“Ashley,” Jack said as he reached across the table and squeezed my hand, “I love you. We’ll figure out a way to make this happen.”
“How?”
“We have one big thing going for us. We have the Black Box.”
“And we have each other,” I said.
Chapter 46
Jack got up to refill our coffee cups. But first he walked over to my side of the table, leaned over and kissed me, a long lingering kiss. My mood may be glum, but a kiss from Jack can light up the night, not to mention the cloudiness. I got up and wrapped my arms around his neck. We stood there making out like a couple of teenagers, a couple of scared, lost, confused teenagers.
The doorbell rang, interrupting our smooch.
I went to answer the door while Jack went to the kitchen to refill our coffee cups.
I opened the door, and there stood a tall man wearing the uniform of a Navy commander. I’m not one given to fainting spells, but I came close.
“Buster,” I mumbled, trying to find words, “what the hell are you doing here in 1940?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing, Ashley.”
I gave him a hug, grabbed him by the sleeve, and almost dragged him into the den. Jack had his back to us, busying himself with the coffee.
“Turn around, Jack, but put down the coffee first. I don’t want you to burn yourself.”
“Buster!” Jack shouted, “Fucking Buster!” Jack seldom, if ever, cusses, but he was as shocked as I was.
“Was I supposed to bring my own coffee?” said Buster with a smile, trying to lighten the mood. It didn’t work.
CIA agent Gamal Akhbar, aka “Buster,” is one of the more amazing people I’ve ever met. He was intricately involved in the operations to stop the nuclear attacks on the American ships (including my own) and also the planned terrorist attacks on five American cities on Thanksgiving Day, 2015. He was the leader of The Thanksgiving Gang, the group of people, including Jack, who thwarted the attacks. Buster’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever encountered, and he makes decisions, good decisions, with the speed of light. He also has a charming, if alarming, way of showing up unexpected, such as today. Buster’s a good man, and a good friend. Just seeing the guy gave me hope. With Buster on your side, all sorts of things are possible
“Okay,” said Jack, “if I give you some coffee will you tell us why you’re here, not to mention how you got here.”
“Throw in one of those bagels and I’ll tell you everything. I’m famished.”
***
“Buster, hon,” I said, “please start by telling us how the hell you got here. And if you tell me I don’t have a need to know I shall pour this pot of hot coffee over your head.”
“Ashley, Jack, I don’t know if you realize how much importance the government places on you two. On direct orders from the Director of the CIA, who got his orders from the White House, I was told to tail you on your public relations adventure. We had intercepted a lot of radio chatter and were worried that al Qaeda may have had plans for you, before or after you landed at LaGuardia. My mission, as usual, was Top Secret. Even your escorts didn’t know about me, although they were aware of my plane.”
“But Jack and I have been here for over two weeks. Why are you just showing up now?”
“I’ve been under friendly detention by a group of security people who wanted to find everything out about me as they could. They seemed to know a lot about you and Jack.”
“Speaking of airplanes,” I said, looking at his uniform with aviator’s wings on his chest, “since when did you learn to fly, and what the hell are you doing in a Navy uniform, if you don’t mind me asking, commander?”
“No, this isn’t one of my spy costumes. I really am a commander in the Naval Reserve. I got my flight wings about 10 years ago. Of course, you folks didn’t know about those things.”
“Let me guess,” said Jack, as both he and I shouted out in unison, “we didn’t have a need to know.”
“Hey,” said Buster, “you guys are getting the hang of this spy stuff.”
“So,” he continued, “my job was to tail you and make sure you were safe. I realized as quickly as you that we hit that wormhole off New Jersey. I followed you on your aerial tour of New York City, and assumed that you were trying to figure out what year we were all in. It was tricky flying directly behind you so you wouldn’t see me. When I saw the Trylon and Perisphere I realized it was the World’s Fair of 1939. I didn’t follow you into LaGuardia but pulled off and flew to an airstrip in New Jersey that was covertly run by the OSS, the Office of Strategic Services, the predecessor to the CIA. The OSS won’t be officially formed until 1942, but the planning operations are well under way. I had some explaining to do, just as you guys did. I’m not sure the interrogators bought my story about time travel, but they couldn’t come up with another explanation after they looked at the F-18. After three days of interrogating me, and a total of 16 days of detention, I was convinced that they saw me as a genuine spook. I have no idea how they realized that.”
Jack and I laughed.
“But how did you get on base?” asked Jack. “Your ID information puts you in 2016.”
“Security around this place,” said Buster, “if you want to call it that, is a joke. I just drove my car (loaned to me by the OSS) up to the gate and introduced myself as Commander Atkins. The guy just saluted and waved me on.”
“Atkins?” both Jack and I asked.
“Yeah, Commander Charles Atkins, aka Gamal Akhbar, aka, good old me, Buster. Now, if you don’t mind me asking, what’s been going on with you two for the past few weeks?”
Jack and I brought Buster up to date about our reception at LaGuardia, our friendship with Admiral Ike and Margie, our meeting with Nigel Blake, and of course, our amazing encounter with President Franklin Roosevelt.
“I met Admiral Tanner yesterday. He’s a good man. He even found me a place to stay a couple of blocks from here. I asked him not to tell you about me because I wanted to surprise you.”
“Here’s our situation, Buster; mine, Jack’s, and yours. We all came through a wormhole, and we don’t know its location. Without a location, we can’t find the portal to return home. And, Franklin Roosevelt doesn’t seem too concerned about that. He just wants to use the F-18 to reengineer it into a new type of jet. He’s appointed me chief consultant for the job, and Jack as the project’s historian. He even promoted Jack to captain.”
“I suppose,” said Buster, “that it would sound insubordinate of me to say that the President is acting like a jerk. He’s basically telling you folks to relocate to the 1940s.”
“And unless we can figure out a way to get to the wormhole,” I said, “you’re going to have a new permanent mailing address as well.”
Chapter 47
“Ashley, I have a big concern,” said Jack as he refilled our coffee cups. “We’re talking about you disobeying a direct, I emphasize direct, order of the President of the United States.”
“I know,” I said, “That’s the problem. Roosevelt wants me to honcho this crazy weapons project.”
“No,” Jack yelled, “wrong President.”
“What?” Both Buster and I looked at Jack.
“President Barack Obama called you the day before we took off on our flight. You put me on speakerphone, and I remember exactly what he told you. ‘Admiral Patterson, you and Jack come home safe.’ That sounds like a direct order to me. ‘Come home safe.’ So to the extent we find a way to get the hell out of here, you’re only following orders from the Commander in Chief, our Commander in Chief in 2016.”
“Cute,” said Buster, “but Roosevelt, as president in 1940, has a lot of power behind him. You at least have to go through the motions.”
“Dammit,” I said as I slammed my hand down on the table. I was angry. I don’t like to get angry, but I was. “We’ve done our job, we’ve already done it. We’ve warned our government, including the President of the United States himself, about what
’s coming our way – war. We, meaning Jack, myself, and you Buster, can’t do a goddam thing about it. Jack and I gave our warning. We’re done. I refuse to sacrifice what may be the balance of all of our lives to head up some stupid weapons development project that probably won’t work. If it does work, it won’t happen until World War II is long over. And another thing is this: Jack, you, me – none of us have been born yet. I say we get the hell out of here as fast as we can. Anybody disagree?”
“Agreed,” both Jack and Buster said at the same time.
“But now for one minor detail,” Buster said.
“How?”
Chapter 48
Kurt Schweitzer here.
The Kissena Tool Shop, owned by Hanse Jurgen, is located on Kissena Boulevard in the Flushing section of Queens, New York City. The place is nondescript, as you would expect of a tool shop. It had no storefront, just concrete walls with doors and high windows.
“Good morning, Hanse,” I said to the proprietor.
“Heil Hitler!” shouted Hanse as he raised his arm in the Fuehrer salute.
“Damn it, my friend. I’ve told you not to do that. I applaud your patriotism and dedication to National Socialism, but we do not want to get in the habit of making ourselves obvious.”
“Here are the photographs that I told you about, Hanse.”
I spread over two dozen photos on a work table. Jurgen put a jeweler’s lens to his eye and studied them. He poured over the photos for about 20 minutes.
“Do any of these fittings look familiar to you, Hanse?”
“No, Herr Schweitzer. I have never seen anything like it before. It will not be easy. But that’s what Hanse Jurgen is here for.”
Some people may think Jurgen is pompous and stubborn, but from past experience I know him to be determined, fanatically determined.
“Herr Schweitzer. When do you think the Fuehrer will stop delaying and declare war on the United States?”
“Hanse, my good man, don’t trouble yourself with matters that don’t concern you. The Fuehrer knows what he is doing. All I can tell you is this: something extremely big will happen soon.”
“I will stop back in a week to check on your progress, Hanse.”
“Heil Hitler,” said Jurgen as he snapped to attention.
“Hanse, please. ‘See you next week’ will do just fine.”
Chapter 49
Saturday, November 16, 1940, was a beautiful fall day, although November can seldom be described as a month of beauty. The leaves were mostly fallen, leaving a crunchy yellow and crimson carpet, and the trees took on that bleak grayish brown late autumn look. But that day saw almost perfect weather. The temperature at 8 AM was 55 degrees and the wind was calm. Jack and I just showered after our morning run around the base. We decided that the day would be one of relaxation, a break from our endless meetings with our friend Buster.
“Hey, let’s be tourists,” I said.
“Sounds good. Where to, my favorite tour guide?”
“I want to take you to the place where I grew up, Whitestone, Queens.”
Buster, the amazing spook, had gotten us fake driver’s licenses so we didn’t have to rely on a Navy driver. How Buster could time travel 76 years and manage to find a contact for phony identification is beyond me. Of course I asked him how he did it. I got the usual response. “You don’t have a need to know.”
Jack and I got into our Navy issued car and set forth on our journey to the place of my youth. Of course we wouldn’t be visiting the place where I actually grew up – I won’t be born until 1977, 37 years from now. Time travel makes for strange thinking.
Whitestone, in the northern part of the New York City borough of Queens, looks more suburban than a part of the city. It sits on the East River, connected to the Borough of the Bronx by the Bronx-Whitestone Bridge. Our first stop was the bridge itself. The span crosses over Francis Lewis Park, named after a signer of the Declaration of Independence, Whitestone’s most prominent resident. It looked a lot like the park I recalled as a kid. The bridge was built in 1939, just over a year ago (from 1940 that is). Directly under the bridge was a playground and a basketball court, the place where I learned to play the game. I heard the cars passing overhead, especially as they made a “clacking” sound when they drove over an expansion grate on the roadway, the exact sound I recall from my teenage days shooting hoops. We walked onto the court and noticed a rack with basketballs. I challenged Jack to a game of “21.” I imagined myself at age 14, 25 years in the past (or was it 51 years into the future?).
Jack won, 21 to 18. I attributed Jack’s win to his height advantage.
It was around noon, and we were both hungry after our pick-up basketball game. I wanted to show Jack the most amazing view in Whitestone. We drove to the corner of 14th Avenue and 154th Street and parked on the street. This was the business district of Whitestone, known among us locals as “the Village.” A luncheonette took up the entire corner, different from my childhood recollection. I think it was a stationery store then. As we got out of the car I pointed west. The Empire State Building, on the other side of the East River, stood in the distance in all its architectural glory, framed by the stores and trees along 14th Avenue.
We walked into the luncheonette and were seated by a window. As we looked at the menu, we heard a commotion outside. A crowd began to form, a crowd of people who looked like they were in shock. Some were screaming, some crying. Jack and I got up and hurried outside.
We took in a sight that we’ll never forget. Explosions ripped through the Empire State Building, starting at the upper floors, and repeating downward. We could see the explosions on the side facing us and on each of the other sides. I counted eight multiple explosions in total. Exactly one minute after the final set of blasts, the building began to crumble vertically toward the earth, just as the twin towers did on 9/11. It’s difficult to describe the emotions I felt, although I’m sure it was the same range of fear, anger, and awe that the 9/11 witnesses felt.
Jack and I stared into each other’s eyes.
“This didn’t happen,” said Jack, “this never happened. Are we watching a new history of the world in front of our eyes?”
Time travel is a bizarre phenomenon, take it from me. But it follows rules. When you go to the past, as Jack and I had done before, you already know the history of what happened, and what will happen. If that’s a rule, then we just witnessed the impossible. We would have known about this; we should have known about this. But we didn’t. If the rules have changed, then there are no rules. We knew the history of the world up to 2016, the year we came from. That history did not include the destruction of the Empire State Building.
“We have to get back to the base, Jack. We have to find Buster, Ike Tanner, somebody, anybody who can help us understand what we just saw.”
Our trip to the Brooklyn Navy Yard should have taken about 35 minutes. Because of the traffic caused by the disaster, we arrived at the base seven hours later, in the dark, at 7:30 PM. After hours of listening to news reports on the car radio, we knew little more than what we had seen. Nineteen-forty is a time before cable news and instant reporting.
But Jack and I had seen all we needed to see, an event that never happened. But it did.
Chapter 50
As soon as we drove up to the security gate on the base, I asked where we could find Admiral Tanner. The guard told us that he was in his office, and that he was expecting us.
Tanner’s office was not chaotic as I expected, perhaps because the people there were numbed by the event of seven hours ago. Ike was there, along with Margie and his mother Sylvia. Buster, as we expected, was sitting in a corner on the phone. Tanner’s aide was there as well. They all seemed happy to see us. They all seemed happy to be alive.
Jack and I filled them in on what we saw from our personal viewing spot on 14th Avenue in Whitestone.
Buster hung up the phone. After seven hours of empty radio journalism, usually ending in the reporter saying, “the i
nvestigation continues,” we were almost numbed to anything like another news report. But Buster isn’t a reporter; he’s a spy.
“The bomb planting was an inside job,” said Buster. “Eight members of the building maintenance crew are in custody. One has apparently confessed. They used TNT.”
“Who? What group? Any leads?” asked Admiral Ike. “Was it the Nazis, anarchists, communists?”
“Nothing solid yet,” said Buster. “Actually, nothing at all. Of course they’ve just started to interrogate the suspects. The guy who confessed said he was paid to do the job by a man whose name he didn’t know. He said each of them was paid $100,000, which is a pretty hefty sum in 1940. Not one of the eight arrested had a Germanic surname. This was a major operation, and a secret one.”
“But with all of those suspects in custody, it should be no time before somebody spits out the details,” said Ike.
“I wish I could agree with you, admiral,” said Buster, “but I know a bit about covert operations. If you have three or four layers of operatives, with enough money to throw around, the source of the money is hard to trace. These suspects will probably be telling the truth when they say they knew nothing about the management of the operation. In our day, in 2016, we have a vast network of insiders, spies like me, who work directly with the bad guys. From what I’ve heard, the level of intelligence and espionage in 1940 isn’t prepared for an operation like this.”
Buster walked to the front of the room and put his hands on his hips.
Box Set - The Time Magnet Series Page 65