~
Jake looked at me with despair. I looked back, hoping he would cave and let me continue with the WTF.
“Let’s go get something to eat, and we will talk.” Jake got to his feet, and I followed him down the long hall to a set of elevators. We entered the elevator, and Jake inserted a key fob into the slot on the elevator panel. He pushed the level-one button.
“The WTF operates covertly underground at Gitmo,” Jake explained. “The bottom floor is ours. The WTF prisoners are held in cells on the same floor. The first and second floors house the maximum-security prisoners for Camp 6, which is where we are now. The staff, prisoners, and any visitors have no idea we even exist below them. The elite Gitmo staff knows there is a top-secret base but do not have access. The camp forms a rectangle and is monitored by computers. The main control access to Gitmo is here. There are many other camps at Gitmo. Some are maximum security like this one; others are medium. There are no minimal-security prisons here. No one but WTF enters Level B.”
“What’s the B stand for… basement?” I asked.
“Bottom,” he said with a sad tone that tugged on my heartstrings. It was as if all his time and training ended with him here, among the bottom dwellers of the CIA. I thought being involved in a top-secret project should have been exciting, but I knew Jake, and he would have wanted to be the one with the gun, capturing the bad guys, not the one pushing the paperwork.
The elevator doors opened to a large room. Jake walked us through an X-ray unit not unlike the ones you see at the airport, complete with big scary security guard. We crossed what seemed to be an intake area for prisoners, then exited out the front door. Jake used his key to open the security gate outside the main door. We walked through; the door slammed shut behind us, trapping us between two large gates. A loud buzz made me jump, and then the gate in front of us opened. A sidewalk snaked between the buildings, leaving the Camp 6 building secured with high electrical fencing and razor-wire tops behind us.
A military jeep driven by a young private was waiting for us. He took us through another large, heavily guarded gate, and we drove around what seemed to be a small town. As we passed a McDonald’s, I looked curiously at Jake.
“The military personnel have to live here. There is a school, bowling alley, and movie theater.”
We turned a corner and came up to a large chain-link gate minus the razor wire on top. There was a guardhouse with two men in uniform manning the gate. When we stopped, Jake produced his identification and a piece of paper explaining my presence, and they waved us through.
“These buildings are the military base of Gitmo,” Jake said. Several multistory cement buildings were scattered throughout the complex.
The jeep pulled up to a long, white, three-story building.
“Thanks, man,” Jake said to the young driver.
Jake key-fobbed us through the front of the first building, which seemed like an apartment. We took the stairs up two flights, and he used a different key fob to enter one of the doors—Jake’s new apartment. It looked like military-issue furniture: basic brown couch and chair, plain side table, and coffee table. But it smelled like Jake. He had always worn Abercrombie cologne, ever since high school. Sometimes I would nag him for not trying a new fragrance, but truthfully, when I smelled it, a warm, comfortable feeling would surround me like an electric blanket set on just the right temperature. In fact, when he was away at school, I would go into the store just to get that comfortable high. Safety. A feeling I had missed since I began the trip to 1915.
Jake dropped his keys on the small breakfront that sat in the dining area inside the door. He turned and pulled me into his arms.
“I thought you were mad at me,” I said.
“I am, but you are still the most important person in my life.”
I rested my head against his chest.
“If anything happened to you, I would feel entirely responsible for allowing you to be a part of this warped mess.”
I pulled away. “Jake, I am supposed to be a part of this. I can’t describe in words how frightened I have been these last few days, but it feels like my destiny.”
Jake drew his lips into a tight line. “Are you hungry?”
“Yeah, I guess maybe I am. I can’t remember the last time I ate.”
“How about a couple of subs? There is a deli on the roof. Let me get out of this jacket, and we can go grab something.”
“On the roof?” I asked, walking around his sparse apartment. No pictures, nothing personal on the counters. Very different from his cool apartment in Dallas.
He called to me from the bedroom. “The roof has the best view, so the dining area is up there.”
I avoided going into his bedroom. That was a complication I didn’t want to have at the moment.
Jake reappeared without the jacket, sleeves rolled up and shirt partially unbuttoned, revealing his top few sexy chest hairs.
“Can you walk around without wearing your official jacket?” I asked.
“I’m on my time now, and the base is pretty casual. Since we are so isolated, it’s not likely the president is going to pop in for a surprise visit.”
We took another couple of flights up to the roof. Jake was right—the view was amazing. Blue ocean as far as the eyes could see.
The weather was about eighty-five degrees, and a nice breeze was coming in off the bay. Several tables with umbrellas were scattered about. A walk-up deli was to the right, with a canopy of the same red, white, and blue stripes as the umbrellas.
Jake walked over to the deli counter. A man who looked Cuban was behind the counter and smiled as Jake approached.
“Good afternoon, Mr. McCoy and his lovely lady friend, who is so happy today.”
Geesh. Stupid smiley-face scrubs.
“Hey, Rubén. Two turkey subs with chips, tea for me, and a beer.”
“Comin’ right up.”
Jake paid, and we walked over to one of the tables that overlooked the ocean. I took a deep breath of the salty air. “Jake, this is a nice view.”
“Looking out that direction is nice,” he said, grabbing my hand. He took me to the other side of the roof. “This direction has another feeling altogether.”
I saw the tall electric fences with the razor-wire tops. Jake pointed out the Cuban border.
“I see your point.”
We walked back around to the table and sat down. Rubén brought us our sandwiches and two big bags of potato chips. I didn’t realize how hungry I was. I devoured my lunch. Jake just picked at his sandwich.
“It’s one of the side effects of time travel. Since your body thinks it was gone many days, and since you return into the same time, give or take a few hours, your internal clock gets confused. Usually there is increased hunger, fatigue, and sometimes severe headaches.”
“I don’t have a headache, but I would really like to get out of these clothes; I feel ridiculous smiling at everyone.”
The corners of Jake’s mouth turned up. “I could help you with that.”
The old Jake was back. I laughed but didn’t offer any encouragement, because I was really confused about the men in my life.
“So, tell me what I need to know to become a good transporter.” I took a big swig of my beer. It was a dark beer, not what I was used to, but it had a deep, full flavor and quenched my dry throat. Jake shifted uneasily in his chair.
“I can give you history, but you will need training. Intense training that some even with the gift can’t complete.”
Something to look forward to. My subconscious pulled out her memo pad and began taking notes.
“Caiyan told me the story his grandfather told him about the history of the gift,” I said.
Jake sighed. “The World Travel Federation was created in December 1963 by President Johnson. The assassination of JFK by a brigand led to the capture of a defender, Jack Ruby. He was ultimately taken into custody but died in prison before his transporter could rescue him. An alliance was made with
the government to assist the time travelers and give them protection from being captured in a past time.”
“Why Gitmo?” I asked, helping myself to a handful of Jake’s chips.
“Guantanamo Bay was the best place to hide the covert operation because of its isolated location and the amount of military protection already in place.
“This alliance, formed by the time travelers, the British Secret Service, and the US Department of Defense, gave more control over what went on in the traveling by establishing a set of rules and giving the time travelers a place to imprison the brigands.”
“Caiyan told me the Mafuso family are brigands and that there are other brigands as well.”
The mention of Caiyan’s name caused Jake to wince slightly. “The Mafusos are a family, but there are others who do not respect the code of time travel.”
“Which is?”
“There are rules, such as, rule number one, you can’t intentionally disrupt events that happened in the past because you can cause a change in the future. For example, if you killed the mother of the future US president, it could severely change life the way we know it.”
“Caiyan mentioned that, but it didn’t keep him from killing Paco.”
“Yes, I know. Caiyan plays by his own rules, which makes him dangerous. Killing is in his blood, Jen.”
“He killed Paco to save me.”
“Why didn’t he just knock him out and restrain him?”
I pondered this for a moment. Why didn’t Caiyan just hit him on the head and knock him out? We could have tied him up and left him. Maybe he was afraid Villa would find him before we could escape. The main reason tore at my gut: he was more interested in capturing brigands and retaining the keys than saving our lives. Jake watched me as I came to the conclusion. I decided a simple explanation would do for now, until I could talk to Caiyan.
I took a long pull on my beer and said, “I think the others would have heard the commotion and come to help Paco.”
“Maybe. But many times when Caiyan returns, I have to research the bastard he took down to find out how to fix any problems he might have created.”
“How do you find the problems?”
“We have a computer program that is designed to locate the ripple effects left by the time travelers.” He took my beer from my hand and finished it off. That was probably a violation during work hours, but Jake looked like he needed more than a swig of beer.
“Was Paco the father of the next US president?” I asked.
Jake grimaced. “No, he was killed March 9, 1916—he and five hundred Villistas attacked the Thirteenth US Cavalry at Camp Furlong near Columbus, New Mexico, using the guns supplied to them by Mortas.”
“No family?”
“No.”
“Then we’re OK, right?”
“It doesn’t make it right, and we have to research every person Paco had killed from the moment Caiyan killed him to his original death and all their ancestors.”
“Were there many?” I asked uneasily.
Jake rolled his eyes and avoided my question. “Rule number two is you can’t tell anyone, which you have already broken by not only telling Gertie but also taking her back with you.”
Thinking of Gertie gave me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. “I didn’t tell her; she hopped in, and then she found out.”
“Rule three, you must never let a brigand see your vessel. It makes it easier for the brigands to use your key if they know what your vessel looks like and can find it.” Jake was ticking off the rules using his fingers.
“I think I got it.”
Jake eyed me and kept on talking. “Rule four, you cannot remove another’s key; he has to remove it himself. We have tried cutting them off, burning them off, and other means, but with no luck. Unless the person is dead or he takes the key off himself, it stays on.”
“OK, let me get this straight. So far the Mafusos have respected our present-day relationship. All our conflicts take place in the past, not here.” I held up my fingers as I listed the rules. “You can’t tell anyone, which I have already violated.” Jake frowned at me, but I continued anyway. “You can’t let anyone see your vessel. I broke that one too.” I should have listed the rules that I hadn’t broken first. My subconscious gave me a kick in the shins. “You can’t kill anyone because it might screw up the future, and you can’t take off another traveler’s key.”
“Very good,” Jake said with a smile.
“Unless you go back and take it from an ancestor,” I added.
“Yeah, there’s that. When you travel to the past, it is forbidden to force a traveler to remove his key. You cannot leave him running amuck in the past, screwing with the future.”
“But the Mafusos took my key.”
“Not really, they went back and bought the key from someone who took it from your ancestor in her own time, therefore you never received it. They found a loophole to the rule.” Jake frowned. “The brigands don’t always obey our rules; that is why we are always chasing them, and until we have all the keys, it won’t stop.”
“Why don’t the brigands just kill us and take our keys?’
“That is the most important thing you should know about your gift. If you kill another traveler, you die.”
My mind went numb for a second. “Die?”
Jake looked me straight in the eye, “Yes, die.”
“What if it’s an accident?”
“There can’t be any accidents.
Jake took a bite of his hardly touched sandwhich and offered me the other half. I had practically inhaled mine, so I accepted. We both chewed on the prior information as we chewed on the sandwich. I decided not to dwell on the parts of my gift I had no control over. I wasn’t planning on killing anyone, anyway. I was just the transporter, right?
“What happens next?” I asked.
“My operations manager is drawing up paperwork for you to sign. Sort of a business contract between the WTF and you.”
“I hate paperwork.”
“I know, I remember doing several papers for you in high school. The contract will explain what you can and cannot do concerning time travel. For example, you cannot go back in time for personal gain.”
“Right.”
“Your friends Caiyan and Brodie also have a problem with this part of the contract.”
I didn’t understand what he meant by this, but I had a feeling it had something to do with the little episode between Caiyan and me during my first trip. I decided some questions were better left unanswered.