Awake Page 9

  The search for Thomas continued, but he was nowhere to be found; if the enemy had captured him, they hadn't released their usual video footage of their prisoner.

  Matheson heard from Johnson on occasion; the young warrant officer seemed to know more than he was letting on, but he wouldn't tell Matheson anything. Yes, intelligence was being gathered on the whereabouts of Major Thomas; no, they didn't know where he was. They did know he was still alive, which surprised Matheson. How could they know something like that?

  During this time, Matheson discovered something that bothered him quite a bit: there had been a huge error in the interpretation of data regarding enemy forces and the plans to shoot down jets patrolling the no-fly zone. Someone had misread the satellite data, and by the time this error had been corrected, it had been too late. Had the information been interpreted correctly, combined with the reports that had been coming in regarding possible troop movements, the entire incident could have been avoided.

  This knowledge troubled Matheson deeply, and a part of him kept whispering in his mind: you could fix this.

  Yes, he thought. I could do something about this. But what would be the consequences if I did?

  He had no answer to that. He knew he could jump back in time and warn someone about the intelligence blunder and tell them what they should be looking for.

  But what would that mean for the present? Would changing the past have disastrous consequences on the present? He didn't know.

  Maybe it couldn't be done. Maybe there was no way to change the past. And assuming he could meddle in the past, how could he convince anyone that he was telling the truth?

  There was documentation, Matheson mused. He could get the correct intelligence documents about enemy troop movements and deliver them, in the past, to the correct people.

  But how would that work? How would someone react to finding intelligence data timestamped from the future?

  It would be dismissed as a joke.

  Surely, Matheson wondered, there would be documents that were not timestamped with the same information. But he wondered; he had no idea how the spooks did their thing.

  He thought about obtaining photographs, but this presented the same issue: evidence the photographs in question came from the future, and since no one would believe that was the case, the photographs would be, again, dismissed as a joke.

  Which would mean the only option that could possibly work was telling someone, but how to get that person, or persons, to believe it?

  But there must be a way to obtain photographic evidence of the enemy troop movements that didn't involve suspicious timestamps?

  Of course, it would be pretty easy to jump into the past, near the location of enemy troops, take some photographs (or videotape) of the troops, and deliver that footage to the right people.

  Matheson supposed this could work, and he did have a video camera he could use.

  Could he do this without being caught by the enemy?

  That could be a problem. Matheson would need to be able to imagine the location he was opening a portal to for it to work.

  Matheson knew they now had video surveillance footage of the enemy, and where those troops had been camped at when they shot down his plane.

  All he would have to do, then, was review this footage, and once he had the area committed to memory, he could then open a portal to a nearby area, where he wouldn't be seen. Once there, he could film these troops and deliver the footage to the intelligence folks.

  Even if he did all of this, Matheson wondered if it would matter.

  Still, he thought, it's better than doing nothing.

  True. The question remained: could the past be changed? If it could be changed, how would that impact the present?

  He didn't know.

  The part of his mind that was instinct kept telling him that meddling with the past was a dangerous thing, and the consequences of doing so could be huge.

  If a butterfly could flap its wings and create an earthquake thousands of miles away, what would happen if someone messed around with the past?

  Maybe, his mind countered, nothing would happen, and Thomas could be protected from a potential horrific fate.

  So many questions, so many what-ifs. It hurt Matheson's head to think about it all.

  He wouldn't have to think about it for much longer.

  After three weeks, Thomas had been released.

  * * *

  Major Thomas had a private room at the base hospital, and Charles Matheson entered it with some trepidation. His friend had lost a lot of weight; he had also sustained serious injuries when his chute malfunctioned.

  The enemy forces were able to find Thomas with relative ease, of course, since he couldn't move; he had sustained a spinal injury and was paralyzed (from the waist down, he would learn).

  Once found, his captors took him to their headquarters, which was a 12-hour drive by jeep. They dumped him into a dark cell which consisted of a lumpy cot on the floor and a sink.

  The interrogations began immediately, sessions that stretched out for hours.

  The methods of torture had to be adapted to accommodate Thomas' paralysis.

  They worked at him, hour after hour, and he never gave up any information, just as he had been trained to do.

  The most common method of torture was to shove the prisoner's head into a basin of water, holding him there until it felt as if he would drown.

  They tried other things, as well. There were time when Thomas came very close to telling the torturers anything, just to get them to stop.

  It was relentless.

  Troop numbers, troop movement, supply lines, nuclear armaments; they wanted to know about it all.

  When that didn't work, they started to threaten his family.

  Somehow, they were able to track down his family, or at least pretend that they had; they would produce photographs of his wife and children.

  “We have agents in your country,” the interrogator would say. “It would be very easy to send them to take down your family.” He would hold up a cell phone. “One call. It would take must a minute to give the word, and in a few hours your wife and children would be dead. Do you want them to die?”

  Thomas would not respond to these threats, although inside he was terrified that the threat would be carried out. If they knew who his family was, it certainly would be easy to dispatch someone to kill them.

  When they weren't torturing him, his captors left him in his cell, showing up every few hours with a small cup of water and basic food – a slice of bread, a small bowl of rice, maybe a hunk of meat.

  After ten days of this, the military forces were informed that they were holding Major Thomas prisoner, and would only release him on the condition that all coalition forces in the region retreated, with a troop withdrawal to follow.

  The coalition governments were not keen on the idea of caving in to the demands of the enemy.

  Much negotiation followed, with no letup in the torture sessions.

  An agreement was finally reached that was acceptable to both sides, and Thomas was released.

  Matheson had read all of this in the various reports he had access to, and he knew his friend had sustained both physical and emotional injury.

  “How are you holding up, Jeff,” Matheson asked as he took a seat next to the hospital bed.

  “As well as I can be, I guess,” Thomas said. “When I was captured I didn't receive any medical care, so there were...complications because of the spinal injury. The paralysis has spread.”

  “I'm really sorry, Jeff,” Matheson said. “I read the report on what you went through. I can't imagine going through that, myself.”

  “It was hell,” Thomas said. “Also, I'm pretty sure they have other prisoners. I never saw anyone but I could hear them. I don't know what's being done to free them.”

  “I'm sure everything is being done that can be,” Matheson said.

  “There is something that can be done. But you're the only one w
ho can do it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you use this ability of yours to fix this,” Thomas said, angrily. “I mean, you get off your ass and do something. You can change this.”

  “I've been thinking a lot about that, Jeff,” Matheson said. “I don't know how it can be pulled off. Going back to the past...and changing things?”

  “Do you think this is all fate?” Thomas asked. “Is that why you can't do it? Do you think this was meant to happen?”

  “It's not that. It's not like I wouldn't want to help you, Jeff. But there are greater issues at stake, things we haven't considered. It might not even be possible to change the past.”

  “But you can at least try,” Thomas said. “We know that there was a fuck up with intelligence, that's why we got shot down. I've been briefed on everything. Some analyst couldn't read a satellite photograph and missed the fact that enemy forces were gathering all over the no fly zone area.”

  “Suppose I go and do this. Suppose I succeed. What if there's a consequence to this? What if, by preventing us from getting shot down, I create a situation where something even worse happens? Like a nuclear attack on us?”

  “But you don't know that's what would happen,” Thomas said. “It's also possible that nothing would happen. You could do this, and I can walk again.”

  “I've never went back into the past and attempted to change anything,” Matheson said. “This isn't a power to screw around with, Jeff. I hate what they did to you, and I feel horrible that you've...been injured, but I don't think I can take this risk. How could I live with myself if by changing the past I doomed the future?”

  “You're quite the idealist, Charles,” Thomas said. “I keep forgetting you're just a kid. Maybe you're not ready to make an adult decision.”

  “If you hadn't known me, this wouldn't have even been a consideration,” Matheson said. “In life you don't get to go back and change things.”

  “Don't worry about it, Charles,” Thomas said. “I'm sure I can find someone who has the proper sense of loyalty to help me. Someone who isn't burdened with so much self-righteousness.”

  “It's not a matter of being self-righteous,” Matheson said. “There's too much of an unknown to deal with, and it would be irresponsible of me to take such a risk.”

  Thomas sighed. “Fine. Maybe you're right. What do I know about screwing around with the space/time continuum? Maybe it's best left alone.”

  “I think so,” Matheson said. “At least for now, until I have a better idea of what I'm dealing with.”

  “You know, this war is coming to an end,” Thomas said. “It won't be long now. You'll be going back to Germany.”

  “And what about you?”

  “Me? I'll be discharged on disability, I suppose. I can't fly again. I didn't expect my career to end like this, but so be it.”

  “You can teach,” Matheson suggested. “You can keep serving in that capacity.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so,” Thomas said. “Thanks for coming by, Charles. I'm kind of tired. Going to try and get some sleep. Sorry I was an ass. I'm just a little pissed at life right now.”

  “It's okay,” Matheson said. “Sure, get some rest. I'll talk to you soon.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was immediately following his visit with Thomas that Charles Matheson began to think something was terribly wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

  This feeling began with him and Thomas having drinks at the officer's club. They were on a break from patrolling the no-fly zone.

  “We're moving forward on meeting with the government to offer our services,” Thomas said as he took a sip of his beer. Thomas stood and stretched. “My back is killing me. I need exercise more.” He sat back down.

  As he did this, something flashed in Matheson's mind – a subconscious fragment of memory, perhaps. “I hear you,” Matheson said. “It's just so damn hot it's hard to get motivated.”

  “Let me ask you something,” Thomas said. “Suppose something happened to us – suppose we were shot down, and taken prisoner, and maybe tortured. Would you use your power to stop that, or prevent it?”

  “Jesus, Jeff! What kind of question is that?” Matheson said. “We're not going to get shot down.”

  “It could happen,” Thomas said. “It's a possibility. Wouldn't you use your ability to put things right?”

  “I don't know,” Matheson said. “Messing around with the past – there's no telling what kind of impact that would have on the present.”

  “But you use your ability now – to move between locations. How do you know doing that doesn't have some kind of effect?”

  Matheson frowned. “It's like an instinct,” he said.

  And as he said this, a thought flashed in his mind: how is it that Jeff is walking?

  That thought passed quickly. What the hell did that mean?

  He continued. “I don't get the feeling that just jumping from place to place has any effect. But every time I think about going into the past, it's like a part of my mind is objecting, because it knows to do so would have consequences.”

  Thomas nodded. “So you'd play it safe. I didn't expect you to think differently about it.”

  “How else could I think of it?” Matheson asked. “I trust my instincts. I don't know how I could live with myself if I did go back in time, only to return to a present with some disastrous result.”

  “Yeah, that's what you said to me,” Thomas said. “You don't remember, do you?”

  “Remember what?” Matheson said.

  “The accident.”

  “What accident?”

  “Our plane getting shot down,” Thomas said. “My being captured.”

  “Are you okay, sir?” Matheson said. “Shot down? I don't get it. You're joking, right?”

  “Right,” Thomas smiled. “Just yanking your chain, Charles. Lighten up. You're so serious!”

  Matheson smiled. “You were talking crazy, boss.”

  “Yes,” Thomas said. “Talking crazy.”

  * * *

  Matheson still couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong; something was out of place, but he couldn't fathom what that something was.

  Thomas and Matheson continued their patrols of the no-fly zone, and each time he interacted with Thomas, Matheson kept feeling that there was something off; and he kept associating the idea that Thomas shouldn't be walking whenever he spoke to Thomas.

  It was never a clear thing, a subliminal objection, and he never understood why his mind kept reacting that way.

  Thomas seemed to be growing increasingly resentful of Matheson, and despite his efforts to figure out why, Thomas would say nothing was wrong, that he was just feeling tired. Or that he had a headache. It was becoming clear to Matheson that the older man was increasingly short with him.

  Matheson didn't talk much about his group of “portal jumpers” (as he had called them on occasion) and wasn't pressing Matheson to join up with the group. Matheson reported this information to Warrant Officer Johnson, and the intelligence agent told Matheson that his own informants were saying Thomas was losing interest in his plan.

  Matheson wondered about that.

  He and Thomas didn't spend as much time together when they were off duty as they had in the past, and Thomas never said what he was up to the few times Matheson casually asked him.

  Matheson's instincts kept speaking to him, telling him that something was wrong.

  The phone calls to Johnson stopped as well; Matheson suddenly had no recollection of ever meeting the man. But, every so often, that part of his mind dealing with instinct would talk to him; there were times when Matheson would be watching a movie, or reading a book, and the name Johnson would enter his train of thoughts.

  Matheson would frown at this, trying to think if he knew anyone with that name.

  He would get the answer to that question a few days later.

  He was relaxing in his room, watching a movie, when someone knocked on his d
oor.

  He opened the door to a young man in a khaki uniform. “Leftenant Matheson?” he asked.

  “That's me,” Matheson said.

  The young man held out identification. “I'm Warrant Officer Ed Johnson. I'm an agent with the intelligence branch. Can I come in?”

  “Sure,” Matheson said. “Come on in.” He opened the door wide and Johnson stepped in.

  “Nice place,” Johnson said. “Nicer than the quarters they're putting me up in.”

  “I think I spend more time flying than I do here, but at least the AC works,” Matheson said. He nodded towards the couch and Johnson sat down. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “A soft drink if you have it,” Johnson said.

  Matheson went to the refrigerator and pulled out two cans of Crystal Pepsi. He handed a can to Johnson and sat down.

  “How can I help you?” Matheson said.

  “Intelligence has been working with the Defense Research and Development Department on a new technology, something with incredible implications for many things, not just the military.”

  “Are you now?” Matheson said. “Does that have something to do with me?”

  Johnson smiled. “I'll get there in a moment, sir. This technology involves the creation of wormholes...I'm not a physicist so I don't know all the technological aspects of it. These wormholes are...well, short-cuts, that can lead someone to a location thousands of miles away, or even through time. And the reason...”

  Matheson interrupted Johnson. “The reason you're here is to recruit me, right?” Matheson said. “You know about my ability and need my help.”

  Johnson laughed. “How'd you know that? You're right, we do want your help; we know you've been portal jumping. And we were wanting to recruit you for a project.”

  Matheson frowned. “We've never met before?”

  “No, sir, I don't think so,” Johnson said.

  “I have the strangest feeling of deja vu, you know? Like we've had this conversation before.”

  “No, sir, we haven't. I think I'd remember that!”

  “Weird. It's like I have some kind of memory of it...but parts of it are hazy. And it has something to do with...I don't know. Seems like it was there, on the tip of my tongue, and now it's gone.”