Jude Hardin - The Reacher Code - Timestream 1

The truth was, nobody knew the exact toll that any of it would take. It was all new territory. Cutting edge stuff. Like the early days of the space program, where guys with slide rules and pocket protectors strapped a rocket to your ass and shot you out past the outer reaches of the atmosphere and hoped you made it back in one piece. A lot like that. In fact, Nilke had been suggesting that he and Stahler and future candidates for the program start referring to themselves in a manner that would pay homage to those early space travelers. He’d been batting words like chrononauts and tempronauts around, planning to run a few ideas past McDaniels someday soon and see which one struck a chord.

Stahler didn’t really care what they called themselves. He just hoped that future missions didn’t turn out to be quite as grueling as this one had. This one had been a bitch. At least it was almost over. In fact, if everything went well with Nilke’s next series of spins, it would be over in less than twelve hours. Then Stahler could leave his FCYYC apartment and spend a few days out in town with his girlfriend. A few days in his own time period, which had started to seem more and more like a dream. Like one you wake up from and can barely remember.

Stahler was pulling his socks off, getting ready to stretch out for some much needed sleep when his phone trilled.

The caller ID said McDaniels.

It always said McDaniels.

Stahler clicked on.

“This is Stahler,” he said.

“I need you to come on back to the hangar ASAP,” McDaniels said.

“I just got in. I’m exhausted.”

“The hit on Reacher is scheduled for zero two hundred.”

“Right. It’s on Nilke’s watch. You set it up that way.”

Stahler knew why Nilke’s shift had been scheduled to coincide with the assassination attempt. It was because Nilke was a better combatant than Stahler. He was faster, and stronger, and better with weapons. And he had more experience squaring off against multiple opponents. Nobody had actually said it out loud, but nobody had needed to. It was just a fact. Nilke was a better fighter. And Stahler was okay with that. If he’d been the one doing the scheduling, he would have picked Nilke too.

Stahler was good at the sneaky stuff. Reconnaissance. And espionage. He knew how to get in and get out without being noticed. Stealthy. Like a cat. And he was good at recruiting informants. Ones who willingly accepted assignments in exchange for monetary compensation, and ones who needed a little extra persuasion.

Supposedly, Wahlman was good at everything. Stahler had never met him, so he didn’t really know. It was just what he’d heard. That Wahlman, who’d only been with the FCYYC for a short time but who had a well-documented history in military law enforcement—and as a wrongly-accused fugitive from justice—was the best fighter and the smartest spy McDaniels had ever seen. According to McDaniels, Wahlman had spent several months of his life running from the law and dodging bullets from hired assassins at the same time. He’d been forced into confrontations against multiple opponents on multiple occasions, and had walked away without a scratch almost every time. Just a total badass.

Not that it mattered anymore.

There’s not a lot you can do when you’re in a coma.

“I spoke with Victor,” McDaniels said. “Told him that you located Wahlman. He wants the matter taken care of. He wants it done tonight.”

Stahler had been hoping that something could be worked out, that Wahlman could somehow be brought home.

But apparently not.

Apparently The Director had made up his mind, and had issued the order already.

“Reacher and Wahlman are in the same hospital,” Stahler said. “Nilke’s going to be there. Shouldn’t be that much of a problem.”

“Nilke can’t protect Reacher and take care of the Wahlman situation at the same time,” McDaniels said. “Sorry, but I’m going to have to spin you back in there.”

“I need some rest. Can I at least have a couple of hours?”

“No. I need you to come now.”

There was no point in arguing. An order was an order. Especially when it came down from The Director. Stahler had voiced his opinions on some previous matters, and had been rewarded with reprimands and extra duties. It just wasn’t worth it.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll be there in ten.”

“I’ll be waiting,” McDaniels said.

Stahler pulled a fresh pair of socks out of his sock drawer, realizing that he needed to do some laundry soon. He and Nilke—and Wahlman before them—had been issued ultra-high-tech uniforms called AdaptoSuits. The appearance of the outfits could be changed in a heartbeat, adjusted with a controller that looked like an ordinary wristwatch. You could be wearing a sports coat and tie one second, jeans and a hooded sweatshirt the next. There were dozens of choices, depending on the needs of the mission.

The default setting was a Special Ops kind of deal, all black and heavy and bulletproof, the kind of thing you might want to wear if you were dropped into the middle of a warzone. Definitely handy to have if you needed it, but Stahler preferred a more casual ensemble for most spins.

For this one he selected a set of surgical scrubs.

He called for a driver and made it over to the hangar, climbed up onto the flat-gray circular elevation on the left, the one with his name on it, the one where his trips to other time periods began and ended.

He gave the bike a quick once-over.

The motorcycles—there were three of them now—had been engineered to detect a certain DNA sequence when you wrapped your hands around the handlebar grips. If the machine didn’t detect the correct sequence, it wouldn’t start. So Wahlman’s bike would start for Wahlman, and Nilke’s bike would start for Nilke, and Stahler’s bike would start for Stahler. And nobody else. It prevented some lowlife piece of shit from stealing your machine and taking a joyride—maybe to another century.

McDaniels had explained all of the DNA stuff in detail. He’d taken Stahler and Nilke into one of the classrooms and had geeked out on the subject for nearly two hours, going over everything and writing it all out on a whiteboard. Nucleic acid sequence, alphanumeric code, encrypted password, blah blah blah. Stahler hadn’t really been paying attention. All he cared about was that the machine took him where it was supposed to take him, and that it didn’t turn him into a quivering blob of goo in the process.

Like the suits, the appearance and functional capabilities of the motorcycles could be changed with the wristwatch controllers. Pretty amazing stuff. For his last spin, Stahler had chosen a 1976 Honda CB 500, and he figured he would stick with that for this next one.

A fourth motorcycle was in the works, but it was still a few days from being finished. The names of the next series of trainees hadn’t been announced yet. Rumor had it that there were about a hundred candidates competing for just a handful of slots, but Stahler didn’t know that for sure. Maybe there were only twenty candidates. Or maybe there were two hundred. Regardless of how many there were, Stahler figured that a good number of them would withdraw their applications if they really knew what they were getting into. Time travel sounded glamorous and exciting—and it was in a lot of ways—but Stahler doubted that he or anyone else involved could expect to live very long. Not if the past few days had been any indication.

Stahler climbed down from the pedestal and stepped into the control room. McDaniels was sitting at one of the workstations with a huge mug of coffee and a pile of electronic components and a soldering iron in front of him.

“What are you building now?” Stahler asked. “A portal to an alternate dimension?”