The reason my stomach's in a knot is because a flight that I'm expecting is five minutes late. Five minutes is no big deal, but we haven't had any contact with the aircraft in that same amount of time, and what's worse, we can't find the plane on radar.
Three weeks ago I was the guy with the bright idea that DOD could get some great recruiting public relations by having the Navy's newest admiral take a publicity tour. Admiral Ashley Patterson, a great American if there ever was one, is the Navy's newest flag officer. She's young, only 39 years old, she’s bright, and she's beautiful. Ashley and her husband are good friends of mine. A dedicated deep water sailor, Ashley balked at my idea at first. She’s not a publicity hound and would prefer to just do her job and do it well. That's why she's the youngest Navy admiral in history – she does her job well.
Ashley recently commanded the USS Abraham Lincoln, a nuclear attack carrier, also a first for someone of her age and gender. When she donned her admiral's stripes, yours truly just couldn't resist making a big news splash out of this historic event. So my idea was to have Ashley take off from her old command in the Navy's newest fighter jet, a Boeing F/A-18E/F Super Hornet. I'll also take credit for the idea that her husband, the famous author and journalist Jack Thurber, would be seated behind her in the passenger's seat. Jack's a lieutenant in the Naval Reserve, so he'd also be in uniform when the cameras started clicking. The idea was that they'd take off from the Lincoln off the coast of Virginia and land at LaGuardia Airport in New York City a short time later. I've already been contacted by a producer at 60 Minutes about a possible segment on Ashley and Jack.
They didn't make me the Pentagon's Public Affairs Officer for nothing.
But where the hell are they? As an old jet jockey myself, I know damn well that when a plane disappears from radar, it could be bad news, the worst kind of bad news. The other possibility, the one that gives me some hope and prevents me from passing out, is that Ashley may have accidently flipped the stealth switch, making the aircraft difficult to detect by radar. But why doesn’t she respond to radio calls?
So here I am, standing in the control tower at LaGuardia, surrounded by reporters, and wondering where my friends are.
They've been missing for seven minutes.
Chapter 20
Wednesday, October 22, 1940 dawned a beautiful, crisp fall day. The leaves were beginning to call attention to themselves as the crimson show-offs of autumn, and the chrysanthemums were bursting happily toward the sun.
Jack and I are both early risers and fitness fanatics. We both know that making love, although a wonderful form of exercise, can't provide for all that a body needs. We wore our newly purchased sneakers and workout clothes from the Navy Exchange. The sneakers cost $2.15 a pair, and sweatshirts were $1.25 each. We decided to take a five-mile run around the Navy Yard. I still had a pedometer that made it through the wormhole intact so we didn't need a map to tell us how far we ran.
We started from one end of Admiral's Row to the other, and then ran through the entire residential section of the base. After that, we headed down toward the docks to catch a glimpse of the shipbuilding activity. I had been to the Brooklyn Navy Yard once, while a midshipman at Annapolis. The purpose of that outing was to show us what American shipbuilding once had been. No more in 2016, but here in 1940, the Yard was an explosion of activity.
We finished our run at the base gym and went inside to use the equipment. It was separated into men's and women's sections.
“That's so guys won't feel intimidated when a woman does more pull ups than them,” said Jack.
The equipment was primitive by 2016 standards, but so what? Weights are weights and do wonders for your strength, whether or not they're connected to fancy cams and pulleys or equipped with readouts that tell you the calories burned, fat usage, heart rate, IQ, and whatever else 21st century exercise entrepreneurs think is important.
Jack and I agreed to meet in front of the gym at 0800 (8 AM) after we each had a 45-minute workout. Normally we would have been in touch by cell phone but that's only a memory. We were both sweaty, so I suggested we run back to the house to shower. No sense catching a cold, I thought. God knows what kind of treatment we'd get.
After our shower, we dressed in our uniforms of the day. The house was equipped with a washing machine in the basement, but of course, no dryer. The night before we had hung the non-woolen parts of our wardrobes on a clothesline in the yard. I would normally think that this was tacky as hell, but everybody on the block seemed to do it. I can't in my life remember, even when I was a little girl, how wonderful clothes smell when they're hung out to dry in the fresh air. Jack, having spent many years as a bachelor, was busy ironing our uniforms when I walked into the room.
“You're turning out to be an excellent aide, lieutenant. I shall comment favorably on your ironing skills when I fill out your fitness report.”
Jack gave me a squirt from his water bottle.
“Let's go have breakfast at the Officer's Club,” I said, “I'm starving.”
We walked four blocks to the “O” Club, a pretty old building of nineteenth century vintage. The entrance hallway was covered in dark wood paneling, giving the place a country club feel. The obligatory scenes of old sea battles adorned the walls, along with some great photographs of the Navy Yard itself.
We sat down in the spacious dining room and perused the menu. An old belief, that never seems to die, is that Navy food is lousy. That’s never been my experience, and from the looks of the menu, the selection in 1940 looked good. We both had omelets that were delicious. The meal cost us 95 cents each. We planned our day as we sipped our coffee. We both had the same objective – research. Although our house came equipped with the latest edition of Encyclopedia Britannica, we knew we needed more in-depth knowledge about the state of science and engineering if we were ever going to figure out a way back to the wormhole and back to 2016. We figured that the New York Public Library would be a great place to do our research. We returned to the house and changed into dress blue uniforms. Twenty-first century flight fatigues probably wouldn't cut it in 1940 Manhattan.
We took a cab to the New York Public Library on 42nd Street in Manhattan. The cab fare was unbelievably cheap, $1.95 flat fee from the Navy Yard to Midtown Manhattan.
Our driver took us over the Brooklyn Bridge and up Sixth Avenue (it hadn't yet been renamed Avenue of the Americas) to Bryant Park, where we made a right on 40th Street to the Library. Sixth Avenue looked totally different from what we knew in 2016. The first thing that struck us was the absence of the tall glass skyscrapers. It wasn't ugly, just different. The beautiful library hadn't changed much over the years. But what was missing was a computer room. To people used to Googling for information, we knew we had some old-fashioned brain work to do, starting with the Dewey Decimal System card catalog. Jack remembered how to use it. He once wrote, of course, an article about it.
We spent six hours in the reading room, and the time wasn't as productive as we'd hoped. Jack's a brilliant researcher and knows how to track down the most miniscule clues, but he couldn’t find anything. With my technical and engineering background, I don't think of myself as a jerk, but nothing made sense to me.
We folded our books, and went out to the curb to hail a cab back to the base. When we got into the cab, Jack said, “Please take us to 69th Street and Fifth Avenue.”
“What?” I said.
“Let’s take a look at our brownstone, the one we owned (will own?) 76 years from now.”
Some parts of Manhattan never change, and the block where Jack’s (our) brownstone was located looked almost the same in 1940 as it did in 2016. I’ll never forget the first time Jack showed me the building. It looked the same as the last time we were there two months before we left 2016. The linden trees in front of the building were smaller than I recalled, but, of course, trees grow. The brown sandstone that made up the facade of the place looked exactly as it did in 2016. I hoped the current owners were taking good care of our
house. It’s strange to feel nostalgia for something that hasn’t happened yet, but there’s nothing about time travel that isn’t strange.
We got back into the cab and told the driver to head for the base. Jack changed the subject from our brownstone to our day of library research.
“We're going to need help, Ashley, it's as simple as that. There has to be somebody, some scientist or engineer, who knows something about digital technology. Even though we can't expect to find somebody who knows about Black Boxes, there has to be somebody who knows how to retrieve data.”
“Your lips to God's ears, honey,” I said.
Chapter 21
“Good morning, Mrs. Tanner. May I have a moment of your time?”
“And who, sir, may I ask, are you?” said Sylvia Tanner in slightly accented English.
“My name is Phil Townsend, the Deputy Charge’ d’Affaires to Germany. I've been asked to contact you by United States Senator Jerome Magnussen, on the specific request of your son, Admiral Dwight Tanner.”
“Please come in, Mr. Townsend. Do you know if you've been seen coming here?”
“Do you mean by the Gestapo?” Townsend said.
“Of course, who else, unless Hitler has come up with a fresh group of thugs to make people’s lives miserable?”
“In answer to your question, Mrs. Tanner, yes, I'm sure I've been seen, since there's no way to avoid it these days.”
“So what does this mean, Mr. Townsend? You think you've been seen by the Gestapo coming to my house, you, a man with the American Embassy. Will it mean trouble for me?”
“That's why I'm here, Mrs. Tanner. At the request of your son I'm here to get you out of this country. I'm here to get you out as soon as humanly possible. It could mean your life...or death.”
“You exaggerate, my young friend,” said Mrs. Tanner. “These brown-shirted shlemiels are bullies, but I don't think they would be interested in hurting a harmless old lady like me. Do you?”
“Yes, I do, Mrs. Tanner. You're a Jew. That fact, and that fact alone, makes you a target for these people.”
“Please call me Sylvia, young man. All of this ‘Mrs. Tanner’ talk makes me feel even older than I am.”
“Of course, please call me Phil. How soon can you be ready to travel, Sylvia?”
“I don't have many possessions, but I do own some stocks and bonds which I'll leave to my wonderful son, Ike, and his lovely wife. All the junk you see here is just that, junk. I'll give it all to Rabbi Abelson, my good friend from the synagogue. One, maybe two suitcases is all I need.”
Townsend winced when he imagined what would likely become of this Rabbi Abelson fellow.
“So where are you taking me, young Phil?”
“First to Paris, then to New York. As you’re probably aware, Admiral Tanner has a huge home as Commandant of the Brooklyn Navy Yard. He's communicated that you're welcome to move in with him and his wife.”
“Oy vey. Move in with my son? He's a mensch, and his wife is a lovely shiksa lady, but I'm too old to be a burden. I'll find a nice apartment. So when do you want me to be ready, young Phil?”
“I was thinking about right now, Sylvia. I'll help you pack. I have some colleagues from the embassy waiting in the car outside to help us.”
“What's the big rush?”
“I imagine that's what the Prime Minister of Czechoslovakia asked Hitler two years ago.”
“That doesn't sound good.”
“No it doesn't. Let's go, we have some packing to do. And Sylvia, please try not to speak Yiddish.”
“Yiddish? What Yiddish?”
“Well, words like mensch, shiksa, and shlemiel.”
“Oy vey.”
“That too.”
“I have a fake passport for you. Your name is now Mary Murphy, and you’re an Irish lady from Dublin. Try not to speak at all, unless you can imitate an Irish brogue. I don't want you sounding like Sylvia from Brooklyn. These Nazis are insane. We can’t take any chances of them finding out that you’re Jewish.”
“You're a nice boy, young Phil. I will listen to you.”
“Oh, and Sylvia, I mean Mary,”
“Yes, what now?”
“Thank you for calling me ‘young Phil.’ I'm 48 years old.”
“Forty-eight is young, young Phil.”
Chapter 22
The phone is ringing and I cannot believe that I'm running to answer it. There should be a bunch of cordless phones all over the place like normal. But what's normal for a time traveler?
“Admiral Patterson speaking, may I help you?”
“Ashley, it's Margie Tanner. What are you and Jack doing today?”
“We were planning to go back to the New York Public Library to scratch our heads and do more research, but mainly to scratch our heads.”
“How's this for a great idea?” said Margie. “Let's the three of us go to the World's Fair in Flushing Meadows. Ike is in Washington today and I don't have classes at the university. The Fair is scheduled to close soon and we need to come up with some ideas for you and Jack. I can't think of a better place. How about I pick you up in a half hour?”
I yelled to Jack, who was upstairs. Normally I would just walk up to him with the phone, but the cord is only three feet long. I miss 2016.
“Jack says it's fine by him, Margie. See you in a half hour.”
Chapter 23
Thursday, October 24, 1940 was a delightful autumn day, a perfect day to visit a fair. Jack and I wore civilian clothes that we bought at the Navy Exchange. Jack wore a pair of gray pants (price $1.15) and a navy blazer (price $2.98), making him look like a preppy in any century. I wore a light pink sweater ($2.35) over a blue blouse ($1.95) and a skirt ($3.25), below my knees of course. I also bought a pair of brown leather loafers ($3.75).
Margie pulled up in a shiny 1930 Model A Ford convertible. It was pale green and had full white wall tires.
“How do you like my baby?” asked Margie.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, “but you only have one passenger seat.”
Margie got out of the car, walked to the back and pulled up a rumble seat. I jumped in.
“Where did you get this thing?” asked Jack.
“It used to belong to Admiral John White, Ike’s predecessor at the base. He was transferred to the Pacific so we bought it from him. We’re going to the World’s Fair in style.”
“I don't know if today will be productive for you folks,” said Margie, “but I can only promise that it will be a lot of fun. Jack can probably find enough material for a new book.”
“I'd like to have it published with the title, How We Found the Wormhole Back to 2016,” said Jack.
Margie pulled into the parking lot of the World’s Fair and we walked to the entrance gate. My old tour guide days came back to me. I had studied the 1939 World's Fair to add some historical interest to my guided talks. Both Jack and I stopped short as we approached the New York City Building, the same structure that still exists in our time as the Queens Museum.
“I feel like we've stepped back in time,” I said.
“Well, that's exactly what we've done,” said Jack with a laugh.
Margie, our non-time traveling time travel expert, was like a little kid around us. As a historian, she saw in us the ability to learn history in real time.
“This building,” I said, my tour guide voice coming back to me in full throat, “was – or rather will be, the site of the first General Assembly of the United Nations from 1946 to 1950. The building has gone through a lot of changes over the years. I remember my parents telling me that they came to this building to go roller skating in the 1950s.”
“United Nations?” asked Margie.
“That's an organization founded after the coming war that tried to keep peace in the world.”
“Did it work?” asked Margie.
“That's a debatable point,” said Jack. “As of 2016 we haven't had another World War, but there's more than enough mayhem in the world. Here in 194
0, you're familiar with sabotage and guerilla warfare, but in 2016 we have a little problem with a thing called global terrorism, groups of radical Islamic religious fanatics who have declared war on the West. As anyone in the United Nations knows, they're impossible to negotiate with.”
“But what about Hitler and the Nazis,” said Margie, “not to mention the militarists in Japan? If the past two years is any indication, they aren't agreeable to negotiations either. Just ask Neville Chamberlain.”
“The world is just as crazy as it ever was in 2016, Margie,” I said. “The big difference is that in our time both the good guys and the bad guys have the weapons technology to blow ourselves up as never before. At least the United Nations gives actual governments a place to sit down and talk. Of course, terrorists have no government, so they're on the outside looking in. Actually they’re on the outside throwing bombs.”
“Terrorism wasn't invented in the 21st Century,” said Jack. “Right there in front of us is the British Pavilion. Three months from now, on July 4, 1940, a time bomb will explode after two police officers removed it from the pavilion. They were both killed. It was obviously an act of terrorism, but the case was never solved. Suspicions centered on Nazis, but there was no hard evidence. I want to figure out a way to warn those cops.”
***
“Come on,” said Margie. “I want to show you folks some of our newest technology, although you probably won't think of it with that word.”
We walked down the Avenue of Patriots and came upon the AT&T Pavilion. We agreed it would be a good place to start. We lingered in front of a Bell Labs invention called the Voder, a voice synthesizing machine. The electronic voice that came out sounded like a cheap science fiction movie soundtrack.
“In our day, Margie, synthetic human voices are so common we don’t give it a thought. From a telephone answering service to a supermarket, computerized voices were all around us.”
Box Set - The Time Magnet Series Page 60