by D. F. Jones
“Okay, I’ve got the con. I’ll be in my office.”
By nine-thirty he was well into his second cigar, his third mug of coffee, and his first file. He hunched over it, trying to concentrate, but by the time he got to the bottom of the page he realized he hadn’t absorbed a word. Wearily, he started again.
For the first time — testing apart — the direct phone to the ops room buzzed: a harmless sound, yet it sent shock waves tingling through him.
“Arcasso.” As he listened, fine beads of sweat appeared on his bloodless face. “Say again!” he croaked. The cigar slipped unheeded from his fingers onto the desk. “Okay — I’m coming.” Unnoticed, the receiver clattered on the desk.
Arcasso charged down the corridor like a ball in a bowling alley, knowing he should walk but unable to control himself. Clerks and officers stared after him or swerved to avoid him.
The duty officer was sweating, suffering from his first taste of ICARUS shock. Arcasso slumped in a chair, panting. “Okay — give it to me!”
“Omaha came through at one zero zero four with an unidentified, located south of Des Moines, tracking west at eleven thousand meters, out of controlled airspace. There’d been nothing till then; then, suddenly — bang! There it was!”
Arcasso felt sick. This had to be it.
“At 1006, a Mayday from Papa Kilo” — the officer’s eyes strayed to the state board, his head shaking slowly — “it equates to that Jumbo!” He lost his grip. “Frank — what the hell’s going on?”
“Jesus H. Christ,” murmured Arcasso.
The officer straightened up. “Fighters scrambled at 1008 to identify. At 1009 I called you.” A teletype started hammering.
Arcasso forced himself to sit still while his junior darted to the machine.
“Fighters have positively identified Papa Kilo”
“It’s Papa Kilo all right,” growled Arcasso. The plot was rolling, and he felt curiously calm: no more thought, only action. “Make a flash to Omaha: code word and open Envelope One.”
Thankful for endless practice in dreary night duty, the lieutenant colonel pounded the keyboard. “Leave that,” commanded Arcasso. The man stopped. “Call the committee — emergency procedure.” That will bring them running, he thought. He didn’t fear responsibility, but there’d be plenty to do, and he’d be glad to have CIA Joe around.
He crossed to the phone bank, and studied the wall map. South of Des Moines, tracking west …
A phone rang. “Omaha? This is Control.” Frank’s voice was dispassionate. “You have understood Envelope One? I authenticate.” He gave the codeword. “Satisfied? Okay, listen, get Papa Kilo off the distress frequency, put him on any free channel, and pipe it to me on Pentagon 5850 — I’ll use your transmitter, got it? … Yeah — one other thing. Don’t listen, and you take damned good care no one else does! What’s your name and rank? … Got it, Major — let’s hope I don’t have to call you!” Arcasso clamped the phone down, staring again at the map. Without looking away, he called the duty officer. “Make a flash to the governor, Colorado. Codeword — he’s to open his envelope and deliver only the communication for Denver Air Traffic Control.”
A lot happened at once. The frantic duty officer was on a teletype, getting a line to Denver. An Air Force phone rang as CIA Joe streaked into the room.
Arcasso paused as he moved to take the call. “This is it, Joe. The Jumbo’s back.” He took the phone. “Omaha? … Yeah, I’m ready. Stand by for switching check.” He depressed the switch on the handset, then released it. “Okay? Put me on.”
He waited, heard the faint mush of static “Papa Kilo, Papa Kilo, this is Control, how do you read me? Over.”
Joe glanced at him in surprise: Frank’s voice was so level, so calm. He had no idea how hard Frank was working to keep it that way.
“Papa Kilo, this is Control; read you loud and clear also.” He paused, wiping his face with his free hand, then resumed, struggling to inject a genial quality into his voice. “Right now you’re kinda worried; you don’t know what the hell’s happened, right?” He paused, listening to the stumbling words of a man fighting to keep his sanity, ten thousand meters up, responsible for eighty-odd lives, including his own. He listened, trying to gauge the pilot’s state of mind.
“Okay, Papa Kilo, you’ve got problems, let me tell you this — right now we’ve only got one major problem — you. You’re not seeing things. There’s nothing wrong with you or your ship except you’ve gotten snarled up in an experiment. I can’t say more over the air, okay? … Yeah, I know it sounds crazy, but we’re going to bring you in at Denver … Never mind why, you just focus on how. What’s your fuel status?”
The pilot grew calmer; he reported a fuel remainder of fifty percent. Arcasso was staggered but kept his level tone. “Okay, so you have to burn off some before you’re down to landing weight.” He made it sound like the most ordinary situation in the world. “You keep hauling west. Soon I’ll clear you to Denver approach, but there’s time, plenty of time. Tell me, have you checked how the cash customers are making out?”
He listened, sweat pouring down his face.
“Okay, Papa Kilo, that’s fine! Give ’em another movie for free — and a highball too. Charge it to Uncle Sam — hell, it’s his fault!” Arcasso was playing for time. The pilot knew he was way off course, but he couldn’t know about the time factor. “Look, Papa Kilo, I understand your problem. Denver is going to give you approach steerage, QNH, and the rest. You may be surprised at the ground temperature. Okay, be surprised, but believe the man! Another thing — don’t worry about airspace restrictions … What? You mean the fighters are still bugging you? … Sure, I’ll call them off. Wait — ” He shouted across to the duty officer. “Get those goddam interceptors off the guy’s tail.” In a calmer voice he continued. “Papa Kilo, this is Control. I’ll pass you to Denver as soon as those Air Force ships peel off — you tell me.” He rested, wiping his face on his sleeve.
Joe sat immobile, a teletype message in his hand.
Arcasso shouted at the duty officer. “Call Denver! Release letters to the FBI and police department — and alert Denver airport for an emergency landing, passengers and crew to be quarantined on arrival, positively no press or TV allowed — and fix a fast ship for me from here to Denver — now!
“Yeah, Papa Kilo, I read you. They’ve gone? Fine! Stick around, buddy, I have to transfer you to Denver … It may take a couple minutes … You just sit there burning off some weight. They’ll call you on this freq! Have a nice day!” Trembling, he released the switch. Forcing himself to another AF phone, he got Omaha and gave his orders, his tone very different from what the Jumbo pilot had heard.
He sank into a chair; the lieutenant colonel was hovering nervously. “Yeah — what?”
“Sir, there’ll be a plane ready at Dulles as soon as you get there.”
Arcasso nodded, looked at the CIA man. “What’s your score, Joe?”
“The President’s been told.” He stopped.
The two men were eyeball to eyeball. Cold water raced through Arcasso’s veins. Of all the members of the committee, CIA Joe was closest, the one he understood best. “And?”
Joe waved the teletype in his hand. “From Moscow. A flash: the Ilyushin pilot’s died suddenly; the other’s hospitalized.”
X.
At 1248 Jumbo Papa Kilo touched down at Stapleton Field, Denver, Colorado. It was directed to an isolated corner of the airport and immediately surrounded by police, who — thinking it a hijack operation — were ready at the drop of a hat to start shooting. When the initial excitement had passed, they huddled deeper into their coats. The west wind off the Rockies was icy cold, and the thin sunlight gave little comfort.
The ICARUS committee, and Frank in particular, had been frantically busy. While his police escort broke every traffic regulation in the capital, CIA Joe got a line to Denver Tower, ordering delaying tactics until Arcasso took over. He also briefed the city’s FBI chief, letting him know
that the deputy head of the bureau was on his way and could be highly critical if local cooperation was less than one hundred percent.
The mobile boarding steps appeared, crawling toward the giant plane. Denver Tower instructed the pilot not to open the door until transportation arrived, citing the bitter cold temperature outside. By the time the buses began to move slowly around the perimeter, Arcasso, after a Mach 2 flight aided by absolute priority in the airways, was in the landing circuit. Still in his flying suit, he stood near the Jumbo, talking urgently to the governor, before the crawling buses had reached the plane.
He quickly convinced the governor to stay calm, not query presidential action, and get back to his office, where the President might conveniently call him. Curious, and impressed with the speed at which Washington was moving, the governor left; maybe the President would fill him in.
Watching the passengers stumble out, his mind closed to anything but the job at hand, Arcasso fired orders at his tiny knot of officials. Passengers and crew were to go to the VIP lounge and be given food and drink — served by the FBI. Accommodations for the night were to be arranged, preferably on one floor, under FBI guard. An FBI approved doctor was to report at once. No telephone facilities were to be available to crew or passengers until further orders. And the plane was to have a police guard until a team of investigators from Arcasso’s department, already on its way, arrived. They alone could board the plane.
A police car got him to the VIP lounge first. Stripping off his flying suit, Arcasso racked his brain, trying to think how to play it.
The passengers and crew trickled in, mostly silent, frightened and completely bewildered. Many were loaded down with duty-free bags; some were festooned with cameras. Several leaned on members of the plane’s staff, who — no less bewildered — smiled mechanically. One oldster entered in a wheelchair.
Just to look at them made Arcasso’s heart sink. This crowd bore no resemblance to the two men in the Ilyushin: these were U.S. citizens, not disciplined Soviet pilots. It might be possible to keep them quiet for twenty-four hours, but after that … Already one or two were demanding their rights and an explanation.
Last came the captain and his copilot, white as sheets, stumbling like sleepwalkers. Arcasso, after a quick aside to the FBI chief to get the drinks going, grabbed the pilots and took them into the kitchen. Now for my act, he thought.
“Congratulations, Captain!” He shook a limp and clammy hand, his strained smile meeting a lackluster eye. A nervous tic twitched at the corner of the captain’s mouth. Arcasso grounded him mentally for a good long rest, and the thought of the ominous Ilyushin news made him wonder just how long that rest might be. “I’m Frank Arcasso, Colonel, United States Air Force.”
The pilot nodded vaguely. Arcasso felt that if he’d introduced himself as Donald Duck he’d have gotten the same reaction. But he had to snap the man out of it. He needed information badly. “Come on, Captain! What happened?”
The man looked from Arcasso to his copilot, seeking some contact with reality. He wiped his face with the back of his hand. The action drew Arcasso’s attention to the beardless face: three months without a shave or a trip to the bathroom …
The pilot sighed, utterly drained. “What happened … ” He repeated the phrase flatly. Intelligence returned unwillingly to his haunted eyes. “All I can tell you is that suddenly the sky goes from dawn to full day, and I’m three thousand miles west of my last position! What happened!” He laughed, an ugly, hysterical sound. “They say this is Denver — Denver as cold as this in September?” The voice rose. “This is a nightmare! Soon I’ll wake — ”
Arcasso gave the pilot a swift, hard, flat-handed smack on one cheek. “Cut that out! You’re a senior pilot, not a child!” Strangely, the Jumbo’s skipper understood the action. He blinked, making no attempt to rub the dull red patch on his pale face. He spoke more calmly now. “I don’t know more than that. Maybe later, not now. You can’t imagine the feeling — and then to bring that flying hotel into a strange field … ” He paused, resuming with more spirit. “Goddammit! I brought that crate in only just below all-up landing weight, the temperature way down — that was the last straw! This could be winter!”
He had to know, sooner or later. “Captain,” said Arcasso gently, “I’m going to give it to you straight. This is winter. This is December 15.”
The pilot stared at him incredulously. His copilot made a strange strangled sound in his throat and passed out. Both men ignored him.
“You stay right there,” said Arcasso decisively. “This will all work out, things will be fine.” He strode out, wishing he could believe himself. En route he grabbed an FBI man with a tray of glasses. “Two large bourbons — straight — in there, now! And see that those guys stay right there!”
In spite of his crumpled, sloppy suit, the more alert passengers seemed to recognize Arcasso’s authority. He fended them off, aided by the local FBI chief.
“Sir, the mike at that desk is working — ”
“The doctor here yet?” Arcasso interrupted.
“Just arrived. The hotel’s all set — ”
“Get the doc in here,” said Arcasso, adding grimly, “we could use him.” He crossed to the desk and automatically flicked the microphone with a fingernail. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he spoke. “It will be a lot easier for all of us if you’ll just settle down and listen.” He surveyed the disorderly scene. A crying child added to the pandemonium. He couldn’t stand crying children.
“Will somebody keep that kid quiet?” The parents would hate him, but he sensed the others were on his side. To be too apologetic at this moment would be fatal.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my name’s Arcasso, Colonel, United States Air Force.” Below the neck he was less than convincing, but his face fitted his claim — his gray eyes commanding, his metal claw adding sinister authority. “Right now I speak to you as the representative of the U.S. government. Bear that in mind. I’ve already heard some demanding their rights. Fine! I go along with that. You have your rights” — the claw thumped on the desk — “but along with the rights go obligations.”
He let that sink in, scanning the audience, trying to identify the tricky ones. The child screamed again; a sharp slap cut it short.
“What I have to say is Top Secret. I don’t like telling you, but I have no option. You won’t like hearing it, but you’ve got no option. Also, I’ll tell you the bare minimum. You won’t like that either, but this matter involves the security of the nation — which is you!”
Arcasso had their attention now; no feet shuffling, no coughing.
“You have accidentally become involved in what I will call an experiment.” At one side, the local FBI chief watched him like a hawk. “The experiment has stopped; you are here, and there is no cause for alarm.”
A man shouted, “Okay, colonel! That’s the commercial — now tell us what the hell’s goin’ on!” Many nodded, murmuring agreement.
“Right,” replied Arcasso. “Here it is. Some of you have heard of a concept called the space-time continuum. If you fully understand that idea, then you’re ahead of me, but in everyday language it means that space and time are the same thing.
“I know this sounds like science fiction, but you have to believe that this continuum is a basic requirement in time travel. All of you have heard of that.” He paused, grasping his claw in his good hand. “I have to tell you, you are the first time travelers. You left Paris in September. This is December.”
For nearly ten seconds there was utter silence. Then a woman screamed, men shouted, children cried. Someone yelled, “He’s fainted!”
The doctor and an FBI agent pushed through to the center of the disturbance, lifting a man out, laying him on a bench seat, luckily screened from view. Arcasso remained behind the desk. Let them shout and scream — they were entitled …
The FBI chief crossed to him, walking casually, ignoring the racket, his face impassive. “Colonel, the doc says the guy is dead — co
ronary arrest.”
Arcasso nodded, equally phlegmatic. “Get the body out of here — fast — I don’t want a fuss.” The agent nodded back and headed for the door.
Arcasso turned to his audience. His metal claw slammed down again on the desk. “Okay, that’s enough! Settle down — I haven’t finished!” He glared at the shocked faces before him, then softened his approach. “You’ve all had a big shock. You’ve taken it very well.” He lied, “ ’Fraid it was too much for one gentleman — he’s passed out, he’ll have to be hospitalized. Is anyone else feeling ill?”
The FBI chief ushered in two white-coated orderlies carrying a stretcher. Arcasso’s prayer was answered. The dead man’s face was not covered, and the FBI man effectively blocked the view for most of the audience. The group remained silent as the grim charade was played out. The doors closed.
“No need to worry about him. He’ll be well looked after — and at federal expense. Now” — he dismissed the matter — “let’s move on. You’ve accepted the unbelievable part very well.” The lie was worth repeating. “You’ll find the next item easier to take. Not only have you traveled in time but in space. This is Denver, not New York. You will appreciate we did not plan this — ”
“Just one moment! Not so goddam fast!” It was one of the businessmen.
“I’ll be obliged if you did not interrupt.” Arcasso’s tone was hard, menacing. “There’ll be time for questions later. As I was saying, this Event was not planned; we are most anxious to have the accounts of your experiences. Four-star accommodations have been arranged and transportation is ready. I suggest you go now and relax in comfort at Uncle Sam’s expense. Then you can tell us everything and ask questions.” He stopped; it was the best he could do, a blend of prevarication and flattery.
The businessman was tougher than most. “I have to get home — ”
“Sir,” said Arcasso icily, “we can’t delay all these good people with a public discussion of your personal problems.”