Each of the four was carrying a Mark Cross attache case, as well, a smart-looking model made of calfskin with gold-plated fixtures. The cases had also been brought back from the future, as had the modified Uzi carbine and spare magazines that were packed in each attached
A team of institute researchers had been on a mission to the U. S. in the year and month when John Hincktey had attempted to assassinate Ronald Reagan. While watching the film of the attack on television, they had been immensely impressed by the compact automatic weapons that the Secret Service agents had been carrying in attach^ cases. The agents had been able to withdraw those submachine guns and bring them into firing position in but a second or two. Now the Uzi was not only the automatic carbine of choice hi many of the police agencies and armies of 1989, but was the preferred weapon of the time-traveling Schutzstaffel commandos.
Klietmann had practiced with the Uzi. He regarded the weapon with as much affection as he had ever lavished upon a human being. The only thing about it that bothered him was the fact that it was an
Israeli-designed and manufactured gun, the product of a bunch of Jews. On the other hand, within a few days the new directors of At institute were likely to approve the integration of the Uzi into the-world of 1944, and German soldiers equipped with it would be better able to drive back the subhuman hordes who would depose der Fuhrer.
He looked at the clock on the gate’s programming board and saw that seven minutes had passed since the research team had left for California on February 15, 1989. They were there to search public records—mostly back issues of newspapers—to discover if Krieger, the woman, and the boy had been found by police and detained for questioning in the month following the shoot-outs at Big Bear and San Bernardino. Then they would return to ’44 and tell Klietmann the day, time, and place where Krieger and the woman could be found. Because every time traveler returned from a jaunt exactly eleven minutes after departing, regardless of how long he spent in the future. Klietmann and his squad had only four more minutes to wait.
Thursday, January 12, 1989, was Laura’s thirty-fourth birthday, and they spent it in the same room at The Bluebird of Happiness Motel. Stefan needed another day of rest to regain his strength and let the penicillin do its work. He also needed the time to think; he had to devise a plan for destroying the institute, and that problem was sufficiently knotty to require hours of intense concentration.
The rain had stopped, but the sky still looked bruised, swollen. The forecast was for another storm to follow the first by midnight.
They watched the local five o’clock television news and saw a story about her and Chris and the wounded mystery man they had taken to Dr. Brenkshaw. Police were still looking for her and the best guess anyone could make about the situation was that the drug dealers who had killed her husband were after her and her son, either because they were afraid she would eventually identify them in a police lineup or because she was somehow involved in drug traffic herself.
“My mom a drug dealer?” Chris said, offended by that insinuation. “What a bunch of bozos!”
Although no bodies had been found at Big Bear or San Bernardino, there had been a sensational development that guaranteed the media’s continued interest. Reporters had learned that considerable blood had been found at both scenes—and that a man’s severed head had been discovered in the alleyway behind the Brenkshaw house, between two garbage cans.
Laura remembered stepping through the redwood gate behind Carter Brenkshaw’s property, seeing the second surprised gunman, and opening fire on him with the Uzi. The burst had taken him in the throat and head, and at Ac time she had thought that the concentrated automatic fire might well have decapitated him.
‘ ‘The surviving SS men pushed the call-home button on the dead man’s beta,” Stefan said. “and sent his body back.”
“But why not his head?” Lam aid, sickened by the subject but too curious not to ask the question.