John Schettler - Meridian

“You wear the Gallipoli Star,” said Paul eyeing the badge on the Colonel’s shirt. He realized that is was only called that in the West, and corrected himself. “The Iron Crescent is a sign of bravery, yes?”

The colonel gave him a sour look, but there was a hint of pride in his eyes. “You know it?” He thumbed the gilded star on his chest. “I fought with Mustapha Kemal at Sulva Bay. We taught the British their first lesson there. They had to learn again at the siege of Kut in Mesopotamia. That was a hard lesson. Do you know that they offered us two million pounds sterling for Townsend’s head? The English think they can buy what force of arms fails to deliver them in plunder. The have no honor in war. We should have run them out of Egypt long ago. If not for a few cackling chickens we might have done so! Yes, I was also with Djemal when he took 25,000 men across the Sinai on camels and tried to slip across the Suez. A few chickens gave us away in the dark that night. One of the squads had taken them along, against orders, because they grew tired of olives and biscuits. As we approached the canal the chickens got loose and alerted the British. So much for that adventure.” He sighed, grinding his coffee hard as he spoke, his voice laden with a note of discontent. “Now I am here, riding trains back and forth from Damascus to Amman and listening to Allenby’s guns. He may have stolen a march on us at Beersheba last week, but we will make him pay for the ground. Let him have Gaza, what is there?”

Paul was surprised that the Colonel spoke so freely. The story about the abortive attempt to cross the Suez was as significant to him as it was amusing to the Colonel. Chickens! Everyone thinks the great events of history turn on the decisions of generals and statesmen, but it was just as likely that the real hinge of fate here was a loose clasp on a chicken coop. He saw the errant little thread of causality dangling from the story, an insignificant moment of disobedience by a hungry squad of soldiers that may have given the whole operation away. It was just such a moment that he was seeking now; perhaps on this very train. He desperately wanted to know what day it was, and gain some sense of his location. He watched the Colonel working at his coffee, and wondered if he dared say anything more. The Colonel was slowly grinding the coffee beans in the bottom of a metal cup. Paul knew it was dangerous, but he chanced another remark.

“I have heard the thunder in the desert, but it is not the rain.” The sound returned to them in the distance, a dull rolling rumble at the edge of their awareness.

The Colonel gave him a dark glance. “Yes, that would be your British friends,” he said with a twist of derision in his voice. “Artillery. That is the one thing the British do well, I’m afraid. They do make good artillery. But we, too, have guns; and we know how to use them.”

His water was ready at the boil and he reached for the tin pot, pouring the steaming liquid into his cup. The aroma of coffee redoubled as the ground beans bloomed and a light brown foam welled at the lip of the cup. The Colonel leaned down to smell the dark, rich coffee, clearly pleased. “This is very fresh,” he said. “Where did you get it? I have not had coffee like this for many months.”

Paul hesitated, and then decided to simply tell the truth. “I brought it with me from America.”

“America? They do not grow coffee in America.”

“From San Francisco—where I live.” He hoped he might convince the man that he was not a British spy, so he rambled on. “It is imported there. I think the blend is Arabica, with beans from Sumatra as well.” He was beginning to think that a good cup of Major Dickason’s blend would work its wonders on the man and soften his mood.

“That is one thing the Arabs do well,” said the Colonel. “They make good coffee, though they put too much spice in it. I do not take it that way.” He stirred his cup slowly, looking at Paul with a little curiosity now, the hardness in his voice moderated somewhat. “And the Arabs also like to blow up my trains,” he added. “Did you know that, American? Perhaps you have been helping them.”

Paul was afraid the interrogation was going to begin again, but he thought it dangerous to remain silent at the remark. “I would not know how to go about it,” he said, with all honesty.

The Colonel smiled at the remark. “I wonder,” he said quietly. “The Bey may wonder as well when I bring you to Deraa. If you live so long.” He tacked that last bit on as he sipped at the coffee, a satisfied look on his face.

“You are going to Derra?” Paul could not get himself into any more trouble, so he ventured on. He wondered if he could ascertain what day it was. “I was hoping to reach there by week’s end.”

The Colonel looked as though he would laugh, but his mood shifted suddenly. “You are a bit too curious for one in your situation. You wish to go to Deraa? Why? Is there something there you wish to see?”

“The city,” said Paul. “The people.”

“The defensive works, perhaps; the gun emplacements? Notes for your history books, I suppose. You may think yourself a non-combatant, but I do not think the Bey will be so gracious in his assessment. Yes, I think I will save you for him. He fancies your kind: soft men; men of letters and words. We will stop in Deraa along the way and I will introduce you. He will enjoy your conversation. I do not!”

He sipped at his cup again. “But your coffee is good,” he finished with wry humor. “I think you are an American. But do not forget: the United States has joined the war now, and so you are just as much an enemy as the English. Yes! I have the reports here in my briefcase. The Germans have killed the first American soldiers in Europe only a few days ago. They will kill many more when the Russians go home to their revolution. Perhaps the generals have sent your likes into the area to cause trouble for us here, just as the British do with these Arabs. I’m afraid that is exactly what the Bey will think, my friend. And that is what I think as well. You are a spy.” He took a deep draught from his coffee cup and stood up, very suddenly. “Now,” he said with a dark grin, “you will tell me something of why you have really come to the desert, and why you wish to see our cities and towns.” He took hold of Paul’s chin, his grip hard and cold. “I cannot give you to the Bey without knowing these things. He will discover it all for himself, of course, but you will tell me first—and you will tell me now.”

The Colonel’s hand moved to Paul’s throat, and he swallowed hard as he felt the fingers tighten on his wind pipe. So much for Major Dickason’s blend, he thought. I should have brought Guatemala.

Kelly was studying the monitors, noting the final diagnostic numbers coming in on the time shift and feeling quite pleased with himself. His theory had worked! If a loop command was sent through the system during the tachyon infusion multiple signatures could be captured for storage in the pattern buffers. Theoretically, there could be as many signatures as the memory capacity allowed, and for each one he knew he could now time the particle density and decay sequences to initiate a jump to a new point on the continuum. It was a novel idea that no one had ever anticipated, a child of his own speculation that had been given a rough birthing in the emergency that had just transpired.

“I’ll call it a Ramer Loop,” he said to himself, almost forgetting that Maeve was still there, hovering over his shoulder and trying to make sense of the readouts.

“Are they on target?”

“Sure,” said Kelly, an air of jubilancy relieving the stress of the last fifteen minutes. “I got them both in tight on the coordinates. At least that’s what the system reads. Looks like one arrived a day ahead of the other, however.”