UNDER THE GUN

CHAPTER 1

September 4, 1972

Theorizing that one could time-travel in his own lifetime, Dr. Sam Beckett stepped into the Quantum Leap Accelerator—and vanished. He awoke to find himself trapped in the past, facing mirror images that were not his own and driven by an unknown force to change history for the better. His only guide on this journey is Al, an observer from his own time who appears in the form of a hologram that only Sam can see and hear. And so, Dr. Beckett finds himself leaping from life to life, striving to put right what once went wrong, and hoping each time that his next leap will be the leap home.

When the blue, hazy light faded, the first thing Sam heard was people cheering. As usual, he had no idea where the hell he was—or who, for that matter. What he did know was the bright fluorescent lights from the ceiling were hurting his eyes. He knew what it was like to have someone shine a bright light right into his eyes, mostly from getting an eye exam, but if you multiplied that sensation by a hundred, that's exactly how he was feeling now.

"Alle Schwimmer auf Ihre Noten," a man's voice with a heavy German accent blared over a loudspeaker.

"All swimmers to your marks," a woman's voice with a Midwestern accent translated.

"What the...?" Sam started to ask. And that's when he saw it: the pool. It was 50 meters long with eight lanes of crystal-clear, shimmering water, and each lane was divided by bright red, white and blue ropes with gold trim.

In that instant, Sam realized where he was: the Summer Olympics in Munich, West Germany.

But who was he, and what was his mission?

When he dared to look down, he saw that he was wearing a white, skin-tight Speedo. "Holy shit!" he gasped in a hoarse whisper. Jumping back from the starting block, he quickly and frantically put his arms over his chest in a futile attempt to cover himself. This was bringing back memories of being pantsed by the groomsmen of this real sleazebag that he had to stop his big sister from marrying. Okay, so he wasn't completely naked this time, but it was still pretty embarrassing, especially in front of the thousands in attendance and the millions watching worldwide. Talk about your work stressors!

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam noticed a TV monitor. When he glanced up at it, looking back at him was a thin, muscular dark-skinned young guy, maybe 19 or 20 years old, and he had deep brown eyes, peaked eyebrows, and jet-black permed hair, just like the father on The Brady Bunch. When he saw the blue stripes and Stars of David on his swimsuit—if you could even call it that—he knew he was representing Israel.

"Ohhh, boy," he moaned. He was not happy to be here. It wasn't just because of where he was and what he was wearing. It was because the Olympics in 1972 would soon become memorable for all the wrong reasons. In just a matter of time, eleven members of Israel's team would lose their lives in a horrific, grisly attack at the hands of the Palestinian terrorist group Black September. It was a horrible time for everybody, especially Sam. He was just out of college when it all went down, and for years afterward, it was hard for him to even get excited for the Games, much less watch them.

A million questions raced through his mind: what was the date? Who did he leap into? And most important of all, was he one of the athletes who was taken hostage? Whatever the circumstances were, Sam had a really bad feeling about this leap.

"Hey, space cadet, get on your mark!" an urgent voice barked at him. Sam turned, and standing three feet away from him was a tall, older-looking guy with similar features, only he had straighter-looking hair, a blue Speedo with red stripes and white stars, and a big bushy moustache. And he was looking sternly at Sam as he motioned him toward his block.

"Right," Sam finally said, somehow covering up the fact that he knew damn well who this other swimmer was.

Mark Spitz.

As Sam climbed up on the block, his eyes darted out across the side of the pool. The crowd was on the edge of their seats, eagerly anticipating the start of another race. And there, right in the middle of the tenth row, cigar in teeth and handlink in hand, was Al. He always had on some crazy outfit that no self-respecting circus clown would wear on a bet, but this one really took the cake: red-and-blue striped polo shirt, white pants and matching Keds, and a silver satin jacket with the five Olympic rings embroidered on the left breast. When he saw Sam, he looked straight at him and gave the thumbs-up sign. "You got this, Sam," his face seemed to be saying. Al was always a big help to Sam on his missions, and if there ever was a time that he'd need some help, this was definitely it.

Well, here goes, Ziggy, Sam thought as he got into the starting position. Sink or swim. Just as long as I don't sink, that is.

Well, Sam didn't sink. In fact, he actually swam quite well. His father was the swim coach at the local high school, and he'd taught him to swim from the time he could crawl, so he didn't have to worry about drowning in front of all those people. However, he came in dead last. And this was the preliminary round, too—specifically, the 200-meter freestyle—which meant he wouldn't even qualify for the semi-finals. Plus, he'd just raced against Mark Spitz, for God's sake.

Yes, folks, THE Mark Spitz, the super swimmer. The Olympic legend who would go on to win a then-unheard of seven gold medals, a record that would remain unbro-ken until Michael Phelps began his own winning streak at the Athens Games in 2004. So, needless to say, Sam wasn't feeling so great about himself right now.

"Boy, way to blow their minds, Beckett," Sam angrily muttered to himself as he climbed out of the pool. All he wanted was to get out of there and drown his sorrows in knockwursts and beer. Then he felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around.

"Good race," Spitz said warmly as he extended his hand. As soon as Sam heard those words, he was more than a little taken aback. After all, this was the same guy who, just moments ago, had publicly admonished him for daydreaming instead of getting ready. And here he was, congratulating him for a race he'd just lost.

"I, uh—thanks," Sam finally managed to stammer as he accepted the handshake.

"Look, everybody loses every now and then," Spitz went on. "But you'll have other chances. Who knows? With a little luck, we just might see you in Montreal in '76."

And with a little luck, I won't make an ass of myself in front of another Olympic legend, Sam thought. "Thanks," he said. "And you did good yourself."

"You're all right, kid," Spitz grinned, then turned to meet one of the reporters for an interview. As Sam watched him leave, he actually felt a little better. Nothing like a little pep talk from an Olympian to boost your confidence.

Sam had just picked up his towel to dry off when the portal opened right beside him. "Great goin', Sam," Al smiled as he gave him a little shoulder-punch. "And isn't Mark Spitz one helluva classy guy?"

"I'll say," Sam agreed as they started toward the locker room. "You'd have to be for shaking hands with someone after making him eat your dust."

"Umm, there's no dust here, Sam."

"You know what I mean. So what gives?"

"Right," Al remembered, pressing some buttons on the handlink. "Okay, let's see here. Your name is Moshe Apfel, you're 22 years old, born and raised in Haifa, Israel, and representing your country at the 1972 Munich Olympics."

"Yeah, I gathered that. Al, what's the date?"

As soon as Sam asked that question, a worried look crossed Al's face. "Uh-oh. September 4," he said grimly.

"Oh, shit, that means the terrorist attack is just over 24 hours away," Sam whispered anxiously. "Al, was Moshe—did he...?"

"No, he wasn't one of the ones who died," Al answered as he continued pressing random buttons. "Actually, he wasn't even in the Olympic Village when it happened."

"Wow, he really lucked out."

"And then some."

"So where was he?"

"Hey, Moshe!" an excited young voice with a heavy Yiddish accent interrupted. Sam and Al looked over to the right, and running toward him was another young guy who looked like he was from Israel. He was around Sam's height, only he had a stockier build and a unibrow, and his left arm was in a sling. But in spite of his injury, he was still grinning.

"Who's he?" Sam whispered.

"Tobias Galinski, 18 years old, born in Warsaw, Poland, emigrated to Israel with his family when he was three," Al answered. "Now he's Moshe's roommate, and Mo-she is apparently some kind of hero to him."

"Great race!" Tobias grinned as he playfully slapped Sam's back. "Wow, I wish I was the one who shook Mark Spitz's hand! Can you believe how many gold medals he's won?"

"Thanks," Sam said, then turned to Al and asked, "What's with the shoulder?"

"You were there, remember?" Tobias reminded him.

"Tobias separated his rotator cuff during a practice session," Al continued. "He was gonna compete in the discus throw, but he got a little too—what's the word?"

"Overzealous?"

"That's it."

"That's exactly what my coach said," the young athlete told Sam, then added in a mocking tone, "'Tobias, you're getting much too overzealous'. I guess I should've listened to him, huh?"

"I guess so," Al agreed, then said to Sam, "Anyway, his coach and the doctor both told him he couldn't compete with his arm in that condition, and even though he looks happy, he's really pissed."

"He sure hides it well."

"Hides what?" Tobias asked, which made Sam fight the urge to cringe. No matter how softly he whispered to Al, somebody always managed to hear him.

"Huh?"

"You just said something about hiding."

"I did?"

"I bet you were talking about you hiding how disappointed you were about losing," Tobias suggested. "Look, I know you, Moshe. When things aren't going your way, you don't show your feelings about it. That's what you always taught me."

"I did? Oh, yeah, I did."

"Yup," Tobias and Al both said in unison.

Just then, a blinking light on the handlink got Al's attention. "Oh, I gotta go, Sam," he said quickly. "Ziggy says the real Moshe's in the waiting room. I'll be back as soon as I have some more information, okay?"

"Okay," Sam answered. After Al vanished through the portal, Sam turned back to Tobias and said, "Look, I gotta have a shower, but what do you say we get a bite to eat later on?"

"Great," Tobias smiled. "I'll wait for you."

Sam nodded and headed into the showers.

As he turned on the water, he knew one thing for sure: whatever he was sent here to do—and with one of the most devastating events in history just around the corner, mind you—he definitely had his work cut out for him.