“Direction Finding, Mr. Sensor Officer, sir,” the sensor tech answered in a less than respectful tone of voice. “They had to home in on ground-based radio transmitters and triangulate their position as well as they could. They didn’t even have a primitive GPS system until late in the century.”
“Get stuffed,” DeBaron muttered softly, so that only the tech heard.
Lieutenant Taylor’s voice came over the communications speaker at that moment, drowning out Lieutenant DeBaron. “FT-28 to Nan How Able Three. We are heading 030 for 45 minutes, then we will fly north to make sure we are not over the Gulf of Mexico.”
Another pilot spoke, not identifying himself. “Should I drop the last of my bombs now? “
Lieutenant Taylor answered, “By all means.”
Fort Lauderdale called Taylor, but didn’t receive an answer. “Nan How Able One to FT-28, please turn on your ZBX. Repeat, turn on ZBX. Over.”
When Lieutenant Taylor failed to respond to Fort Lauderdale, Port Everglades repeated the call. “Nan How Able Three to FT-28, please turn on your ZBX. Repeat, please turn on ZBX”
When that message also failed to receive a response, it was broadcasted to all planes. “Nan How Able Three to any Fox Tare in flight with Fox Tare Twenty-eight, turn on your ZBX. Over.”
Lieutenant Taylor apparently didn’t hear the message, nor did any of his flight. Taylor’s voice came again, ordering his men together. “All planes in this flight join up in close formation.” Moments later, he continued. “How long have we gone now?”
Lieutenant Powers answered, “About 20 minutes.”
Lieutenant Taylor then changed his previous orders. “Let’s turn and fly east 2 degrees. We are going too damn far north instead of east. If there is anything we wouldn’t see it.”
He amended his orders again moments later. “FT-28 to all planes in flight, change course to 090o for 10 minutes.”
His next message had an accusatory tone to it, and was directed at Powers. “Powers, you didn’t get far enough east. How long have we been going east?” Then he called Port Everglades again.
“Hello Nan How Able three, this is FT-28. Do you read? Over.”
“Roger. This is Nan How Able Three. Go ahead.”
Lieutenant Taylor heard that message. “I receive you very weak. We are now flying 270 degrees.”
Port Everglades answered with a simple, “Roger.”
Lieutenant Taylor then informed Port Everglades of his intentions. “We will fly 270 degrees until we hit the beach or run out of gas.” That done, he called to his flight. “Planes fly close formation. When first man gets down to 10 gallons of gas, we will all land in the water together. Does everyone understand that?”
Port Everglades again tried to establish communications with Lieutenant Taylor. “Nan How Able Three to FT-28, if you can change to Yellow Band please do so and give us a call.”
“Yellow Band?” Lieutenant DeBaron asked, and was hissed at by everyone in the control room.
Lieutenant Taylor again tried to contact Port Everglades. “Nan How Able Three, this is Fox Tare twenty-eight…”
“This is Nan How Able Three, shift to 3000 kilocycles,” Port Everglades again ordered.
Lieutenant Taylor was apparently not hearing the order. “I receive you very weak. How is weather over Lauderdale?”
In spite of the ignored order, Port Everglades responded. “FT-28, this is Nan How Able Three, Weather over Lauderdale clear. Over Key West CAVU. Over the Bahamas cloudy rather low ceiling, poor visibility.”
Lieutenant Taylor then broadcast, “Is that a ship on the left?”
Captain Powers replied, “No. I think that it’s an island.”
Lieutenant Taylor then tried Port Everglades again. “Nan How Able Three, Can you hear me?”
Port Everglades immediately replied, “Hear you strength three, modulation good.”
Lieutenant Taylor did not reply, so they tried again. “Nan How Able Three to FT-28, Can you shift to 3000 kcs? Over. FT-28, please change to 3000 kcs… .shift to 3000 kcs. Over.”
Lieutenant Taylor apparently missed the transmission and tried Port Everglades again. “Nan How Able Three, how do you read?”
Port Everglades again responded almost immediately with a repeat of their earlier instructions. “Very Weak. Change to 3000 kilocycles.”
Lieutenant Taylor again either didn’t hear the order, or chose to ignore it. “Hello Nan How Able Three, this is FT-28. I can hear you very faintly. My transmission is getting weaker.”
When his transmission didn’t receive an immediate reply, he tried again. “Hello Nan How Able Three. This is FT-28. Over.”
Port Everglades tried once again to get Taylor to change his radio frequency. “Change to Yellow Band channel 1, 3000 kilocycles and give us a call.”
Lieutenant Taylor again didn’t comply with the order. “My transmission is getting weaker.”
The Port Everglades radio operator was sounding annoyed as he again instructed Taylor to change frequency. “Change to Yellow Band 3000 kilocycles and say words twice when answering. Nan How Able Three to FT-28, did you receive my last transmission? Change to channel 1 3000 kilocycles.”
Lieutenant Taylor requested a repeat of the order. “Repeat once again.”
Port Everglades responded in a slow, precisely enunciated voice. “Change to Channel 1, 3000 kilocycles.”
This time Lieutenant Taylor did hear the instruction, but refused to comply. “I cannot change frequency. I must keep my planes intact.”
Another of the planes broke in then with a terse, almost frightening message. “We may have to ditch any minute.”
Lieutenant Taylor then tried to contact Captain Powers. “Hello Powers, do you read me? Hello Powers, this is Taylor. Do you read me?”
“Roger. I read you,” the marine captain replied.
“Hello Powers. I have been trying to reach you,” Taylor said in an almost accusatory tone.
Powers’ reply was coolly correct. “I thought you were calling base—-”
“Negative. What course are we on?”
There was a slight pause before Powers replied. “Holding course 270.”
Taylor’s next transmission confirmed his confusion as to their whereabouts. “Affirmative. I am pretty sure we are over the Gulf of Mexico. We didn’t go far enough east. How long have we been on this course?”
Powers replied simply, “About 45 minutes.”
Taylor’s next transmission sealed the fate of the 14 men of flight 19. “I suggest we fly due east until we run out of gas. We have a better chance of being picked up close to shore. If we were near land we should be able to see a light or something. Are you listening? We may just as well turn around and go east again.”
Port Everglades was listening as well, and tried to contact Taylor. “Nan How Able Three to FT-28, do you read me? Nan How Able Three to FT-28, do you read me …Ten nine eight seven six five four three two one.”
Taylor didn’t hear them. “Hello Powers? Powers, what is your course? What course are we on now?”
Captain Powers replied with the information that Taylor should have already known. “Per your orders we are flying 090.”
“FT-28, this is FT-117. We are BINGO fuel and are preparing to ditch.”
Taylor’s orders were immediate. “Roger. All Fox Tare prepare to ditch. We stay together. Try to land near FT-117.”
“FT-36, Roger,” Captain Powers immediately replied.
“FT-81, Roger.”
“FT-3, Roger.”
“FT-28, FT-81. We will probably be next. Will wait until FT-117 is down before making our approach.”
“Roger, FT-81.”
“Captain, they’ll die down there,” Commander Frazier whispered harshly.
“They died six centuries ago, Kell. We can only mourn them.” The captain’s voice was harsh with emotion as she answered. They all knew the first rule of time travel. No interaction.
“FT-28, we are making our final approach. Crew is bailing o
ut before landing. Wish us luck.”
“Good luck, men,” Captain Reordan whispered.
“FT-28, FT-81. We may not be able to wait. Beginning approach.”
“Captain, please! They don’t have to die!” Commander Frazier was almost pleading with his captain now.
“History records their deaths, Kell. We can’t alter that.”
“History records their disappearance! Not their deaths! Captain, we can save them without violating the first rule. We can save them!”
“No.” Captain Reordan glared at her XO.
“Sir,” Lieutenant Deeson said softly, “history will not be affected. Those men need not be lost forever, just to this time period.”
Captain Reordan looked at her command crew and saw that their wills were united. “Very well. Mr. Frazier, you have the con. Computer, record. On this day, December 5th, 1945 CE, I, Captain Erica Reordan, chose to violate Temporal Directorate Rule One. This decision is mine alone. End record. Master Chief McCormack, prepare the boats. Water rescue, possible aerial recovery. Launch when ready.”
Master Chief Electronics Technician Krystal McCormack, the Wells’ Chief of the Boat, saluted and sprinted out of the control room. The Wells shivered moments later as her small craft were launched.
Captain Powers was the next to announce his intention to ditch. “FT-28, FT-36. BINGO fuel. Starting our approach.”
“Roger FT-36. FT-117 and FT-81 are already down. Good luck.”
“Hold on, men. The cavalry is coming,” Commander Frazier whispered.
The small craft penetrated the atmosphere as a shower of shooting stars, falling out over the Atlantic in a stunning display until their hulls cooled and their speed slowed sufficiently to allow them to extend their atmospheric foils and ignite their drives. Then they streaked toward the downed airmen at barely subsonic speeds. FT-36 was in the water before they arrived, but FT-28 and FT-3 were still airborne.
“Lieutenant, look at that! What is it?” Aviation Radioman 3rd Class Walter Parpart asked as a dark shape swung in above their plane.
“I don’t know, Parpart. It doesn’t look like any aircraft that I have ever seen. What the hell…?”
A coruscating beam of light blinded Lieutenant Taylor as the shuttle locked its tractor-beam on the fragile craft. “Easy does it. Suppress its engine or it’ll shake itself apart.”
Ensign Bossi in FT-3 was similarly engaged as the four other small craft fished the crews of the downed planes out of the dark Atlantic waters. Using a secure channel, Master Chief McCormack reported their success. “McCormack to Wells, the fishing is good here. We are limited out and returning to orbit.”
“That woman spends entirely too much time fishing,” Captain Reordan commented softly, much to the amusement of the crew. Master Chief McCormack’s preoccupation with the ancient sport was a well-known quirk in her personality.
The arrival of the small craft was just the beginning for the crew of the Wells. Isolation and decontamination crews were standing by as the fourteen men and two vintage aircraft were brought aboard. The Marines accomplished the first task, that of disarming them. Ten men and women in space-armor met the bedraggled airmen of another era in full battle dress. Black-enameled armor made the Marines look like some kind of giant bug, but the heavy machineguns each carried were easily identified. The men were suitably impressed, and surrendered their side arms willingly. Then the medics took over.
Each of the fourteen men was taken to an isolation room and told, in crisp, no-nonsense tones, to strip and put on the MedRobes. The armed Marine that accompanied each medic helped encourage them.
Chief Medical Officer Stancil nodded as the sensors in each ‘Robe reported on the condition of the men. “Healthy in most respects,” he recorded into his log, “for this time period. They will have to be quarantined until they have been inoculated and had their systems cleansed. Amazing the number of exotic diseases they’re carrying. Absolutely amazing.”
As the Wells climbed away from the Earth and turned toward Galactic South, Captain Reordan made her way to the isolation ward. She paused, then returned to her cabin. I’ve got to convince these men that we’re not their enemies. She wanted all of the advantages that she could get for this meeting, and changed into her Class “A” Dress Uniform, saber and all. Now feeling at her best, she again headed toward the isolation ward.
The fourteen men could all see her as she entered, and made her way to Lieutenant Taylor. “Greetings. I am Captain Erica Reordan of the Confederated Star Systems Space Navy.”
“Taylor, Charles Carrol, Lieutenant, United States Navy, serial number…”
“We know who you are, Lieutenant. We know who all of you are.” She paused and glanced at the rest of the men. “You are the senior officer of this…”
“That isn’t technically true,” Captain Powers interrupted. “I am senior to the lieutenant.”
Captain Reordan raised and eyebrow, then nodded. “Very well, Captain. You are guests aboard the CSS H.G. Wells. You are here because you would have died in the sea if we hadn’t picked you up.”
“We were headed toward land,” Lieutenant Taylor interrupted. “We can’t have been too far out.”
“You were headed toward Spain, Lieutenant,” Captain Reordan snapped. “Your planes were more than 300 miles from the coast of Florida, and you were headed away from it.”
“That can’t be…” Taylor said softly, but Powers was nodding.
“I thought so. Lieutenant, you can expect me to file a full report of your failure when we return to Fort Lauderdale.”
“You will not be returning to Fort Lauderdale, Captain,” Captain Reordan said softly. “Your disappearance is recorded, and cannot be changed. I am sorry.”
“Wait a minute! What do you mean our disappearance is recorded?” Captain Stivers asked angrily.
“On December 5th, 1945 CE, the five planes and fourteen men of Flight 19 were lost under unexplained circumstances over the Atlantic Ocean. It was believed that Lieutenant Taylor’s compasses failed, and that he led you to your deaths.”
“1945 AD,” Lieutenant Gerber said softly.
“We no longer use AD and BC. Not all cultures are Western. Instead we use CE, for Common Era, or BCE, Before the Common Era, to designate year placement.”
“Where in God’s name are we?” one of the other men asked softly.
Captain Reordan walked over to the wall opposite the isolation chambers and activated the screen. Black, star-speckled space glared into the room. “You are in space, gentlemen. We are currently two astronomical units away from Earth on a course that will take us south of the ecliptic. Our velocity is, well, beyond your current comprehension.”
“We’re where?”
“What’s an astronomical unit?”
Captain Reordan turned to the speaker. “An astronomical unit is the distance between the Earth and Sol.”
“How fast is beyond our comprehension? We’re pilots. We know speed.”
Captain Reordan sighed. “Not speeds like this. In terms that you will understand, we are traveling at thirty-six thousand miles per second. When we reach a distance of five AU, we will transit to our home period. It is not happenstance that this vessel is named the H.G. Wells. We are a timeship from the 27th century.”
“That’s not possible!”
“I am afraid that it is.” Captain Reordan turned back to Captain Powers. “Prepare your men, Captain. The transit is rough, though no worse than riding in some of the aircraft you have flown. There will be a warning over the announcing system. I suggest that all of you belt in. It will be safer for you to do so.” Turning, she walked out of the infirmary.
The men stared after her as the door closed. “Captain, you don’t really think that…”
“No, I don’t. We have to escape. Start looking for a way out of these cells.”
Lieutenant Taylor sat in a dispirited slum in his chair. “We were going the wrong way.”
“Straighten up and get ove
r it. You can beat yourself up when we get home.” Captain Powers was trying to find a finger purchase along the seam of the isolation chamber’s inner door. “I am not leaving my family.”
Taylor looked over and nodded, then began his own search for a way to escape. All fourteen men were still searching when Captain Reordan’s voice came over the speakers. “All hands prepare for transit. All hands prepare for transit. You airmen, belt in and leave those door seals alone.”
Wide eyes looked around the room, then the men complied. They had no idea how the captain had known what they were doing, but her knowledge and the habit of obeying commands made them move.
The Wells tore space and time as her temporal drive took them home. The trip was, as warned, rough, the more so since the captain had left the view screen on and the men had a full, unshielded view of the violence of the time stream. Roiling lights of every imaginable color filled the screen. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the shaking stopped and the view screen was once again black.
“Oh, my aching ass,” a voice said softly. The rest of the men looked to see Sergeant Robert Gallivan climbing shakily to his feet. “Guess she wasn’t kidding about strapping in.”
“Sarge, are you in one piece?” Captain Stivers asked, real concern in his voice.
“Just hurt my pride, Sir.”
*
In the Wells’ command center, things were more tense. “Commander Frazier, I hereby place myself under arrest and relinquish command to you. Report to the Temporal Directorate immediately and inform them of our circumstances.”
“Captain, no! We all made…”
“That will be all, Mr. Frazier!” Captain Reordan snapped. “The decision was mine alone, and I alone will face the consequences.”
“Captain, we all—,” Lieutenant Deeson began, but the captain cut him off.
“I said that will be all. I am the captain, and the responsibility is mine. End of discussion.” Turning on her heel, she walked to her stateroom and closed the door firmly behind her.
Commander Frazier sighed mightily and took the command chair. “Lay in a course for Earth, best speed. Communications, send the logs to ComTempDir. Include my personal log as well.”
Stories of the Confederated Star Systems Page 7