, crying child in another and bad guys—probably armed—in the bunker. It was parent's worst nightmare, made surreal by the circumstances. Zane reacted by instinct. Turning back, he grabbed little Caiti, holding her close as he burst through the door and into the other room.

"Leave her alone," he shouted at the soldiers standing at the entrance to the bunker. He bolted across the room, skidding to a stop next to big Caiti.

Despite their uniforms and weapons, the soldiers didn't actually look much like bad guys to him. They mostly looked confused. Only one had a weapon drawn and it was pointed at the floor. Another pushed his helmet up, scratching his forehead. "What the hell are you folks doing here?" he asked.

Zane blinked. God. What an obvious question. Too bad he had no idea how to answer it. But he jiggled little Caiti, bouncing her up and down, patting her back, trying to soothe her, as big Caiti sobbed and clutched his leg.

"Sweetie, stop, it's okay," he said helplessly, putting one hand on her head. "Don't cry, they're not going to hurt you."

"Yes, they are," she said, between gasps. "They are. They are."

Little Caiti, seeing her older self's distress, cried harder.

Zane dropped to one knee and pulled big Caiti close. He glared at the soldiers over her shoulder, one arm around each girl. "No, they're not," he said firmly. "They're American soldiers. They don't hurt little girls. These soldiers are the good guys. They probably carry candy bars to give to the kids they meet."

Neither Caiti stopped crying. The soldiers exchanged glances. The two in back shrugged. The one in front, who seemed to be in charge, said, "Cigarettes, maybe, bud, but this ain't Italy. We don't spend a lot of time trying to charm the civilian population out here in the woods."

"They scared me," sobbed Caiti. "I remember. I remember."

"Shh, shh," Zane tried to console her. "What do you remember? Tell me."

"I woke up and it was loud and they were scary. And they have guns. We're not allowed to play with guns, Daddy."

"Of course not," Zane said, slightly appalled. How had his little girl learned that?

"Guns are dangerous." Caiti pulled away from him and looked up, tear-filled blue eyes earnest. "Only Mommy is allowed to touch guns. Nobody else, 'cept at the range with ear protectors on. And they're not wearing ear protectors. They're breaking the rules. The big rules."

Oh, right.

Jo's little girl. Of course, she'd know about guns.

Little Caiti's sobs were dying down. She nestled her head into his shoulder, sticking her thumb into her mouth, and gave one last shuddering whimper.

The soldiers at the door were stirring. The leader jerked his head and the two others slid out from behind him, moving along the walls of the bunker toward the door to the next room.

"What do you mean, remember?" asked the leader, his voice tight and suspicious. "And what's this about mommy and guns?"

Uh-oh.

Zane didn't stand, although he would have liked to. He held up his hand, fingers spread wide, a placating gesture. "It's a long story," he said, mind racing. He couldn't do anything, not with Caiti and Caiti here. If it had been just him… but it wasn't and there was no use wishing otherwise.

Amy and Jo would show up and take care of the soldiers, Zane knew, so it wasn't as if they were in actual danger. But what the hell would they do with them? They couldn't keep them here, couldn't let them go. If the soldiers didn't report in for two days… he began to have a sick feeling in his stomach. Ugh. This might be a much bigger problem than he'd imagined.

"Start at the beginning, then."

"We're not from around here," Zane said.

"You sound American," the soldier said, his eyes narrowed. He dipped his head, a quick jerk of the chin, and his helmet fell back into place as he placed his hand on his holstered weapon.

"Ah, yeah, absolutely," Zane answered hurriedly. "But we were in Europe during the war. Caiti's got PTSD. Soldiers scare her. She's just having a flashback to a few years ago."

"PT—what?"

Ah, shit. When had post-traumatic stress disorder gotten named? People had known about it for a long time, but maybe they called it something different in the 1940s. "Ah, like shell shock?" Zane tried.

"A kid?"

"The war." Zane shrugged, as if that said everything. If this soldier had seen combat, it might. The soldier's scowl didn't disappear, but a flash of sympathy appeared in his eyes.

"Sarge, you gotta see this," called one of the other soldiers. When he stepped back through the door, his weapon was out and pointed at Zane.

Okay, how to explain the Einstein-Grant bridge devices?

"Look, what are you guys doing here?" Zane stayed on his knee, but his arm tightened around little Caiti. Maybe a bluff would work. "This is supposed to be a top-secret facility. I was promised absolute privacy. Who gave you your orders?"

"Our commanding officer is Major Ryan," the sergeant answered, even as he side-stepped his way along the wall to the door of the next room, never turning his back on Zane. "What the hell is that?"

"Top-secret," Zane answered with a snap. At the best of times, he didn't imagine that he'd be able to trick military personnel into thinking he had any authority, but holding a toddler who wore nothing but a diaper while a wide-eyed kid leaned on his leg wasn't making it any easier.

"All right, this is above my pay grade," the sergeant announced abruptly. "We're taking you in. We'll let the major sort it out."

Zane looked down at Caiti, as little Caiti whimpered against his neck. He raised his eyebrows in silent question. She nodded at him, her face solemn.

"Outside, Dada," she whispered. It wasn't a loud whisper, but the sergeant heard it anyway.

"What's she talking about?" he asked warily.

"Nothing you need to worry about," Zane lied smoothly.

They stepped out of the bunker into a chilly Oregon twilight. Little Caiti immediately began to cry again. "No," she sobbed, "No. I yant my tair. I yant my mick. I no be code. No code."

"Shh, shh." Zane patted her back helplessly. The soldiers looked as distressed as he felt.

"Is she okay?" "What's wrong with her?" "Why is she crying?" All three of them spoke at once.

Zane felt like an asshole. These weren't bad guys. They were just average Joes, doing their jobs, and he was going to have to do something, anything, to shut them up. Not to mention the humiliation when…