Timeslot

By Stephen Yoham

U.S. Secret Service Agent H. Hunter Mahoy has been given a dream assignment by President James Weber. He's training in the military's newest and most sophisticated short-takeoff and vertical landing fighter jet, an F-35-B Lightning. His wife, Morgan, drops him at Nellis Air Force Base in Las Vegas on the morning of his fifth day. That afternoon, he and the ninety-million-dollar aircraft mysteriously disappear while flying through a slot in a mountain range. The search is on to find a crash site. Locating the wreckage should be easy: Major Brian Connolly, Hunter's flight instructor, witnessed the incident. And it occurred in broad daylight. Even so, nothing can be found.

Hunter Mahoy is at a loss to understand why he can't raise Major Connolly--or anyone else--on the radio. Then things get worse. Most of his instrumentation isn't working: he has no navigation system, no GPS coordinates, no radar, no communications, and no digital compass. He recognizes several landmarks but can't find Las Vegas or Nellis Air Force Base. It's weird.

He ends up landing in the desert on the backside of Mount Davidson, outside Virginia City, Nevada. He hikes to where he has a commanding view of the western town. With just one look, he instantly knows that he has a serious problem: somehow, he's traveled back in time to the mining days of the Comstock lode in the mid-to-late 1800s.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Sep 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781647014933

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Timeslot

Stephen Yoham

Copyright © 2020 Stephen Yoham

All rights reserved

First Edition

PAGE PUBLISHING, INC.

Conneaut Lake, PA

First originally published by Page Publishing 2020

ISBN 978-1-64701-492-6 (pbk)

ISBN 978-1-64701-493-3 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

To Judy, of course.

And to Time: the ultimate perpetual motion machine. While it runs every aspect of our life, none of our senses can truly detect it in any way. Yet in our mind, we routinely travel through it to the past or the future. We just can’t do that in the real world—or can we?

Chapter 1

The shiny silver Camaro rolled to a stop at the main gate of Nellis Air Force Base just north of Las Vegas, Nevada. A guard stepped from the security kiosk with a smile on his face.

Good morning, Sergeant Duncan, H. Hunter Mahoy said, squinting behind his sunglasses at the fiery orb attacking the windshield. He handed over his Secret Service badge along with the Washington Herald press credentials of his wife, Morgan Lindsey, who was working on something on her cell phone from the passenger seat. She’ll be leaving in a few minutes, he volunteered. Just dropping me off. He rolled his left wrist to check the time on the Rolex she’d given him for his most recent birthday, his fortieth, then ran his fingers through his dark-brown hair.

You flying again today, Agent Mahoy?

I am. They’re wearing me out with these early starts, though. I’m sure glad it’s Friday.

Me, too! The sergeant stifled a yawn. Give me a few minutes to clear Ms. Lindsey, he said as he studied her identification. I’ll be right back.

While he was gone, Morgan said, I’ve got plenty of time. I don’t have to be at the airport for a few hours. You sure you don’t need this rental? I could leave it and get a cab.

I’ll be fine, he replied. I’ll catch a ride back to the hotel. I plan to rest all weekend. Monday will arrive before I’m ready, then I’ll have to do it all over again for another week.

How long will your training op last today?

"Can’t say. I’ll be flying the new F-35-B strike fighter and dogfighting with an F-22 Raptor, an incredibly formidable aircraft. I guess it depends on how long it takes for one of us to score a kill. But we might go a couple times if the first dogfight ends quickly. We’re to fly really low today, to use the terrain to our advantage. I love that kind of flying. It’s the ultimate thrill ride."

She frowned. It sounds dangerous. I wish President Weber hadn’t asked you to do this. Do you have your lucky twenty-dollar gold piece?

He peeled off his sunglasses. His ice-blue eyes consumed her, and she melted.

What? she asked. It’s just a question.

He reached into his pocket, then held it up for her to see. It flashed in the sunlight. "I don’t really believe this 1854-S coin brings me luck. You know that, don’t you? I simply like to carry it. Since I found it in San Francisco, and since it has HHM hand-stamped on the obverse, it makes me think of my great-great-grandfather, Hezekiah Hoban Mahoy. He was a forty-niner during the California gold rush. He’d struck gold and left a sizable inheritance for his family due to his wise investments. Much of it was lost, though, when so many banks closed during the Great Depression. From what I understand, he was quite a character too. If he had…"

Sorry for the delay, Sergeant Duncan said, interrupting. You’re good to go, Agent Mahoy. You know the way.

Yes, I do. Thanks, Sergeant. See you later.

Hunter hit the gas, the throaty sound of the duel exhaust accentuating his heavy right foot. In a few minutes, he parked in front of the flight operations building then grabbed his soft pack from the back seat before surrendering the driver’s position.

Morgan came around from the passenger’s side. At 5'10 and about 130 pounds, she had less trouble slipping behind the wheel and into the low seat than he did at 6'1 and 190 pounds. She pushed her strawberry-blond hair behind her shoulders before adjusting the rear-view mirror to check her appearance. He saw no need of that. Her lovely oval face showcased brown eyes, luscious lips, and a genuine smile with model-perfect teeth. He leaned inside the window to kiss her goodbye. Her subtle perfume enveloped him. He loved the aroma and committed it to memory.

You should have shaved this morning, Hunter. You’re looking pretty scruffy.

I will soon. See you back in DC. As she drove away, he glanced up at the cloudless blue sky before stepping through the front door. On his way to the ready room, he met up with his instructor and flying partner for the day, Major Brian Connolly. He had red hair, hazel eyes, and lots of freckles. Slim and handsome, his boyish features belied his age of thirty-seven. Hunter had a couple years on him, but they were about the same height and weight.

Brian greeted him with a becoming smile and a friendly slap on the back. Ready to get up there? he asked. Looks like perfect weather for a dogfight.

They’d met years ago at the Air Force academy then flew several missions together in Iraq. From time to time, they’d bump into each other—mostly at Homestead Air Force Base in South Florida. When Hunter left the military, they’d lost touch. Now they were together again.

Brian had about as many hours as anybody in the new short-takeoff vertical-landing fighter jet: STOVL for short. Hunter was thrilled to have him as his instructor for the two weeks of intense training. They’d gone to dinner twice in the past few days, so they’d had a chance to get caught up on what’s been happening in each of their respective careers.

During the course of this first week, they’d really bonded again, just like old times. Hunter wished he could tell the truth about why he was learning to fly the F-35-B. That simply wasn’t possible. Even though Brian knew that Hunter was a Secret Service agent, Hunter’s cover story was that he was in the Air National Guard now—a weekend warrior—and that his time in the new jet was his commander’s request. The last part was true: President Jim Weber was his commander, and it was at his request.

Just over two years ago, Hunter had flown a secret mission in an F-117 stealth fighter. That flight had required him to drop a precision-guided, two-thousand-pound bomb in a residential area in Maryland. His target had been the main building inside a walled compound. He’d scored a direct hit—no collateral damage—and nobody even knew he was there because of the stealth aircraft. The explosion was blamed on a natural gas leak. Only President Weber, Hunter, and his good friend and coworker, Charles Minsk, knew about that flight.

But with the use of a short takeoff vertical-landing jet, maintaining secrecy on a mission like that would be so much simpler. There’d be no need of an actual runway. The jet could come and go from almost anywhere. In fact, President Weber already had an F-35-B stashed at a secret location just outside Washington, DC—just in case.

After the pre-flight briefing, Hunter still needed to suit up. He’d agreed to meet Brian out on the flight line in a few minutes. With no small effort, he tugged and wriggled his way into the G-suit, which would help him stay conscious during their dogfight. The suit was designed to constrict the arms and legs to help keep the blood up in the brain during high-G maneuvers. When ready, he slung his soft pack over his shoulder, then grabbed one of the insanely expensive four-hundred-thousand dollar high-tech pilot’s helmets which were specifically developed for the F-35 fighter jet program. He headed for the tarmac.

Carrying a soft pack was a new routine for Hunter. He’d been stranded a couple times in the past in uncomfortable and even life-threatening conditions. Ever since, he’d made a habit of bringing certain items with him on every flight. These included his Glock seventeen 9mm pistol with two spare magazines of ammo, a pocketknife, a small flashlight, a cell phone with a fully charged battery, a space blanket, a cigar lighter, a multipurpose pocket tool, and a change of street clothes: usually Levi’s stonewashed jeans and two button-down shirts. He also carried a few bottles of water, a handful of power bars, a pack of beef jerky, aspirin, and even muscle relaxants.

He strolled toward the fighter he’d been flying all week. The sound of spooling engines surrounded him.

Brian called out as he approached. You’ll be alone in this jet today, Hunter. Most F-35s are designed for just one pilot. They only built a couple of these two-seat trainers, and they’re quite valuable. He grinned wickedly. Be careful. Don’t scratch it.

Ha! You’re a real comedian. A laugh riot. I’m not sure if I’ll know how to act without you sitting right behind me screaming in my ear the whole time.

Yeah. You’ll probably be scared, Brian teased, without me there to tell you what to do every second or to take over if you screw up.

Hunter shaded his eyes with his free hand. You’ll wish you were still behind me. Now you’ll be out in front of me in my gunsights, and you’ll be the first pilot in an F-22 Raptor to get taken out by a rookie in an F-35. Remember this: I’m Hunter and you’re the hunted.

"Oh, great! Arrogant and cocky—two poor traits in a pilot. I’m going to strap into my war bird now so I can teach you a lesson. Seriously, though, watch the terrain. If anything spooks you—anything at all—just call ‘no joy’ and climb."

I will, Brian. You do the same.

In a matter of a few minutes, they had each fired up their jet then began the long taxi toward the end of the runway.

Nellis Tower, this is Raptor one-one-seven, Brian said into the radio. We have two ready for departure.

Roger, one-one-seven, the tower replied. Hold at the threshold. I have a B-1 bomber inbound.

Roger, Nellis Tower. One-one-seven and wingman to hold at the threshold.

Hunter maneuvered his jet to the left side of Brian’s Raptor, then stopped abreast of him. They’d both have an unobstructed view of the bomber’s approach and landing. A minute later, the B-1, which looked more like a giant fighter jet than a bomber, swooped in and gobbled up the runway. The pilot had greased it as Hunter liked to say when the touchdown was so smooth.

One-one-seven, this is Nellis Tower. You’re cleared for takeoff. Depart at your discretion.

Roger, tower. One-one-seven cleared for takeoff. Brian throttled up his Raptor and accelerated rapidly down the runway. Hunter was right behind him in his F-35. They took off to the south with the Las Vegas strip and its casinos out in front of them. Almost immediately, they made a one-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn to the north-northwest, a heading which would point them toward their assigned airspace.

As they continued to climb, the early morning sunlight flooded through the Plexiglass canopies. Fifteen minutes later, they prepared to begin their dangerous game of high-speed, low-altitude cat and mouse.

You ready to start, Rookie? Brian asked over the radio.

I am if you are.

As prearranged, they broke formation, flew in opposite directions for five miles, then turned back toward each other. The dogfight was on. The aerial ballet began with both pilots maneuvering wildly to gain the advantage to target the other. A missile lock would simulate a kill.

During most of these training exercises, a hard-deck would be established for safety, maybe at eight-or-ten-thousand feet. In that scenario, neither combatant would be allowed to engage the other below that altitude. But today they were to use the terrain to their advantage; there’d be no restrictions other than the ground itself—the ultimate hard-deck if ever there was one.

Brian watched as Hunter threw his fighter into a steep dive then rolled to the left to swoop around behind a mountain peak. He briefly lost sight of the F-35 then spotted it again just before it slipped out of sight for a second time. He banked hard right and dived straight down, hoping to intercept him on the other side. As the end of the rocky formation sped toward his Plexiglass canopy, his eyes were open wide in search of Hunter’s aircraft. It should pop out right in front of me, he thought. He glanced at his airspeed: six hundred miles per hour. He throttled back, preparing to engage.

When he cleared the last jagged outcropping, Hunter was nowhere in sight. Where is he? he wondered. He slowed to 280 then began a lazy circle to the left. A scan of the terrain in every direction yielded nothing. He searched the sky. His radar was useless due to the mountains. Hunter had outfoxed him on the first major maneuver!

As he completed his turn, he spied Hunter’s jet. But just barely. It was little more than a flash as it thundered past him at a high rate of speed then pointed straight up. He imagined the huge grin on Hunter’s face as he’d zoomed by. He chuckled then said into the radio, Nice one, Rookie. Too bad the closure speed was too great for you to get a shot at me.

I actually did, Mr. Raptor. But you were lucky. It was a miss. Don’t worry though, you’ll see me again real soon.

Cocky and arrogant. What did I tell you about that, Rookie?

No response.

Did you hear me, Rookie? Okay, I get it, Brian said. You want to play the silent game. I can do that too if that’s wha—

Just then he heard the unmistakable solid tone of a missile-lock; Hunter had slipped in behind him and got him. I guess we’ll have to score that one for the Rookie.

Hunter had slowed his jet and slid up beside him. You can’t talk, Mr. Raptor. You’re dead.

Well, I just came back to life, Brian replied, so we’ll have to go for two out of three. Ready?

You know I am.

They banked away from each other then climbed to their restart altitude of twelve-thousand feet. This round lasted a lot longer, with numerous high-speed passes along the ground, around rock formations, and over mountain peaks. Each pilot took a beating as they suffered high G-forces and a bumpy ride courtesy of the rising hot air coming off the desert surface. In the end, Hunter scored another kill.

That’s two, Mr. Raptor. Or maybe I should call you Turkey Bird. You want to go for three out of five?

Yeah, let’s go again.

The third dogfight was a marathon. At one point, Hunter had to call no joy and climb for safety. They re-engaged and then Brain had to call no joy and climb. The battle raged on until Hunter claimed victory for the third time.

Okay, Rookie. I don’t know how, but you’re beating the pants off me today. Let’s return to base, refuel, grab a bite, then go again this afternoon.

Roger, Turkey Bird, Hunter said through his laughter. Returning to base.

Twenty minutes later, they entered the landing pattern at Nellis Air Force Base.

Brian, keep it slow. I want to shoot a few pictures of your F-22 with Vegas in the background. It’s an awesome sight.

A couple of minutes later, a bluish puff of smoke from each tire marked their initial contact with the runway. Brian popped his canopy on the taxiway; Hunter followed suit.

After they parked and shut down the engines, Brian exited first. He came over to meet Hunter, who was smiling as he climbed down from the cockpit.

Let’s grab a sandwich while they refuel our aircraft. And wipe that silly grin off your face long enough to tell me how you’re kicking my ass out there.

Hunter chuckled. It’s the terrain. You may remember I had a lot of experience with it in Iraq flying the F-16 Falcon. I spent most of my time hugging the ground to avoid radar sights and visual detection.

Yeah, you were legendary over there. Especially for that sortie where you rescued your wingman after he got shot down. That was incredible.

It was more dumb luck than anything, Hunter replied matter-of-factly.

Oh, I think we both know better than that, Brian said. I understand you received the Congressional Medal of Honor for that particular mission. And you deserved it too, seeing as how you also destroyed that convoy of scud missiles with chemical warheads which were going to be launched into Israel. You probably saved hundreds of civilian lives that day.

Hunter frowned. How do you know about that? I never told anybody.

Well, you must have told Morgan because she shared the whole story with me at the dinner table the other night when you stepped out to answer that phone call from President Weber. Damn, Hunter. A Congressional Medal of Honor. That’s really something.

Do me a favor, Brian. Don’t advertise that around here, okay?

Sure, if that’s what you want. You know, even though you’re new to the F-35-B vertical jet, I probably shouldn’t be calling you Rookie—especially after this morning—but I do get a kick out of it.

So do I. Every time you use it. Listen, Brian, when we go back out, there’s a spot that I checked out from Highway 93, way up north near the town of Caliente. We were pretty close to their earlier. I found a narrow slot between two rock formations, which has plenty of room to fly through. I know because I took a joy ride in an F-16 earlier in the week after we finished training. The approach is spooky. It requires paralleling Highway 93 heading east until the very last second. The instant the slot comes into view, you have to whip a hard right. If you hesitate, you’ll miss it, but a steep climb will get you clear of any danger.

Thanks for the warning, Rookie. We might catch a little weather out there this afternoon. A few rain clouds are building to the north. You ready?

Let’s go, Turkey Bird.

Even though Hunter’s aircraft had the capability of a super-short, nearly vertical takeoff, he accelerated down the runway like a conventional jet which Brian had to do in the Raptor. A long-rolling takeoff was actually easier, safer, and less wear and tear on the F35’s engines.

Within a half hour, they were well northwest of Las Vegas and, once again, approaching their assigned airspace. A large rain cloud had developed off to their right. Abreast of each other as they came in at twelve-thousand feet, they saluted then banked in opposite directions.

During the earlier dogfights, Brian had spotted Hunter shooting behind a mountain and headed for the other end of the range to intercept him, but he now realized that Hunter had reversed direction to fake him out. He was determined not to let that happen again.

A few minutes had elapsed, with both men whipping their respective aircrafts into high-G turns, climbs, dives, and rolls, each trying to gain the advantage.

Brian briefly lost sight of Hunter’s jet. A flash of sunlight off its canopy caught his eye, then a brief contrail betrayed Hunter’s steep dive behind a mountain. Brian headed for the same range, engaging his F-22 Raptor’s super-cruise afterburners. But this time, he kept enough altitude to remain above the ridge. He crested the peak just in time to see Hunter racing to the north end of the range. The F-35 then turned east and buzzed someone in a red pickup truck stopped alongside Highway 93. Out in front of Hunter’s jet loomed the rain shower Brian had seen earlier.

Brian shoved his Raptor into an accelerated dive and gave chase. I’ve got you now, Rookie, he crackled into the radio.

I can’t see you, Raptor, but if you’re close, be careful, Hunter replied. This is the slot.

Brian decided to hold some altitude and watch. He would engage Hunter on the other side. From this vantage point, he’d have a perfect view of Hunter’s approach alongside the rain squall, which was now up against the range.

A moment later, the F-35 banked hard right—really hard—probably pulling eight or nine G’s at that speed, then it slowed rapidly as it shot straight for the slot. Suddenly, a bluish glow appeared all around Hunter’s aircraft. It grew brighter and larger. Then it pulsated at the nose until it ended with one brilliant flash as the F-35 entered the slot. At that instant, Hunter’s aircraft disappeared. Brian was looking right at it. The jet didn’t come out the other side, and it didn’t crash; it simply vanished. He couldn’t believe it, but he’d seen it with his own eyes.

Hunter, this is Brian. Do you read me? Over. Rookie, this is Raptor. Please respond. Respond immediately. Silence. Hunter, are you all right? Please answer. Still no reply. Rookie, I saw the whole thing. Are you okay?

Brian slowed his aircraft to a crawl then flew as close to the slot as he dared to look for any kind of debris. But he already knew there wasn’t any. He checked up and down both sides of the range. No aircraft. No debris. Nothing except dirt and rock.

Hunter, this is Turkey Bird. Please respond. Silence.

After another circle over the slot, he flew out into the valley in the direction Hunter had been heading. Nothing. Since the rain shower had moved further northeast away from the range, Brian flew his aircraft at a slow speed over to Highway 93, then approached the slot exactly as Hunter had done. He scanned the terrain in every direction.

H. Hunter Mahoy. This is Major Brian Connolly. Do you read?

As the slot grew near, his eyes rounded. There was room but just barely, it seemed. A second later, he passed through safely to the other side with no blue orb or cloud around his aircraft. Nothing unusual happened.

He tried calling Hunter over and over on the radio. He switched frequencies: did everything he could. Now there was nothing else to do except contact Nellis Air Force Base. Command would send out Search and Rescue immediately. But he already knew they wouldn’t find anything. Hunter, along with his two-seat F-35 jet fighter, had vanished into thin air.

Chapter 2

Hunter’s heart pounded out of his chest as he cleared the slot and flew into the valley on the other side of the range. What in hell just happened? he said aloud.

He slowed his aircraft then began to circle back. The blue glow—or cloud, or whatever it was—had pulsated just in front of the cockpit. Subtle at first, it had intensified rapidly and had grown so bright that he’d barely been able to see the vertical walls of the slot. The pulsating was similar to the shock wave which often develops at the nose of an aircraft when it’s about to break the sound barrier. But he wasn’t flying nearly that fast, not even close: only about 140 miles per hour at that point. The speed of sound is 722 at sea level.

When he’d flown through the slot a couple of days ago, nothing unusual had happened. Maybe it was a form of Saint Elmo’s fire, he thought. Some type of electrical build up from skirting along the edge of that rainstorm where protons and electrons might collide.

It must have shorted out some of his instruments. His GPS and navigation systems were not working, nor was the digital compass. He decided to climb over the range and head for Highway 93, where he might land on the roadway. This jet could land vertically just about anywhere, even where he was right now. But landing here, the jet blast would kick up a huge cloud of dust all around the aircraft; asphalt pavement was a much better option. Auto traffic was practically nonexistent way out here in the middle of nowhere anyway.

Hunter cued the radio. Raptor one-one-seven, did you see that? Hey, Turkey Bird, this is the Rookie. Come in, please. Over. He was about to try again just as he crested the ridge. Instead he said to himself, That doesn’t make any sense! He squinted and scanned the valley floor. Where’s Highway 93?

He pivoted his head from hard left all the way around to hard right to study his location. That range is correct. So is that one. There’s the slot. The sun is where it should be. What happened to the damn highway? This is nuts!

He cued his microphone again. Brian, come in, please. This is Hunter. Raptor one-one-seven, this is Rookie. Please respond. Brian, this is really important. Please respond immediately. He tried over and over, dialed other frequencies, and searched the sky for the F-22. He switched to one more frequency. Nellis Tower, this is F-35 trainer one-eight-six, do you read? Nellis tower, one-eight-six, come in, please.

He banked to the right. I guess the radio isn’t working either. Since the digital compass was useless, he consulted the magnetic one, of which most aircraft are still equipped. Not knowing what else to do, he headed south-southeast back toward Nellis Air Force Base. All the while he kept an eye out for Brian’s Raptor, but to no avail.

Soon, he became more confused than he’d been before. Wait a minute! he said out loud. There’s Mount Charleston to the west. There’s Red Rock Canyon. The ranges to the south and east are right. But where’s Las Vegas? Where’s Nellis Air Force Base? It’s just desert down there! What in hell is going on here? He closed his eyes for a few seconds then opened them again. Nothing’s making any sense! he thought. Maybe I crashed and I’m dead. He felt the warmth of the sun on his hands, inhaled and exhaled deeply, even pinched himself. I don’t feel dead!

He slowed his aircraft to a crawl. Interstate 15 should be right beneath me, but then so should Las Vegas. He flew over the range toward Boulder City, Hoover Dam, and Lake Meade. None of those existed either. The Colorado River flowed through the gorge unimpeded, the way it had done for thousands of years before the Hoover Dam was ever even imagined.

Hunter flew north over the terrain where Lake Meade should have been, then turned west toward the Valley of Fire State Park. Those rock formations would be unmistakable. In a few minutes, the deep oranges, whites, yellows, and hues of pink majestically appeared in front of his aircraft right where they were supposed to be.

As he flew low and slow up a valley toward the visitor’s center, he spotted an antique wagon: a Conestoga complete with a canvas top. The wagon rested in a washed-out gully between two small hills. He slowed to minimum airspeed when he reached the spot where the visitor center should be. Nothing. No buildings, no parking lot, no cars, no people. He circled back to where he’d seen the wagon. A man crawled out from under into the sunshine. He was looking up while holding a hat to his head with one hand and cradling a rifle with the other.

What in the world is he doing out here? Hunter wondered, and where’s the horses or mules to pull that wagon?

He decided to land on a relatively level spot behind a tall formation of rock spires about half a mile away. He wanted to talk to the man: really didn’t know what else to do anyway. His fuel gauges were showing three-quarters full, but he couldn’t keep flying around forever. He had to land some time. There was no sense in exhausting all his fuel.

He maneuvered the high-tech jet into a hover, then slowly descended straight down, kicking up a ton of dust as he made contact with the desert floor. He shut down the engines, took off his helmet, donned his sunglasses and a baseball cap, then waited for the dust to settle before popping the canopy. When he did, he got hit with a blast of hot air. That was expected in the middle of July out in the desert. The smell of sagebrush washed over him.

The ground temperature was probably 110, maybe 120 degrees Fahrenheit. He climbed down, opened a storage compartment where he’d stowed his soft pack, then dug out his 9mm pistol and a bottle of water. He cracked the seal and took a swig before wriggling free of the G-suit. A zippered pocket of his flight suit hid the firearm nicely. Now he was ready to trudge uphill toward the wagon.

In the approximate hour since he’d flown through the slot, nothing had made any sense. And now this. Why would anyone be out here in a relic from a bygone era in this sweltering, dry desert heat? He took another hit from his water bottle, then hustled the rest of the way, calling out as he drew near. Hello? Can you hear me? Hello?

The man, under the wagon again, said nothing. Hunter trekked through the loose gravel of the wash right up to the old schooner. It wasn’t a man underneath—it was a woman: an attractive woman he guessed to be in her mid-to-late twenties. She wore men’s clothing circa 1850s: brown cincher trousers, black toe-popper boots, a wrinkled and stained white cotton shirt, and a cowboy hat which covered most of her brunette hair. She had a petite figure, and her face was badly sunburned. Her large blue eyes stared down the barrel of the rifle she had trained on him. What do you want, mister?

He held his arms out so she could see his hands. Easy now, darlin’. I just want to talk, to ask a few questions. I mean you no harm.

Where’d you come from? she asked, her jaw steeled. What kind of spectacles are those?

Hunter knelt by the rear wheel which had two crates sitting next to it. He reached up with one hand and removed his sunglasses. Can I crawl under there into the shade?

She nodded. Slowly, mister.

The gun stayed on him as he eased his way to the inside of the rear wheel then leaned against it to face her. He made eye contact. My name is H. Hunter Mahoy. What’s yours?

She hesitated a moment. Sarah.

Why are you out here by yourself? he asked softly.

I’m traveling with my father. He’ll be back soon. He took our horse and went to find water.

Are you thirsty? He slowly removed the clear-plastic water bottle from an open pocket, untwisted the cap, then handed it to her.

She accepted it cautiously. She took a long drink then offered it back. Thanks.

You can finish it if you want, Sarah. I have a few more just down the hill.

She drained the bottle eagerly then studied the flexible container as it succumbed to the pressure from her hand. I ran out of water the day before yesterday, she offered, still studying the bottle. She rested the rifle in her lap, but it still pointed in his direction.

Is that a Henry? he asked, pointing at the gun. The lever suggests it’s a repeater.

It is. Shoots sixteen bullets without reloading. It’s new. My father just got it.

How long has your father been gone?

Six days, she replied. He should have returned by now.

Six da…so you’ve been here by yourself all that time?

She nodded. We were traveling from Tucson to Virginia City to meet up with my uncle at the Comstock mines when we lost our way. We had four horses when we started, and even though our prairie schooner here—she tapped on the bottom of the wagon—was not heavily loaded, the horses perished one by one. Our last horse grew too weak to pull any longer.

Hunter rubbed his scruffy chin. Was your father able to ride that horse?

No. He had to walk it. He was hoping to find water close so the horse could drink too. She searched Hunter’s face. Do you think it’s been too long? My father hasn’t returned.

Hunter swallowed hard. I can’t say. Did he take any supplies with him?

Just a canteen and some hard tack.

Hunter changed the subject. I never answered your earlier question. You asked me where I came from. I came from Las Vegas. I was on a training mission when something strange happened. I’m kind of lost too. I saw you and your wagon, so here I am.

Where’s Las Vegas? she asked.

He furrowed his brow. I wish I knew. He peeked out from under the wagon to look at the sun. It’s getting late in the day. Do you have any food?

She shook her head.

Okay. I’ll be right back. He started to move.

Please don’t go, Mr. H. Hunter. I really don’t want to be alone anymore. And I sure don’t want to die out here alone.

Don’t worry, Sarah. I’m just going to get a few supplies. I’ll be right back. We’ll stay here tonight—I’ll stay with you—and tomorrow we’ll leave a note for your father, then travel together to Virginia City. I’ll only be gone about thirty minutes. I promise.

"Mr. H. Hunter, what does the H stand for?"

He half-chuckled. Hot. He crawled back into the sunshine. Definitely hot.

As he trudged downhill to his aircraft, he pondered the conversation he’d just had. Why would she and her father try to travel from Tucson, Arizona, to Virginia City, Nevada, in a horse-drawn prairie schooner in the dead of summer? Why didn’t she know about Las Vegas? And why was she dressed in that period clothing?

At the jet he retrieved his soft pack, then closed the canopy for the night. When he rejoined her, she seemed relieved—almost happy—to see him again. She’d set the rifle aside and assisted him with the pack as he crawled under. She worked the zipper on one of the pockets a few times but said nothing. After he got comfortable, he dug into the pack, then handed her another bottle of water and a couple power bars.

I have enough to last us until we get to Virginia City, he said. So have at it.

She struggled to open the bottle.

Just twist the blue top like this, he said, opening one for himself.

She followed his lead, took a long drink, then said, I’ve never seen a soft container or a cap like this. Where are you from, Mr. H. Hunter?

Just call me Hunter. Originally, I’m from Miami, Florida, but now I live in Alexandria, Virginia. What about you? He opened a power bar for her.

I was born in Hannibal, Missouri. My mother died when I was young. It’s been just me and my father all these years. This food stick is really good. I’ve never had one before. Thank you.

You’re welcome. I have beef jerky in here somewhere too, he said as he poked around in the pack. Here it is. He tossed it to her. You said you were born in Hannibal, Missouri—that’s interesting. What year was that? I’m assuming you’re in your twenties.

I’m twenty-six. I was born in 1838—in July. How old are you?

His jaw dropped as his mind raced with the calculations. Math was math. Some things were starting to add up. But was it possible?

Hunter?

Huh? Oh, I’m forty, I think. I sometimes lose track. What year is this?

It’s 1864, silly.

The sun slipped behind the nearest range. Silence settled between them as twilight neared, mostly