by Richard Todd
The plane magically began to right itself. Danny saw that Captain Ogonowski had gripped his yoke and was fighting Atta for control of the plane. Though badly injured, the former Air Force pilot was still more than a match for the puny hijacker.
Atta screamed and cursed as he fought the captain for control. The plane was over the city. The Twin Towers were directly ahead. Danny lunged for Atta, holding one of the hijackers’ box cutters in his right hand. He grabbed Atta by the hair.
“Time to disembark,” Danny said, slashing Atta’s throat with the razor knife. Atta sputtered blood and air, clutching his throat. Danny and Chris pulled Atta out of the seat and dumped him on the cockpit floor as First Officer McGuinness leapt into the co-pilot’s chair. Danny strapped into the jump seat. With its South Tower shadow, North Tower was dead ahead, seconds from impact.
“I’m gonna take it on the right,” shouted Captain Ogonowski.
“Roger that, I’m with you,” replied First Officer McGuinness.
The 767 was hurtling toward the tower at nearly 600 miles per hour, shaking as it streaked through the heavy low-altitude air. The plane shuddered as Ogonowski and McGuinness wrestled with their controls, fighting to overcome the plane’s fierce inertia. The 767, shaking violently, began to bank right. The tower grew larger in the windshield. The vertical silver bars of its exoskeleton crystallized into sharp relief. Tom McGuinness whispered the Lord’s Prayer.
“C’mon!” Captain Ogonowski shouted, gritting his teeth as the plane veered right. He knew they weren’t going to make it. His left wing was going to hit the tower.
Suddenly, Captain Ogonowski threw the yoke to the right, rolling the plane on its right side. The belly of the 767 faced the tower’s east side as it roared past with a few yards to spare. The thick windows of the tower rattled madly as shocked workers inside watched the plane rocket past, flying over the Statue of Liberty as it leveled out and began to climb above the Upper Bay.
“Sierra Hotel Cap’n!” exclaimed Tom McGuinness, using fighter pilot code for “Hot Shit.” A deeply religious man, Tom was not in the habit of cursing, though he hoped the Lord might give him a pass this one time.
“Never simulated that one before,” replied Captain Ogonowski. “Can you hit the transponder, Tom?”
Tom switched on the plane’s transponder. Forty miles away, in Islip, New York, the controllers monitoring American 11 at New York Air Traffic Control Center instantly saw AA11’s target flash on their displays.
Captain Ogonowski keyed the radio, “New York approach this is American 11, squawking code 4361. Position, 20 miles south of JFK declaring an emergency. Requesting ILS for JFK runway 4L.”
“Roger American 11, state the nature of your emergency please,” replied air traffic control.
“The aircraft was hijacked. We have effectively restrained the hijackers. We are not subject to interference now. Repeat, we are not at 7500,” replied Captain Ogonowski—“7500” was the transponder code used by pilots to discretely communicate to air traffic control that their plane had been hijacked.
Unbeknownst to the captain, two F-15 fighter jets had already been scrambled from Otis Air National Guard Base in Massachusetts, with orders to intercept the 767.
“American 11. New York, be advised, we have injured onboard. Please have emergency medical personnel standing by to meet the aircraft.”
“American 11, roger, scrambling EMT personnel to meet you.”
Captain Ogonowski then keyed the plane’s PA system, “This is Captain Ogonowski. The hijackers have been defeated. We have control of the aircraft.”
The cockpit crew could hear the cheers and shouts from the cabin, drawing smiles from Captain Ogonowski and First Officer McGuinness.
The captain continued, “We’re going to need to cut the celebration short, as we’re preparing to land at JFK. The aircraft is in good condition and we expect a normal landing. Please take your seats at this time and fasten your seatbelts. Flight attendants, please prepare for landing.”
Passengers who were strewn about the cabin during the plane’s convulsions were guided back to their seats by the flight attendants. Some had sustained minor injuries as they had been tossed about.
Danny unstrapped from the jump seat and ran out of the cockpit to check on Kyle ’01. He found him, lying on the dark bloodstained carpeted floor in front of the main door. Betty was kneeling beside him. She looked up at Danny and shook her head. Kyle ’01’s cold eyes were open, staring at the ceiling. At that moment, flight attendant Amy Sweeny approached from the rear of the aircraft, holding a blanket. She draped it over Kyle ’01, covering his face.
Minutes later, American 11 touched down on John F Kennedy airport’s runway 4L in a textbook landing.
Times Square
New York, NY
September 11, 2001
10:28 hours
Kyle ’08 snapped his phone shut. He had tried again to call Kyle ’01 without success. ’08’s mission to Virginia had been routine. A few hours earlier, he killed all five American Flight 77 hijackers as they slept at the Residence Inn in Herndon, Virginia. He then checked in his rental car and caught the train to New York. He didn’t want to return to his time until he was able to debrief with ’01. He exited Penn Station and strolled up Seventh Avenue to Times Square. It was the last time he would see the world outside the Time Tunnel complex bubble. It was a gorgeous day—a good day to spend his last day on real earth.
The good news was that the towers were standing and things seemed to be normal in the Big Apple. Times Square was its usual bustling self with native New Yorkers in a hurry to get where they were going, competing for sidewalk space with tourists gawking at the dazzling marquees.
Against all odds, Kyle ’08 had accomplished his mission, with the help of his younger self. The enormity of what he had done had not completely sunk in. Kyle ’08 observed the people in Times Square—thousands of people on the sidewalk—hurrying to appointments, arguing with bodega operators, or simply taking in the view. They had no idea what their alternate selves had experienced in another time, where they were frozen in horror as the North Tower was collapsing at that very moment. Here, in this time, things were precisely the way they were meant to be. Ignorance was truly bliss, even if the food stand operator had forgotten to put the cream in his customer’s coffee.
Kyle ’08 glanced at a marquee and stopped dead in his tracks. On a news board, over 50 feet high, Kyle’s face was brilliantly displayed. His name and Army rank of major appeared beneath his picture. Other news marquees displayed images of an airplane at JFK surrounded by emergency vehicles with flashing lights—it was American 11! Kyle’s face appeared on other marquees, along with pictures of the pilots and a man named Daniel Lewin.
Kyle ’08 read the flashing news tickers to try to understand what had happened.
“Holy shit!” he said.
Kyle ’01 was dead. The Army Special Forces major was being hailed as a hero, along with Daniel Lewin and the crew and passengers of American flight 11, who had valiantly fought to retake their plane from a handful of radical Islamist hijackers who intended to crash the plane into the World Trade Center. This marked the second time that radical Islamic terrorists from the Middle East had tried to destroy the WTC. It was the second time they had failed. The best of the best of the fanatics had been beaten by a handful of passengers and flight attendants. America was indestructible.
Kyle ’08 was stunned, though he didn’t have time to contemplate what had gone south with the mission. He was standing in one of the busiest places on the planet, with his picture screaming from giant marquee façades on multiple Times Square buildings. He would be recognized in seconds. He reached for the temporal transponder in his pocket. He slid open the cover on the device and keyed in the code that deactivated the safety. A small LCD screen on the device read “ARMED.” The red transponder activation button blinked red. The device was armed and ready, waiting for him to press the blinking button.
Tim
e Tunnel
Mission Control
October 27, 2008
08:15 hours
“All staff, time is T-minus five minutes. We are at final system check,” said Gus. “Respond when called.”
“Reactor,” Gus said.
“Reactor go,” replied an engineer. “Power at 30 percent. Go for throttle up.”
“Temporal engine,” said Gus.
“Temporal engine go” replied another engineer.
“Navigation,” said Gus.
“Temporal navigation go.”
“Bio,” said Gus.
“Bio go.”
“Transponder,” said Gus.
“Transponder go.”
“All systems, all staff, punch your status buttons now,” said Gus.
At that moment, the hundreds of people throughout the complex tied to the operation of the Time Tunnel pushed one of two buttons—green or red. A single red button would abort the time jump. Gus watched the board for results:
Percentage of respondents: 100%
Percentage green: 100%
Percentage red: 0%
“Throttle power to sixty percent,” ordered Gus. “Retract Tunnel moorings.”
Gus and the general watched the live video feed of the Time Tunnel chamber on the giant screen. The cables supporting the donut ring detached and retracted into the ceiling. The platform that supported the sphere retracted into the floor. The ring and sphere, supported with magnetic repulsion, floated in space like a man-made Saturn.
Inside the chamber, Kyle and Annika could see their sphere ascend some 20 feet to the center height of the room. The carbon donut rose with the sphere. The silence in the sphere was replaced by a deep profondo hum, bringing with it a vibration that gently trembled through their bodies. It was time.
“Any last words?” asked Kyle.
“I’m scared,” replied Annika.
He reached for her hand. She grasped his tightly and closed her eyes.
The hum increased in intensity, accompanied by a bright white light. The light did not appear to have a source—it was as simply as though the brightness of the room’s lighting had been turned up to an uncomfortable level.
Inside mission control, Gus turned to the general, “General, we are ready to proceed on your order.”
“Proceed,” the general replied.
“General, please insert your key into the panel. Wait for my mark before you turn the key,” said Gus.
Both men removed their lanyards and inserted the keys into the panel in front of them.
Gus said, “Turn on my mark—three—two—one—mark!”
Both men turned their keys. The status lamp next to the “Armed” indicator turned from green to red. A red “Armed” indicator flashed on all monitor displays. A klaxon alarm sounded. A large button on Gus’ panel marked “Commit” flashed on.
“Reactor—throttle power to 100 percent,” said Gus.
“Throttle to 100—roger that,” came the reply.
The command to throttle up power threw the Time Tunnel’s energy reactor into overdrive. In a chamber beneath where Kyle and Annika stood, matter and antimatter were injected in equal parts, annihilating with monstrous energy.
Inside the Time Tunnel’s glass bubble, Kyle and Annika felt the vibration increase dramatically, accompanied by a jump in the lighting brightness. Even through their tightly shut eyelids, the brightness strained their eyes. The vibration shook them forcefully, though they did not lose their balance—Kyle realized that it was not the chamber that was vibrating—it was their bodies. The very atoms that comprised them were shaking like vibrating grains of sand.
Gus reached for the “Commit” button. He looked at the general. The general nodded. Gus pressed the button.
The giant monitor beamed a blinding white light from the chamber video feed, forcing the mission control staff to turn away. Moments later, the light faded, as system power levels dropped to zero. The monitor flickered back to life. The Time Tunnel chamber was empty. Kyle and Annika were gone.
Gunther was the first to speak, “They’re gone and we’re still here…so far, so good.”
It was the understatement of all time. The fact that the Time Tunnel team was alive and aware of what had transpired not only meant that Kyle and Annika had been sent through time—it also meant that the Time Tunnel complex had been moved outside of time. October 27, 2008 was the genesis of an entirely new timeline, in a parallel universe that spanned only 20 million square feet, with a population of 10,000 humans. It was completely self-contained, totally independent of their former world.
“Status check. How does the temporal bubble look?” asked Gus.
“All indicators are green,” replied John Kaomea. After a pause, he said, “We did it.”
The TVA Temporal Variance Alarm cube lit up, with a companion alarm. The letters “TVA” displayed on the big screen in red blinking letters.
Roger Summit and his team pounced on their workstations, identifying variances in the timeline. Impatient for news, the general interrupted after a few moments.
“Roger? Anything?” he asked.
Roger’s face morphed from anxiety to a wide smile. The general looked over his shoulder to view the image on his display.
“Punch it up on the big screen,” the general said. “Punch it up on all the screens in the complex.”
Cheers erupted throughout the complex, and people began to sob and hug each other as they watched a live video feed from a weather channel. Taken from Hoboken, New Jersey, the Twin Towers stood, gleaming on a beautiful sunny day. Sunlight flickered off the Hudson as a sailboat lazily trekked along the river. The general was unable to fight back the fount of emotion. He wiped tears from his face. Lara Meredith put a comforting hand on the old man’s back. He turned and embraced her.
As the others celebrated, Gus alternated his gaze between his console and the video feed of the Time Tunnel chamber. Both were completely quiet. Gus knew the temponauts should have reappeared in the chamber almost instantly after they departed.
“General,” Gus said, concerned.
“What is it, Gus?” said the general, his face still beaming.
“General, we haven’t received a transponder signal,” said Gus. “Since time has changed, Colonel Mason and Colonel Wise should have signaled and returned to the Time Tunnel chamber by now.”
The smile evaporated from the general’s face.
At the history hive, Roger’s team continued working through the celebration, taking rapid inventory of how time had changed.
“Roger, you need to look at this,” shouted Aysha Voong over the noise of the celebration. She hit a button on her keyboard and dispatched a short summary of news headlines to Roger’s workstation. Other members of his team followed with their own urgent findings in rapid-fire succession, dispatching news and information excerpts to Roger’s workstation.
“Oh no,” Roger exclaimed, terrified. “Oh my God, no!”
He looked at his team members’ faces around the history cluster. They mirrored his expression of horror.
The general glanced at them. He could not hear what they were saying, but he could tell something was very wrong.
The general walked over to Roger’s workstation, “What’s wrong?” he asked.
Roger, overwhelmed, could barely speak. He began to hyperventilate.
“Roger, breathe,” the general said, “and tell me what the hell is going on.”
“General, Kyle is dead,” said Roger.
The general took a step back, as though he had been sucker punched.
“Something went wrong. He was on American 11 and was killed retaking the plane from the hijackers,” explained Roger.
The general shot a glance at the video feed of the Time Tunnel chamber—it was still empty. Annika had not returned.
“What about Colonel Wise?” asked the general.
“There’s nothing in the historical record about Colonel Wise. She should have returned,” said
Roger. “General, there’s something else…”
“What?”
“General, someone is showing up on the timeline who never existed before 9/11,” Roger gasped. “His name is Anderson Wild. He appears out of nowhere. He owns huge chunks of major companies—tech companies, aerospace companies, more.”
Roger continued, “He took outsized positions in credit default swaps in 2007 and made hundreds of billions of dollars. He’s worth more than the Fortune 100—combined!”
“He’s a recluse, very secretive. We’ve only been able to find one picture of him,” said Roger, “The quality is very poor, but…”