Designated Targets

“Excuse me, I’m sorry,” said Stephenson, glancing at the picture of Marie Kolhammer on the desk. “It must be very difficult for you.”

“And millions of others,” said Kolhammer. “There’s nothing special about me. Listen, Bill,” he said suddenly, “would you like the grand tour? I normally can’t get to sleep right away anyhow. I like to take a drive before turning in. I could show you the manor, as the Brits say, and drop you into town afterwards.”

“Sure,” said Stephenson, finishing his drink. “If you don’t mind the drive.”

Kolhammer called through to his PA to lock down the office and tell security he’d be sleeping at home for a change.

“You’ll need your coat,” he told Stephenson. “It gets chilly this time of year.”

A female sailor was waiting by his Humvee out in front of the building. “It’s been swept, sir. No bugs.”

“Thank you, Paterson.”

“I didn’t think Admirals drove themselves anywhere,” the Canadian quipped as he swung himself into the front passenger seat. “Or is this just another example of creeping socialism from the future.”

Kolhammer shrugged. “It’s like I said. I like to drive. It helps me wind down.”

The campus was laid out around winding roads that had once been sheep and cattle tracks, when the land was owned by a grazing company. It was one of the few areas in the whole Valley not laid out on a grid system. The complex was still small, although large areas of land had been set aside for later expansion. They drove out through the checkpoint at the front gates within two minutes of Kolhammer starting the engine.

“I thought we’d run over to Sun Valley first,” he said. “A lot of the aerospace companies are setting up there. It’s close to Glendale airport, and there are good rail links.”

“Fine by me,” said his passenger.

There was almost no traffic on the way. A major change from his own time. They swung north toward the Verdugo Hills and around onto the old San Fernando Road. The temperature had dropped as the night deepened, and without the light pollution or smog of a megacity to block them out, the stars shone down hard and brilliant.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?” Kolhammer called out over the engine noise and the roar of their passage through the clean, autumn air.

“Not at all.”

“Why do you care what happens out here? A lot of what you see here in the Zone must make you uncomfortable.”

Stephenson didn’t spend long mulling over an answer. “I’m here under orders. Mr. Churchill believes it’s imperative that we speed up our research and development. The Nazis are doing so, and their engineers are very good. Better than ours in some fields. He thinks—we both think—that reinventing the wheel would be a criminal waste of time, given the circumstances. The real strength you brought with you was the knowledge and technical skills of your people. Concentrated here they form a—what do you call it?—a critical mass that the enemy can’t hope to match. It’s important that nothing interfere with what’s going on here.”

“So you don’t care about the . . . ah . . . social . . . ramifications.”

“Mr. Churchill feels that it’s really none of our business,” Stephenson replied.

“No,” said Kolhammer. “But of course, Mr. Churchill doesn’t have the complication of up to ten thousand time travelers setting up shop in one of his villages, does he? He’s just got Halabi and her crew on the Trident, and maybe a hundred others scattered around—most of them the right sort of chaps who’d have no trouble at all getting membership at a good club in London.”

“Admiral,” Stephenson said around a smirk, “you wound me with such sarcasm.”

They turned onto Sunland Boulevard, where North American Aviation was building a massive factory to produce F-86 Saber jet fighters. Work continued around the clock, with the sounds of construction loud enough to hear over the growl of the Humvee. Giant lights illuminated the complex like a sports ground in high summer.

“How many people do you have working there?” asked Stephenson, all business again.

“None yet, but there’s about thirty aeronautical engineers off the Clinton attached to North American in Dallas and Kansas City. They’ll move out here in a few weeks. Mike Judge is going to run the program from our side.”

“There you go, then,” said Stephenson. “I’ll bet it’s the same story all over the Valley. The war is going to be won here, Admiral.”

“I thought I was the tour guide tonight.”

“Well then, drive on, MacDuff.”