The Crossbow and the Beret

By David L. Bohmfalk

It is 1988the height of the Cold War. At Randolph Air Force Base in Texas, David Balzen is a straightforward, decisive, and ethical security police sergeant. But when he finds himself the solo hostage negotiator at a top secret research hangar, Balzen soon learns that reality is farther from his reach than he ever imagined.

While bargaining for the release of a female research assistant from a demented physicist, Balzen is confronted with one of mans oldest dreams or, in his case, a nightmare. During a last-ditch effort to save Christine Townsend, Balzen is thrown into the physicists time machines beam and suddenly finds himself in Camelot without weapons and tools. With his life at the mercy of King Arthur, Balzen must prove himself worthy enough to be returned to his homeland. When Balzen is commissioned to assassinate an evil rogue, he is provided with a servant girl to assist him who looks incredibly similar to Townsend. Compounding matters, Balzen is about to discover that no one in Camelot or Texas is who they appear to be.

In this military thriller, an Air Force security police sergeant is transported back in time to Camelot where he must defeat the Black Knight in battle, in order to return home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491776865

David L. Bohmfalk

David L. Bohmfalk is a law enforcement consultant who holds graduate degrees from Sam Houston State University and Texas State University, and a baccalaureate degree from St. Edward’s University. He has served in Air Force Security Police and Texas State Guard Military Police, and was once the youngest police chief in Texas.

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Copyright © 1989, 2015 David L. Bohmfalk.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-7687-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-7686-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015919131

iUniverse rev. date: 11/11/2015

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

I. One Helluva Ride

II. Where’s Rod Serling?

III. That Special Feeling

IV. The King and the Texican

V. A Twentieth Century Mind Game

VI. Back to Business

VII. The Recon

VIII. The Debriefing

IX. Time Out!

XI. A Welcome Change of Pace

XII. An Ugly New Twist

XIII. Only a Prayer

XIV. Final Victory

XV. Stand Down: A Farewell to Camelot

XVI. Shed a Bittersweet Tear

Dedication

This work is lovingly dedicated to the memory of Karen Carpenter, truly an American princess, if ever one could have existed. Your voice and emotional presence taught me as a young boy that true love comes from the heart alone. The world will never again be as beautiful as when you were in it. Sleep peacefully, my lady, wrapped in the warmth of God’s undying love.

Acknowledgements

I would like to express my gratitude to the following for granting me the inspiration and encouragement to start and complete this work:

God

Jesus Christ

Karen Carpenter

Richard Carpenter

My friends and co-workers at 7-A Ranch Resort, Wimberley, Texas

The Three Stooges (long story, that)

Lena Sieffert

Mary Bowlin

Donna Bohmfalk

Lee Lane and KKMJ, Majic 95 FM

Jennifer O’Neill

Michel Legrand

Peter Nero

I. One Helluva Ride

J UNE, 1988. TO MOST AMERICANS, THE COLD WAR YET SHOWED NO SIGNS OF REMISSION, much less demise. Grenada, during which the Soviet Union blinked at American resolve, served as a poultice on the post-Viet Nam sore of public insecurity over military capabilities. Thirteen years after the fall of Saigon, the United States Armed Forces were at their height of prestige and preparedness, with personal, professional, and logistical standards unmatched in their history.

The thunder of the T-38 Talon trainer taking off was finally dying down. Inside the guard shack of the main gate of Randolph Air Force Base, Texas, Security Police Staff Sergeant David Balzen reclined in the creaky, Korean War-era chair and removed his beret.

The twenty-seven-year-old Balzen had been at Randolph, it seemed, for an eternity, having been stationed there directly out of the Security Police Academy at Lackland AFB. At five feet, ten inches and one hundred, eighty pounds, he was always being stopped and harassed about his weight, although he was well within his required limits and capable of both long-distance running and heavy labor. He was stocky, but not obese, having been a defensive lineman in high school football. His moustache was of slightly reddish tint and a little lighter than his dark brown hair, and added age to his round, boyish face. His right eye, ever so slightly squinted from years of shooting sports and mastery of small weapons, betrayed the fact that he was a southpaw. Menacing they may have appeared, but those same brown eyes told of a softer side, a love of all things romantic and the sensitivity to help those in need. Overall, he was an intimidating picture in uniform, but with the tenderness of a teddy bear.

He mopped his brow, thankful that he did not have to stand outside and direct traffic like the poor, recent SP Academy graduate Airman Basic, who had the watch for that hour. Besides, he had already paid those dues several years and a few chevrons before. Harper, do you think we’ll be able to avoid a heat wave this year? I mean, it’s only early June and the temp’s already approaching a hundred.

No sir, Airman First Class Terri Harper answered. A Nubian beauty of twenty, statuesque with a smooth, raven skin tone, she stood in front of the air conditioner vent, letting the relatively cool air blow into her face and collar. It was her turn at the temporary refuge from the relentless summertime south Texas sun, and she was determined to make every precious moment count. But could it be any worse than Grenada? Didn’t it get real hot over there?

Oh, it got hot alright, but we weren’t talking about the weather. He strained to look out the window, focusing on a well-worn, ten-year-old Ford pickup truck across the highway intersection. Hey, speaking of Grenada, isn’t that Jack Burgess across the road? Yeah! Oh Airman, you’re gonna hear all the Grenada stories you can handle, now!

Didn’t you two fight together over there?

Balzen let loose with a belly laugh that made him appear twenty pounds heavier. Fight, play, bellyache—you name it, we did it! He was my peer advisor when I got here from the Academy. That was—oh, I don’t know how many years ago, but he’s been a private investigator since he got out from here. Had a falling out with Master Sergeant Conrad and took an early discharge to try to save his marriage. His face worked sad with memory. It didn’t work. Quickly lighting up again, he chuckled. When he gets here, I’m gonna find out how he likes playing Sam Spade!

Isn’t there a girl in the truck with him?

Uh, looks like it from here. Yeah, you might —

Only in mid-sentence does a police radio interrupt a speaker. Such was the case today. Randolph, Five-eighteen.

Balzen leisurely picked up the microphone. Looking at Airman First Class Harper, he smiled patiently. Yep, I can see it all now: ‘Five-eighteen, please relieve South Gate for rest break.’ I thought that’s why they put you rookie A1Cs in patrol units. Sighing as Harper sneered at him, he keyed the microphone. Five-eighteen.

A klaxon sounded; its sharp blast jolted him to his feet; the radio followed immediately. Five-eighteen and all posts and patrols, be advised of alarm activation at Hangar Sixteen. All posts and patrols switch radios to Tac One. Five-eighteen, take position two as On Scene Commander. Five-oh-one is still with Five-oh-two at the Camp Bullis range for pistol qualification.

Five-eighteen, roger. He picked up his beret from the desk. You airmen watch out! Mistuh Staff-by-Gawd-Sahjint’s gonna take position two ‘cuz Conrad screwed up the firing schedule again! Actually, it’s fun when Conrad screws the pooch on scheduling, since it gives me experience as the Flight Chief one more time. Besides, I’m stuck with a top secret clearance and Sixteen’s top secret. Scowling, he pointed at his subordinate. And if this is because Jackson sat on his duress alarm remote again, I know one senior airman who’s gonna be counting cattle at the South Gate for the rest of his enlistment! He then softened his tone, patting Harper’s shoulder. I have the world of faith in you, young lady. Remember, I monitored your Career Development Courses. You’re as sharp as a razor on alarm activations! Don’t sweat it—you know what you’re doing, so take charge. Balzen bolted for his patrol unit as the two airmen began stopping traffic and closing the gates.

As David’s patrol car weaved through the traffic Code Two—light bar activated, but no siren—the radio again snapped alive. Randolph, Five-eighteen, be advised Hangar Sixteen personnel relate that one Doctor Samuel Metzger was terminated from Stratton Industries this date. He has apparently breached security systems and is holding one female civilian hostage. He is reportedly armed with a large caliber revolver and vows not to be taken alive. We have negative contact with Post Niner-zulu. Five-eighteen, do you copy?

Dear God, please let Jackson be okay. Congratulations, Balzen, there’s your first fool rookie mistake of the day. He was filled with remorse over his punitive comment about Senior Airman Jackson as he picked up the microphone. This would call for pulling out all tactical stops, including calling for Communications Security measuress, known as COMSEC, as well as arming to the teeth, including the M-203 grenade launcher, operated by the base’s Emergency Services Team, the Air Force’s SWAT team. Five-eighteen, roger. Break, Five-eighteen to all units, respond code three. He activated his sedan’s siren. Assume that subject has Post Niner-zulu’s radio and is monitoring. COMSEC alert is in effect. Break, Five-eighteen, Randolph, mobilize EST and have Two-oh-seven stand by in the armory with an M-203. Subject has many strange weapons at his disposal and we need to be ready for anything. Also, mobilize extra personnel to evacuate buildings within a five hundred-foot cordon and divert all flights to west flightline. Break, Five-eighteen to all patrols, rotate positions and leave Position Three open—there’s nothing to observe there. I will be taking position one.

Randolph, Five-eighteen, roger, the desk sergeant replied.

Balzen stopped his sedan near the main hangar door and stepped out, checking his hand radio. The building’s personnel had evacuated to the opposite side of the street, except for a brigadier general, who ran from the curb to meet him. A tall, slender man with greying, crew cut hair, he sported a massive ribbon bar, decorations up to and including the Air Force Cross, and his Viet Nam Service Medal indicated four tours. His qualification badges told of a diverse military career: Combat Pilot, Airborne, and Special Operations. His skin was well tanned, but not from a beach or tanning bed, but from imposing environments and action that the sergeant did not even want to contemplate.

Crouching behind his unit, David gestured for the general to keep low and join him. Under the circumstances, salutes and military courtesy were out the door. Are you it? the general asked, bewildered by his relatively low rank for such an emergency. Are you the On Scene Commander?

Yes, sir, I’m OSC. Staff Sergeant Balzen, Bravo Flight, Twelfth SPs. EST has been mobilized. Has anyone been hurt?

The brigadier studied the crowd. No, they’re all here, except for Christine Townsend, a civilian research technician—and, of course, your guard. Metzger knocked him out and grabbed her as she was alerting us. She observed Metzger in a classified area and remembered that he’d been fired.

Balzen glanced at the nametag. Well, General Scheib, I need to know three things. Did he make any demands? Why was he fired? What kind of person is he?

Scheib shook his head. "No demands. He wasn’t actually fired, per se. He suddenly quit after we zapped his pet project due to budgetary cutbacks. I guess you could say kind of a cross between layoff and resignation. He’s a loner, but when you’re that caliber of physicist, people bend to your will to placate you. Other than duty-related, we left him alone and he left us alone—until now. When the sergeant looked at him, perplexed, he continued. You don’t keep an Einstein or a Mozart on a tight leash. His sole demand in return for setting the Air Force ahead two decades was solitude. If you only knew how far backward we would be without him, it would boggle your mind."

What kind of project?

General Scheib shook his head. I’m sorry, son, but your Top Secret security clearance isn’t even high enough to merit an answer. Balzen swallowed in an effort to keep his panicked throat from going totally dry.

As the units roared into their respective positions and David could make out the sound of the EST siren in the distance, the radio came to life. Randolph, Five-eighteen. Subject Metzger is on landline, demanding to speak to a negotiator within two minutes, or he will terminate hostages. He says to stand up if you agree.

It sounded too much like a routine training exercise designed to put some pressure on him. Normally, he would not think anything of it, but he was now perspiring profusely. Yet, it had nothing to do with the weather. Lives—and possibly more than that—were actually on the line. However, he remembered the cardinal rule of being in a perilous situation: never let them know you are nervous, even if you are.

Stay out of sight, General. I might need your concealment. The Law Enforcement Specialist slowly started to arise, showing only his head and hands.

Five-eighteen, he says to remove your weapon and drop it behind you, then hang your pistol belt around your neck so he can see the empty holster, and unbutton your shirt, so he can see inside to your T-shirt.

Okay, sir, here we go. I’m going to do what he says. We’re offered a little cover, so catch my revolver and stick it under my shirt, in my back beltline. If he’s crazy, I can’t guarantee her safety or mine, no matter what we give him. I want a trump card. I’m left-handed, so stick the handle toward my left side. Unholstering the ancient Smith and Wesson Model 15 Combat Masterpiece thirty-eight caliber revolver, he held it up, then dropped it behind himself, into the general’s waiting hands. Feigning excessive nervousness, he only stood partway, keeping his belt line below the hood’s level, but removing the Sam Browne pistol belt and complying with the demand.

Where the hell’d this antique come from? Scheib asked as he tucked it into place.

My automatic got recalled, that was free for use, and I’m one of the last SPs still qualified for revolvers, so they told me to carry it until my auto gets out. But that’s still one hell of a weapon. When he felt the shirt back in place and the revolver secured, he stood completely.

Randolph, Five-eighteen, he says to go in.

Well, sir, viele danken and I’ll see you when the fat lady sings. He eased around the sedan and began a beeline for the front entrance.

After checking immediately inside and finding the foyer abandoned, he stepped through the doorway, calling out. A few moments passed without any response. Psychology, or was it just a good bluff? Why me, Lord? Why must I get the nut cases? Steady, boy, you need to concentrate. Lose concentration on the streets for one second and you could die. Here, and you could take the whole base with you—or worse.

Just then, his instinct told him he was not alone; one more step brought confirmation with the distinctive clicking of a large handgun’s hammer being cocked. "Okay, aircop, keep your hands at full arm’s length over your head. I don’t want to hurt anyone, but I won’t let them dismantle my life’s work. I will die first—or kill first."

David knew better than to try anything. He was angled away from the voice and he knew that he was only about half a pound of finger pressure from a massive hole in his body. He relaxed as much as possible with his overload of adrenaline, speaking slowly and softly. Doctor Metzger, I presume?

Yes.

May I turn around, sir?

Slowly.

He eased around and saw what had to be a joke. Metzger looked like he should have been splitting logs, not atoms, as his skin was slightly leathery, having spent untold hours in relentless sun. Well over six feet tall with almost pitch-black hair, interspersed with grey, he dwarfed the tiny blonde trembling in front of him. Even his drooping Fu Manchu handlebar moustache appeared to be stereotypical badguy. If he had ever been a jolly man, he certainly was one no more, his face set in virtually a perpetual scowl. In one hand, he held the stainless Ruger Redhawk .44 Magnum revolver; the other gripped the technician’s bicep as if it was a toothpick. But fortunately, the muzzle was pointed away from all of the players.

However, it was the hostage who captured David’s attention, making his heart race out of control. At barely over five feet tall, with a petite frame, she was the epitome of a damsel in distress. Her bright, naturally platinum blonde hair was straight and extended down to her knees, floating on the slightest change in air current. Her skin was indescribably fair, creamy and smooth, and he found himself imagining how soft it must be, longing to touch it. For a few moments, their eyes locked. Her sapphire blue eyes, although set in fear, also conveyed the message that she trusted him implicitly. They stood silently, transfixed.

He had seen beautiful women before; why was this one tearing him up so in his mind? And the feeling that possessed him—what was that? It was a terrified, yet exquisite confusion. Was it premonition? Was it déjà vu? Only two things were definite: this young lady held the answer and said answer would not be found in any textbook in any police academy in the world. Finally, his attention shifted to her under the present circumstances. Are you okay, ma’am? Christine Townsend, right?

She tried to breathe a little easier. I am fine, just nervous. And yes, my name is Christine.

David shifted his focus to the doctor. He won’t hurt you, Miss Townsend—he’s smarter than that. Metzger momentarily lowered his gaze, his own emotions not permitting him eye-to-eye contact. Perhaps out of conscience, perhaps out of wanting to demonstrate good will, the physicist slowly lowerd the hammer on the weapon, uncocking it.

To keep her calm, the sergeant changed the subject when he turned back to her. I don’t recognize you. Have you worked here long?

Two years.

Two years? He could not hold back his astonishment. I’ve been here six. Strange we’ve never met before. Are you from around here?

Somewhat. I moved here from Castroville, she said, relaxing a little more.

Really? My whole family tree comes from Hondo! We’re practically neighbors! He turned back to Metzger. Hey, can I lower my hands? That air is getting awful heavy up there and you can see that I’ve complied with your demands in good faith. If you know anything about us, you know that I would be court-martialed for carrying a concealed weapon.

Yeah, go ahead.

After massaging his arms back to feeling, he stared at the doctor. Okay, you’ve got our undivided attention, so what do you want? You’ve got other demands and I’m here to listen to them. I’m Staff Sergeant David Balzen, Bravo Flight, Twelfth Security Police Squadron, your hostage negotiator.

Scratching his head with the front sight of the pistol, Samuel Metzger was obviously nearing the breaking point with each passing second. I want to be given my job back and a blank-check budget. My life’s work is that vital to national security and I won’t have it axed for some Washington three-ring circus. I want immunity from prosecution and I want patent rights.

As he was speaking, he released Christine, although she was situated in a corner, surrounded by walls and desks, and could not get past him. Turning his back to the SP, he scratched his head again, almost as if there was something physical causing him discomfort in his brain. Let’s face it, Sergeant. The Air Force will never agree to my terms and they are non-negotiable, so we’ll never work things out. Perhaps it’s better that I make my statement—you know, my ‘symbol of protest’, as Charles Manson put it.

Come on, Doctor Metzger, you know you don’t want to hurt anybody. Let’s do this calm and cool. We’ll get through this okay, all of us. He eased his camouflage uniform shirt up in the back, taking hold of the revolver.

The only thing to work out is who to kill first. When Metzger said that, Balzen knew that the negotiations had broken off for the first and last time. He instantly drew the revolver and hoped he could explain back-shooting the terrorist.

Samuel Metzger may have been insane, but he was not foolish; often, hostages facing imminent death will instinctively fight back, often with unpredictable results. Spinning, he threw his muzzle up to Christine’s temple and jerked her into a shielding position, cocking the magnum again. Try it and she dies! he growled.

What’s the difference? David drew back the Model 15’s hammer, preparing for a pinpoint precise surgical shot.

The difference is she doesn’t die if you put the gun down. Otherwise, I’ll die, but she’ll die first and messiest.

Balzen, you damn fool rookie, you let him play you for a sucker! That’s twice today, knucklehead! Hindsight being twenty-twenty, he now realized the whole end-it-all speech was custom-tailored to get him to play his trump card too early. Now, her survival depended upon him becoming Metzger’s third hostage. Where’s Senior Airman Jackson?

Metzger laughed out loud. So now it comes down to that? Okay, okay! Little Lord Leo’s alive, well, and tied up in the janitor’s storage room.

He’d better be alright, David said softly.

Metzger sneered. Or what?

Balzen raised his head from aiming, but his right eye remained squinted. He knew it was against regulations, but theories, regulations, and paperwork carried little weight in a real-life crisis. I’ll work with you to resolve this, Doctor Metzger, but if Senior Airman Jackson turns out to have been harmed, or you try to do anything to Miss Townsend, there, I promise you’ll never walk out of this hangar alive.

Who’ll stop me, Popeye, you?

"Don’t worry about my eye—unless it shuts. If it does and I’m holding a gun, you will die. Even if I’m not harmed, if either of these two people is, I’ll find a way to kill you, even if I have to do it barehanded."

Metzger nodded. Jackson is unharmed, as I have promised. Now, do you put your toy down, or do I scatter her pretty hair and brain all over he base?

Best to keep the status quo. Easing down his revolver’s hammer, he lowered the thirty-eight to the floor and kicked it to the scientist. Come on, Doctor, you don’t need a cannon for her or me. Let’s talk. The only way to find out definitely whether or not Metzger intended to kill the hostages was to call his bluff, and the SP knew the universal rule: once over the edge, a terrorist never bluffed. So he committed himself to another course of action, hoping it was not also a grievous error.

Metzger uncocked his magnum again and breathed easier. First, he said, pointing his weapon at the floor, "please lie down—you know how. Oh, and please don’t try anything stupid, like grabbing my leg. You do want to live to see Tech Sergeant, don’t you? While Balzen lowered himself to his knees, then his stomach, the deranged researcher retrieved the Air Force-issue thirty-eight and dropped it into his smock’s pocket. Good boy, he coaxed. Now assume your famous position."

Although insulted, David sighed and spread his feet and hands, palms up and toes pointing outward, and turned his face away from his captor. Metzger led his hostage to the Law Enforcement Specialist, ordering her to conduct a body frisk. Listen, Balzen said, clearing his throat as she gingerly kneaded over his sleeves, as long as we’re going to be in tight quarters, do you mind if I call you Christine, instead of Miss Townsend?

She felt herself more at ease, despite the circumstances. You have done so much for me, please feel free.

Well, Christine, could you do me a great favor?

Yes?

Could you scratch just below my collar?

In a fit of nervous laughter, she realized he was trying, in his own way, to calm her through humor. How can you joke at a time like this? she asked. May I borrow some of your strength?

Hey, just like paranoid schizophrenia—it’s all in the mind, right, Metzger? Lifting his right side up a little, he smirked at his captor. I’m sorry, Metzger, but after being wounded charging a Cuban machine gun nest in Grenada, you’re just not all that mean, nasty, and terrifying to me.

I’m not? the doctor asked. Without hesitating, he planted his foot squarely into Balzen’s abdomen.

Stop it! Christine screamed. You have a gun—must you also beat us to death? She lifted David’s head into her lap, while he coughed and tried to catch his breath. I beg you, she whispered, "do not tempt him. I need you to make me laugh and give me strength, so please do not provoke him. I cannot survive this without you."

Okay, Metzger, you’re in charge, the SP forced, still trying to recapture his breath. What do you want from me?

Allowing the sergeant to stand after he had regained his breath, the scientist gestured for his two hostages to enter the research area. Now, he asked politely, would you like to see the root of all your problems?

You’re the boss.

Originally a normal aircraft hangar, dating back to the earliest days of military flight, Hangar Sixteen now boasted the whispered, unofficial name, The Area 51 of Texas. Its true nature as a hyper-secret research facility only known to a select handful of people who were not SPs or assigned there, rumors nevertheless abounded among the rest of base personnel.

What were machinist and mechanic shops in the day were now administrative offices, the rest of the hangar dedicated to various weapons, propulsion, logistical, and avionics research projects. Due to the necessity of diverse systems requiring differently sized floor space and the constant ebb and flow of new and discontinued projects, cubicles were highly adjustable and easily moved. Despite the advantage of flexibility, one major setback arose: corridors and passageways were in a constant state of flux, causing even veteran employees to occasionally get lost.

As the trio made their way through the maze of projects, the stocky SP leaning on a tiny shoulder for support, the radio crackled. Randolph, Five-eighteen?

I take it that’s you, the doctor stated matter-of-factly. "If it is, go ahead and answer. If you don’t, your friends will worry and send in the troops. Then there will be a bloodbath."

David picked up his radio. Five-eighteen.

Status?

"Not clear, but do not, I repeat, do not enter. Stand by for further instructions. He stared his captor down. Doctor Metzger, this isn’t good. Let’s go out. Just hand me the gun and you won’t be hurt. Otherwise, I can’t guarantee anything."

Neither can I. Stopping at a tarp-covered bulk in a large cubicle, David signaled for Christine to stand behind him. Metzger ignored him, pulling back the tarp to reveal what looked like an old science fiction movie laser cannon, pointing toward a space over a small platform. The background shielded in lead, it appeared that an object or even person would be a target for the cannon. This, he announced proudly, is my dream! Years of research, sleepless nights, a divorce, and two suicide attempts. No, it’s not a weapon—no ‘Star Wars’ here. Just the greatest dream of mankind!

David shrugged and sighed. This is too much like a B movie, if you ask me. For all I know, it’s a time machine. Metzger beamed. Aw, gimme a break! he laughed aloud. No way! Never! Physically impossible!

The doctor persisted. "Yes, yes! It has been done and I did it! But those bastards want to scrap it. They, like you, are skeptical. All I want is to test it in front of the brass, but they won’t let me. They say I’m crazy. No! It really works!" He threw a switch and the machine hummed to life. Smiling contentedly, he proceeded to read the gauges and meters.

As the control panel lit up, an uneasy feeling overcame the SP. "Please don’t. I’ll believe you. I’ll believe anything, just shut it down and let us go. Something’s not right here, Doctor. He paused. Samuel, listen to me. You haven’t harmed anybody and, besides, that machine hasn’t been tested. It’s like World War II—those scientists weren’t sure that the first A-bomb test wouldn’t destroy the whole planet. If you stop, I’ll do everything possible to try to convince your people to look into it." He eased more closely toward Christine. If this man wanted to kill someone, he would not let it be her. This was a calculated risk, since more closely toward her meant into what he approximated to be the instrument’s trajectory.

Metzger, suddenly realizing something was awry, grabbed the lass and, pressing the magnum’s muzzle to her temple again, cocked the weapon. By this time, though, Balzen had drawn his radio. Converge!

Instantly, the doors burst open and seven camouflage-clad Security Police with M-16s and shotguns took aim and let their bolts slam home. You don’t understand! the scientist pleaded. Not you! I want to test it on myself! Get away from my target area! As the words left his lips, he uncocked and dropped his muzzle away from Christine’s head. Seizing upon the opportunity, she immediately locked his weapon hand in her teeth with an almost death-grip. Yelling with pain, he struck her, causing her to fall back against a small, almost inconspicuous toggle switch. Damn you, little tramp! Metzger hissed, taking aim at her, despite the throbbing in his hand.

No! David sprang at her, hoping to either shield her or knock her out of the bullet’s impending path. But one step was his last, as he was instantly deafened by thunder and blinded by orange and blue flashes of light. Then there was nothing, save a veil of darkness and void.

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David Balzen slowly regained consciousness, blinking his eyes and taking mental inventory of his physical status. Apparently, he was not dead, but he had never felt like this before. His entire body tingled and he was cotton-mouthed with thirst. Water; it must be the first priority, but where? For that matter, where was here? He