by Larry Hunt
Chapter Eleven
PEGASUS IS ABOUT TO RIDE
Captain Scarburg was, “locked and loaded.” The safety harness had been securely strapped into place; his helmet was snug and fastened. The internal headset was working perfectly. Mr. Rousseau had been relaying all the ‘flight’ countdown information and all steps seem to be progressing on schedule.
A few seconds before ‘launch’ Mr. Watkins via the intercom quickly warned the Captain about the setting on the internal flight computers. In addition to his job as Chief, Flight Prep Crew, he was the man who prepared and input the GPS coordinates to the on board computers. He told the Captain he was to land at 12:29:30 p.m. Friday November 22, 1963. Thirty seconds before the Kennedy assassination, but, it was critical, under no circumstances could he miss the 12:29:30 p.m. Saturday November 23, 1963 departure window. “It is impossible to re-set your computers on site - they have to be synchronized with our master computer here within our lab to the exact micro-second - miss the date, and the exit window shuts and I mean, for good. Not only does the window shut, but also Pegasus will disappear and may be gone forever. Where will it go? Your guess is as good as mine.” He further said, “If, for some reason, you are not in Pegasus and miss the return flight, you will live in a world forty-nine years earlier than the present, but your age will still be the same as your age is today. Your age clock does not get turned back. If you get back to the present, you will be over a hundred years old!! Don’t miss that departure Captain Scarburg!”
Over the intercom, the Captain heard the Flight Director, “Six - Five - Four - Three - Two - One. Molecular separation sequences begin...”
Captain Scarburg felt nothing... no movement... no noise on the intercom... nothing; except he was experiencing a slight tingling sensation. “By-ned’ (the Captain’s usual swear word), this darn thing, didn’t work again. Another billion dollars of good ole American taxpayer’s hard earned money shot up a wild hog’s rear end. Hey Rousseau, can you hear me? What is happening? Did something go wrong? Rousseau? Rousseau you there?” He yelled into the headset.
The four inch thick porthole located directly in his front was smoky. He could not see out. “Rousseau? Watkins? I see smoke... is everything okay? Is Pegasus on fire? Someone talk to me... what’s happening.”
DEEP IN A COW PASTURE IN THE HEART OF TEXAS
Suddenly there was a bright flash of white light. Later the Captain would say it reminded him of a thousand flashes of lightening going off at the same time. That was the last thing he saw - he blacked out. How long he was out he did not know. When he awoke the bright light was gone, the tingling sensation had stopped, and the smoke or fog was beginning to disappear from the porthole, but something was wrong. Everything seemed tilted. He felt as if he were sitting on the side of a steep hill. Oh, I was afraid of this - this shift in the space/time continuum has caused a blood vessel to pop inside my head - I’m having a stroke! I must get out, get out, he thought. I only have a few seconds to disrupt the potential assassin. Got to get this hatch open and get out onto the roof! Looking around the inside of the interior nothing was in color - it was as if he were watching a black and white movie. What’s happening? What’s wrong with my eyes? A stroke, yes, that must be it, a stroke. And what is that sound... it’s music... not exceptionally loud, but yes that IS music... say I recognize the song... I’ve heard that before... listen... listen... yes that’s... that’s “Amazing Grace.” Where in the world is that music coming from? By the time the Captain had recognized the soft sounding, beautiful song the bagpipes and drums abruptly stopped.
Flipping the “OPEN” switch the hatch automatically swung wide open, “What the...,” he said out loud as he surveyed the landscape. “This sure isn’t the roof-top of the Texas State Book Depository!”
The time was... was... well Captain Scarburg honestly did not know.
The sight that greeted him was one of trees, grass, dirt, a number of old pumped out oil wells and cows. Dozens of cows with white faces, well, he thought, they looked white, and he was sure they were cows. In fact, he had stepped from Pegasus down to the ground into a fresh pile of cow manure. By-ned - got this contraption finally to work, and I’m still in deep do-do!! Not only am I in a pasture full of cow dung I landed on a tree stump - that’s what caused the tilted feeling inside.
Taking a 360-degree look around he could see nothing - well there were cows and old oil wells, trees and two small ponds, which appeared to be built by beavers. No signs of life, or a house of any kind. With the exception of an old, dilapidated, barn-looking structure, a few hundred feet off toward the north, there was nothing else. I Wonder where I am? He thought. Remembering one of the dials inside the time machine was a GPS indicator he reasoned it would be a good idea to check it out. Before moving he removed his digital camera from his pocket, and snapped a couple of pictures. He had to prove to that genius Ryan Rousseau his computer program was off just a tad.
Searching the sparse winter ground, he found a clump of grass and attempted to remove as much cow manure from his boot as possible, without much success. The five-minute time limit on the hatch closing was about to expire. This forced him to abandon the effort to clean his boot for the moment and climb back inside his traveling abode. Once safely inside he searched the instruments for the GPS dial. Oh yeah, here you are, he said to himself. The reading on the dial was 32 degrees, 64 minutes, 47 seconds North, 96 degrees, 48 minutes, 30 seconds West. That’s not right... no, something is wrong... I have the coordinates written down on a piece of paper in my pocket just for safekeeping, he thought, wiping his boot on a white towel embossed with the letters S.C.A.R. Before finding the information on his note pad, he tossed the soiled towel over into a corner of Pegasus’ flight deck.
Withdrawing the scrap of paper, yes, here it is. The numbers written were 32 degrees, 46 minutes, 47 seconds North 96 degrees, 48 minutes, 30 seconds West. The 46 minutes had been changed to 64 minutes, slight difference in numbers but a long distance in miles. Where in the blazes am I? I must be in Texas it’s too darn flat and full of cows and oil pumps to be anywhere else. But, which way do I go, and by-ned I’ve, probably, missed the shooter on the roof!
Pressing the interior hatch release button there was a swishing noise suggestive of escaping air. The hatch swung open, and the Captain slipped out once again to the grass and dirt. In his hand, he carried his old Army Model 1911 .45 automatic pistol with him. Originally, when the concept of time travel had been discussed SCAR made a draft of rules that time adventurers should observe - one was no modern firearm would be transported back in time. It was too dangerous - the modern ballistic technology could fall into the wrong hands. The Captain knew this rule, but chose to ignore it. He reasoned he might have use of a gun on the roof to dissuade the shooter if need be. Now he needed to hide it. The hatch on Pegasus had closed, and he couldn’t be discovered walking around with a loaded handgun in his pocket. He walked over to a nearby tree and sat down. He leaned back; resting his back against the rough bark he pondered his situation. Okay, he thought to himself, I’ve got a few things to figure out. Where am I? And, which direction do I go to get out of here? And most importantly why was the GPS setting wrong? I wonder if this is the 22nd day of November? It might be, but in what year? He looked as his calendar watch, but of course, it was useless the time was 2:30. The date was 21, and the month was November. His watch was still on the time and date when he left, and besides the crystal was cracked and broken, and the watch was not running. Today was supposed to be November 22nd and the time should be around 12:30... or was it?
Thinking, he tried to analyze the GPS data carefully. Let me think now. If 32 degrees, 46 minutes, 47 seconds North 96 degrees, 48 minutes, 30 seconds West, is Dallas, then that would make 32 degrees, 64 minutes, 47 seconds North north of Dallas. How much? Then 64 minutes minus 46 minutes means I am 18 minutes north of Dallas. If I remember correctly back to my old Army days a minute of latitude, was roughly 1 to 2 miles at 32 degrees latitude
. So 64 minutes minus 46 minutes equal 18. So I guess I am somewhere roughly 20 to 40 miles north of Dallas. Hmmm... I didn’t miss the Texas School Book Depository rooftop much! But on the bright side - at least I AM here...I just don’t know where HERE is. Captain Scarburg didn’t know at the time, but Pegasus had plopped itself down in a cow pasture a mile or two northwest of the little Texas town of Celina. Celina was exactly 42 miles north-northwest of Dallas.
All right, now that I know I have to go south my only two questions are ‘which way is south? And ‘how do I get there?’ No sooner had that thought crossed his mind, when he heard what he thought was the sound of an automobile, out of sight over the distant horizon. The trees obscured his view, but if it were a car he heard there must be a road leading to civilization also.
After his reverie against the tree, he got to his feet, discovered a squirrel hole about waist high in the trunk of the tree and hid his automatic pistol inside. He then began breaking the limbs off some small brush growing nearby and covered the Pegasus vehicle, so it would go unnoticed sitting in the grove of cottonwood trees. Everything else was going wrong; he figured Pegasus might not disappear in its allotted five-minute time frame. It was supposed to become invisible five minutes after ‘landing’ but without a watch he figured five minutes had long passed, and the machine was still sitting there in its stainless steel splendor. He was so confused he did not know what would happen next. Dusting off his pants he left Pegasus sitting alone in the pasture, and began walking in the direction of the automobile sounds.
Looking up into the cloudless, blue sky the Captain noticed the sun was off his right shoulder. If it’s roughly 1:00 p.m., then a sun on my right means I am walking south. Good maybe I’ll find that road reasonably soon. The stroll turned into a hike and the hike soon became tiring as the Captain trudged through the tall sagebrush, tumbleweed and grass, but no road was to be found.