Landfall

by John McWilliams

  “We should probably talk with her,” Lauren commented to Ellis.

  “She’s with the Iceland Group,” Dr. Watson said.

  “The Iceland Group?”

  “Yes, she’s a professor at the University of Iceland.”

  “Then we definitely need to go talk with her.” Lauren smiled at Ellis. Now that would be a nice cruise in the hyperjet.

  “So anyway,” Dr. Watson continued. “Commandment One states: The Sender shall never request a change to any known event. In other words, no trying to stop Kennedy from being shot. He was shot. Any attempt to change that fact must end in failure. Kennedy not being shot, to us in the future, has a probability of happening of zero.”

  “Unless it was faked,” Ellis said.

  “Okay, so it’s some ridiculously tiny fraction of a percent,” Dr. Watson said.

  “What about parallel timelines?” Lauren asked.

  “The idea of parallel timelines is something that grew out of the Many Worlds Interpretation of quantum mechanics,” Dr. Watson explained. “And that interpretation only made sense because scientists used to view their experiments strictly from their own space-time coordinates.

  “Eventually, however, we realized that our calculations weren’t actually about the probability of a particular event happening—they were about the probability of us being able to predict that event from our relative position in space-time.

  “You see, they were about us—about our relationship to reality—not reality itself. I mean, a roll of a die isn’t really about what will exist a moment later; it’s about how well we can predict what exists a moment later. In this case, from our relative position to the stopped die, it’s one in six.

  “And, no, we don’t need six worlds, or six timelines, to explain that.”

  “So, that’s a no on the parallel timelines,” Lauren said.

  “Correct, that’s a no.” Dr. Watson blushed.

  “And Commandment Two?”

  “Let’s see. Commandment One stated that the Sender shall never request a change to any known event. And Commandment Two states: The Receiver shall never let the Sender know that they are carrying out the Sender’s request. At least not until after the message is sent.”

  “And that’s the part about the Receiver climbing into the box with Schrödinger’s cat?” Lauren asked.

  “That’s right.” Dr. Watson smiled.

  “But then how is this technology even useful?” Ellis asked. “The Sender can’t request a change to anything he knows about and the Receiver can’t reveal anything he’s changed until after the message is sent. That sounds incredibly—”

  “Limiting? Yes, it sounds that way,” Dr. Watson said. “But it’s not really.”

  “But…” Lauren stared into the reflective surface of the lab table.

  “Okay, okay,” Dr. Watson told them. “Imagine that Dr. Lee’s crystal here works and that we want to use it to win the lottery. How do we go about accomplishing that?

  “First, we put the crystal and its required electronics into an isolated lab with Lauren. Lauren, you’ll be receiving the lottery number that Ellis will send—or not send—to you in a week. After you receive or you don’t receive the winning number from the crystal, you’ll leave the lab, and you’ll either purchase or not purchase the winning lottery ticket, and then go to a hotel and hide for a week. No one can call you; no one can meet with you. You can’t exchange emails or go on the internet—nothing. You are in a box, and we can’t take any chances that Ellis might find out what’s happened, either way.

  “Then, a week from now, once the winning number is drawn, Ellis, you go to the lab and send, or don’t send, the number back. And, only after a predetermined point in time by which Ellis must have sent the number, Lauren, you come out of your hotel room and announce, hopefully, that you’ve won the lottery—which, of course, you share with us.

  “See? Easy as pie.” Dr. Watson lifted his coffee cup, stirred it, and set it back down. “You changed something you didn’t know about and the results were quite profitable.”

  “Do you think Dr. Lee would have known about these precautions?” Lauren asked.

  “Oh, definitely.”

  “So he would have needed help.”

  “He would, and he did. That person was Dimitry Antonov, a cosmonaut. But, according to Dr. Antonov’s account, their tests were all failures.”

  “Is this Dimitry Antonov still alive?” Ellis asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “What do you make of this?” Lauren handed Dr. Watson the evidence bag with the “Your Move” index card inside it. “We found this inside the case.”

  Dr. Watson flipped the card over, flipped it again. “Intriguing.” He glanced at the silver case. “Maybe Dr. Lee had intended for someone in particular to find these items.”

  “That’s what we were thinking,” Lauren said. She looked at Ellis. “If we can get the deputy director to approve it, I think we should re-interview the entire space station crew.”

  “I’m sure those people,” Ellis stretched his arms, “have already been interrogated so many times…”

  “Yes,” Lauren said. “But by people who believed Helios blew up in space.”

  “I know what you’re thinking.” Dr. Watson chuckled. “You’re thinking that Dr. Lee still might be alive.”

  Lauren rested her folded fingers on the table. “Let’s just say the cat’s still in the box on that one.”

  Chapter 7

  “What are we looking for exactly?” Jan grips the Westchester County Airport’s chain link fence.

  It’s only drizzling now, but Nate seems to be taking his own sweet time.

  “You see those planes moored out there?” Nate stabs a finger through the fence. “Who knows how long they’ve been sitting around? I don’t want to get off the ground only to lose an engine a mile out. And half these birds don’t even have the range we need. What we want is something big, but not too big—and nothing that’ll be noticed.”

  “You mean like that?” Jan tilts his head in the direction of the pinstriped Dodge Viper in the parking lot behind them.

  “Yeah, like that.” Nate continues to scan the field.

  “Maybe you should just pick the best one and we’ll chance it,” Jan tells him. “Besides, I really need to change into some dry clothes—”

  “Hang on. Check it out. See that King Air taxiing in? That guy just bunny hopped all the way down the runway. I’m guessing he doesn’t fly too often.”

  “So?”

  “I think that just might be our plane.”

  The twin turboprop parks and, after the engines shut down, a man, about sixty, steps down the plane’s rear stairs and tosses an overnight bag onto the tarmac. A fuel truck arrives and, while the driver runs out a hose, the pilot places sunscreens in the cockpit windows and closes the passenger drapes. He then takes his time walking around the white and burgundy aircraft, stuffing red foam plugs into the engine’s intakes and admiring the plane’s impressive lines.

  “I know a hundred guys just like that,” Nate says. “That’s a share plane. This guy and a few of his executive buddies got together and bought a plane they could never afford alone. But then none of them fly it that much because it’s still so expensive to operate. Which is why they write up agreements that state each owner must leave the tanks topped off for the next guy. That way there’s never an argument.”

  “At least not about fuel,” Jan says.

  After the King Air pilot finally drives out of the airport, Nate and Jan, carrying two duffel bags apiece, walk through a Flight Way Flight School and out onto the field. Two middle-aged women, climbing out of a Cherokee 180, ogle Nate. Nate salutes his fellow pilots, and the two instantly transform into coquettish teenagers, giggling and posing.

  Well, at least if they’re questioned, Jan tells himself, they’ll swear Nate was alone.

  “A King Air has plenty of range, decent speed, and it’s not all that conspicuous,” Nate infor
ms Jan as they approach the plane. “And I’m willing to bet this particular one won’t be missed for days—hopefully weeks.” Nate turns to Jan. “You want me to take those? You look a little… unsteady.”

  “The weight is actually helping me balance,” Jan says, shifting the duffel bags on his shoulders. “But I’m getting better.”

  “Did all that working out up there help?”

  “With the atrophy. Not so much with the ups and the downs.”

  Nate takes a Swiss Army knife out of his pocket. “Okay, while I’m picking the lock, you go remove the intake plugs—and take your sweet time about it. Make it look like you’re inspecting the plane. This might take a minute or two, and I’d rather not have us both hovering suspiciously at the door.”

  “Got it.”

  “And don’t stagger. You look drunk.”

  Minutes later, Jan tosses the intake plugs onto one of the eight passenger seats, removes the wheel chocks, and closes up as Nate, already strapped into the cockpit’s left seat, works his way down a checklist.

  Once he has both props spinning, Nate hands Jan a briefcase. “See if you can find anything useful in there like an airport guidebook—yeah, that’s it.” Nate takes the book out of Jan’s hands, flips to a bookmarked page, and studies it. He adjusts the radio, gets the weather, then contacts Clearance Delivery for their squawk code and departure frequency.

  “Set?” he asks Jan over the intercom.

  “All set.”

  “Westchester Ground,” Nate says, “November-Niner-One-Eight-X-ray-Zulu, King Air BE10, at the main terminal, ready for taxi, we have the weather.”

  “King Air One-Eight-X-ray-Zulu, Westchester Ground, taxi to runway Three-Four.”

  “To Three-Four, King Air One-Eight-X-ray-Zulu.”

  Several minutes later, Nate contacts Westchester Tower: “November-Niner-One-Eight-X-ray-Zulu, King Air BE10, holding short of Three-Four, ready for takeoff.”

  “King Air One-Eight-X-ray-Zulu, Westchester Tower, winds three-twenty at fifteen, gusting twenty-three, runway Three-Four, cleared for takeoff.”

  “Copy, winds three-twenty at fifteen, gusting to twenty-three, runway Three-Four, cleared—taking active, King Air One-Eight-X-ray-Zulu.”

  Nate powers the King Air onto the runway, setting both throttles to full. The instant they’re off the ground, he retracts the landing gear. Departing to the north, they bank southwest, ascending to ten thousand feet.

  “We’ll head for Fort Worth and see how we’re doing on fuel in a few hours,” Nate says. He enters a few commands on a touch screen map and sets the autopilot.

  “What about the transponder?” Jan asks.

  “No one knows we’ve stolen this thing. For the moment, we’re just one of a sky full of planes, going from point A to point B.”

  “I think this is the guy we saw.” Jan hands Nate a photocopy of a pilot’s license. “Jerry Eldridge. And there’re three more in here.”

  “Well, Mr. Eldridge,” Nate says, handing the copy back, “we’ll try to keep your baby in good working order.” He pats the top of the instrument panel. “Even once we refuel, I don’t think we should head directly to the spaceport, by the way. A plane heading from New York to Mojave, even indirectly, will probably raise a red flag.”

  “I bet Mojave’s the last place they’ll think I’ll go. Fleeing the country is probably more like it, especially with Lisa and Stephen in China. But you’re right. They’ll have an eye on everything.”

  “Hey,” Nate says after a moment, “you remember that quick rendezvous concept of Oren’s?”

  “His low-altitude, sideslip maneuver?” Jan turns from the window and the cottony clouds below.

  “It’s a little more than a sideslip maneuver.”

  Jan recalls the idea. Normally, when they launch, they have to wait for the space station’s orbital plane to line up with their geographic location. Then, because in all likelihood the space station will be somewhere on the other side of the Earth, they have to spend a day or two in orbit just catching up.

  With Oren’s quick rendezvous scheme—based on a similar idea by the Russians—the JLA rocket literally flies to a geographic location where it can intercept the space station’s orbital plane at just the time it’s coming around. The advantage is that it only takes six hours to get up there—not days.

  “I thought he abandoned the idea because of excessive fuel consumption,” Jan says.

  “That’s right. He said it’d only be useful if we needed to deliver a screwdriver.” Nate looks at Jan. “We only need to deliver a man. More weight than a screwdriver, granted. But if we strip the capsule down, I could get up there in less than six hours.”

  “Excellent idea. But if only one of us is going, then it’s got to be me. This is my mess.”

  “Oh, come on, Jan, you’re not qualified.”

  “I’m at least as qualified as a screwdriver.” Jan unbuckles his shoulder harness.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To put on some dry clothes.” Jan climbs out of the cockpit and into the passenger area. “Let’s just see if we can get to the spaceport before we start worrying about seat assignments.”

  In the King Air’s narrow aisle, Jan removes his clothes and drapes them over the seatbacks. With unsteady footing he opens one of his duffel bags and retrieves a pair of jeans and a gray and white polo. He dresses, finds his iPod, and steals a cushion off one of the seats before returning to the cockpit. Buckling back in, he props the cushion up against the window. “I’m going to try to get a little sleep.”

  “Me too.” Nate closes his eyes and, almost instantly, he’s out.

  How the hell does he do that? Jan turns on his music and presses his head against the cushion. He looks out the window at the pale blue sky, trying to get comfortable. After a moment, he starts staring at the little plane on the navigation screen. It just sits there as digital terrain moves underneath it.

  For the next three hours, Jan listens to one of his ambient music playlists, periodically dozing, but mostly just staring at the tiny plane on the screen.

  At one point, having actually fallen asleep, he opens his eyes. He feels the hair on the back of his neck rise. Something’s wrong. A sound or a vibration or something—something! He sits up, pulls the pillow away from the window.

  A man in an oxygen mask is staring at him.

  Jan looks out Nate’s window. There’s another fighter off that wing.

  “Nate.” Jan shakes his arm. “We’ve got company.”

  • • •

  Nate opens his eyes and sits up. “Shit.” He nods to the man on his left, then switches radio frequencies and adjusts his mic. “Good morning, gentlemen. You didn’t happen to bring us coffee, did you?”

  “Sorry, sir. And it’s actually afternoon, Captain Terrek. We have orders to escort you to the Fort Worth Naval Air Station.”

  “Who is we?”

  “Hammerhead off your left, and that’s Dragonfly on your right. We’re with the 188th out of Albuquerque. I assume you were already heading to Fort Worth—correct?”

  “We had considered it. Hang on, guys, while I consult with my colleague here. We have to decide whether we should try to outrun you.”

  Laughter.

  “Now what?” Nate turns to Jan.

  “I don’t get it.” Jan looks out his window. “If we get caught and can’t stop the government from getting control of the experiment, how and why would those people in the future send me the Message?”

  “I believe we covered this, Jan. There are just way too many possibilities to consider. Besides, those are F-16s out there. Not a lot of options.”

  “Why do they fly so close?” Jan turns from his window.

  “Intimidation.”

  Jan sits back and thinks, only vaguely listening while Nate resumes his conversation with the pilots.

  “Hang on,” Jan says.

  Nate excuses himself from the conversation.

  “What if we suddenly dive or s
omething? You’re the superior pilot here.”

  “Monkeys could outfly me in those things. They could do loops around us while we were in a full power dive.”

  “I know, but let’s say you had nothing to lose.”

  “You mean like something suicidal?”

  “Exactly. I was thinking about that idea—your idea—about using the fact that they sent the Message to our advantage. I know, I know. There are too many possibilities, but what if we could use it just to boost our odds? You ever hear of the Monty Hall problem?”

  “Sounds vaguely familiar,” Nate says. “It’s a riddle of some kind, right?”

  “Well, it’s a riddle with a point. Imagine you’re on a game show on which you’re given three doors to choose from, and you get to keep whatever’s behind the door you choose. But only one of the doors has a brand new car behind it. The other two have goats. Say you choose door number one. The host—Monty Hall—then opens door number three and shows you a goat. If he then asks, ‘Mr. Terrek, you’ve chosen door number one, would you care to switch to door number two?’ Well, would you?”

  “It’s fifty-fifty; so what difference does it make?”

  “That’s what just about everyone thinks. The truth is, you’re always better off switching. In fact, your odds go from one-in-three to two-in-three because of one simple fact: Monty Hall knows where the car is.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “Just look at it from Monty Hall’s perspective. Imagine that Monty Hall walks into the studio one morning and, before the show, is told by a stagehand that the car is behind door number two. So Monty tells himself, ‘Okay, I’ll have to make sure I don’t open door number two when I offer them a chance to switch.’

  “So then the show starts, and you pick one of the three doors. If you pick the right door in the first place—which you would do only one out of three times—then sure, obviously it would be better if you don’t switch doors. But if you pick wrong to begin with—which, two out of three times, is exactly what you will do—then Monty essentially tells you which door to switch to. Because he’s not choosing randomly; he’s purposefully not opening the door with the car. He knows where the car is, and from his actions, we can gain information that increases our odds.”