Thanks to the calculations performed on the computer, Stefan returned to the precise spot in the desert from which he had departed for 1944, exactly five minutes after he had left. The first thing he saw in the too-bright desert light was Laura’s bloody body and the SS gunman standing over it. Then beyond them, he saw Chris.
The gunman reacted to the thunder and lightning. He began to turn in search of Stefan.
Stefan pushed the button on his homing belt three times. The air pressure instantly increased; the odor of hot electric wires and ozone filled the day.
The SS thug saw him, brought up the submachine gun, and opened fire, wide of him at first, then bringing the muzzle around to bear straight on him.
Before the bullets hit, Stefan popped out of 1989 and back to the institute on the night of March 16, 1944.
“Shit!” Klietmann said when Krieger slipped into the time stream and away, unhurt.
Bracher was running over from the Toyota, shouting, “That was him! That was him!”
“I know it was him,” Klietmann said when Bracher arrived. “Who else would it be—Christ on His second coming?”
“What’s he up to?” Bracher said. “What’s he doing back there, where’s he been, what’s this all about?”
“I don’t know,” Klietmann said irritably. He looked down at the badly wounded woman and said to her, “All I know is that he saw you and your boy’s dead body, and he didn’t even make an attempt to kill me for what I’d done to you. He cut and ran to save his own skin. What do you think of your hero now?”
She only continued to beg for death.
Stepping back from the woman, Klietmann said, “Bracher, get out of the way.”
Bracher moved, and Klietmann squeezed off a burst of perhaps ten or twenty rounds, all of which pierced the woman, killing her instantly.
“We could have questioned her,” Corporal Bracher said. “About Krieger, about what he was doing here—”
“She was paralyzed,” Klietmann said impatiently. “She could feel nothing. I kicked her in the side, must’ve broken half her ribs, and she didn’t even cry out. You can’t torture information from a woman who can feel no pain.”
March 16, 1944. The institute.
His heart hammering like a blacksmith’s sledge, Stefan jumped down from the gate and ran to the programming board. He pulled the list of computer-derived numbers from his pocket and spread it out on the small programmer’s desk that filled a niche in the machinery.
He sat in the chair, picked up a pencil, pulled a tablet from the drawer. His hands shook so badly that he dropped the pencil twice.
He already had the numbers that would put him in that desert five minutes after he had first left it. He could work backward from those figures and find a new set that would put him in the same place four minutes and fifty-five seconds earlier, only five seconds after he had originally left Laura and Chris.
If he was gone only five seconds, the SS assassins would not yet have killed her and the boy by the time Stefan returned. He would be able to add his firepower to the fight, and perhaps that would be enough to change the outcome.
He had learned the necessary mathematics when first assigned to the institute in the autumn of 1943. He could do the calculations. The work was not impossible because he didn’t have to begin from scratch; he had only to refine the computer’s numbers, work backward a few minutes.
But he stared at the paper and could not think because Laura was dead and Chris was dead.
Without them he had nothing.
You can get them back, he told himself. Damn it, shape up. You can stop it before it happens.
He bent himself to the task, working for nearly an hour. He knew that no one was likely to come to the institute so late at night and discover him, but he repeatedly imagined that he heard footsteps in the ground-floor hall, the click-click-click of SS boots. Twice he looked toward the gate, half convinced he had heard the five dead men returning from A.D. 6,000,000,000, somehow revitalized and in search of him.