Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience. THE MYSTERY OF FLIGHT TEN-SEVENTY (Chapter 2) By KATZMAREK --------------------------------------------------- AUTHOR'S NOTE This is a work of fiction. It remains my property and must not be used for gain without my permission in writing. --------------------------------------------------- "'Berlin, 16th July 2006,' the newspaper said, 'Fiery crash of German Boeing into the Gulf of Mexico'." "Fiery?" asked NTSB investigator, Ben Sherman, of his German colleague. The investigator from the German equivalent of the NTSB, Ari Ramcke, shrugged in embarrassment as he continued to translate the Berlin newspaper for Ben's benefit. "There's no evidence of fire!" Ben shook his head. "I know," the German continued, "'could this be another attack by Al-Qaeda?'" "Aw shit! I guess I saw that coming," Ben commented. The German managed a wry grin. "It continues, '6 believed dead in death plunge after aircraft disappeared from radar screens. An unofficial spokesman from the US Government suggested the plane was brought down by a shoulder-launched missile'." "Really?" said Ben, "that would sure be a lucky shot at 20,000 feet!" "The 'spokesman,' no doubt, was based in the newspaper's editorial office," said Ari, "they do that kind of thing all the time." "Oh, everywhere," agreed Ben, "there's been no official Government statement at present. Of course everything's still on the table, but some theories are less likely than others." "Can you discount terrorism?" asked the German, rhetorically, "I think not, it seems to me. A bomb may've been smuggled on board at Rotterdam? You know, the Dutch think they have good security at their airports but..." "We all think we have good security," mused Ben, "but the truth is, nowhere is 100% safe. We need to compare 1070's takeoff weight from Rotterdam with the cargo manifest. Then we must go through each item of cargo to ensure 1070 wasn't carrying anything hazardous. I think that should be the place to start, the nature of 1070's cargo. Would you like to get started with that, sir?" Ari nodded. "Any progress with the black box?" "The wreck is down 8 fathoms. It'll take the Navy a couple of days to get their diving team assembled. Helluva job, diving on a wreck like that. They'd probably have to send down an RSV for a couple of hours to do a survey. We should know more by Thursday." "The crew?" "Still in the wreck, as far as we know," Ben shrugged, "apart from the second officer of the relief crew. Strange he should be thrown out like that, with little evidence of trauma to the body. You'd think he'd be busted up some." "You have a preliminary autopsy report?" "Yeah, now there's another weird thing." "What?" "It looks like he died from drowning. Obviously he survived impact, it don't seem possible." "There must be some mistake. Perhaps your medical examiners missed something?" "Well, you're welcome to have your own people take a look," Ben told Ari. He was slightly irritated at the German investigator's insinuation that somehow American medical examiners were incompetent. "We will, of course!" Ari replied. Ben hoped the investigation would be swift. ---------------------------------------------- Meanwhile, Bobby McClone, Search Co-ordinator, was winding down his part of the operation. From now on, they'd be into the recovery phase and a whole new bunch of specialists would be taking over. Navy divers and ocean floor retrieval people, forensics, aviation structural, electronic and engine technicians and the august investigators from the NTSB will shortly be swamping the place. He felt some sadness at letting go of 1070. It had been his baby and he felt a strange kind of ownership of the aircraft and its crew. His final responsibility was the security of the crash site. The Coast Guard had provided a number of cutters and he'd organised some of the National Guardsmen to patrol along the coast. He didn't want any of the rubberneckers, who'd turned out, to souvenir any wreckage that might have come ashore. McClone had learned to fly in the Texas Air National Guard. He'd qualified to the second seat on C-130s before a previously undiagnosed heart murmur grounded him. He couldn't let go of flying, however, he'd well and truly caught the bug. So, upon discharge from the TANG, he applied to the FAA to be an Air Traffic Controller. He felt an affinity with the crew of that German Boeing, maybe a little jealousy? They'd been doing what he'd wanted to do his whole life. The army had erected a number of tents on the beach opposite the crash site. Some communication gear had been installed and the little camp served as search headquarters. On the morning of the 16th, Bobby arrived at HQ to find a small crowd gathered by the rope barrier. There were a number of nutcases, sure, and a few more spectators. Most, however, appeared to be good citizens offering to help in some way. "Hey!" a man, who appeared to be in his 60s or 70s, called out, "hey!" Bobby smiled at him as he hurried from his truck. Just as the guard let McClone through, the old man called out again, "you found them crew yet?" "Just the one," he answered the man, "we'll get them home, sir, don't you worry." "Bet you won't," the man answered, "least not Reiner Kurzbach, Arnim Krauss and Jurgen Fuller." Bobby stopped in his tracks. He understood the names of the crew had not been released to the media yet. The man appeared to be Hispanic, was well dressed, and was clutching a business-type, black, leather briefcase. "Who are you?" McClone called. "Name's Raul," he said, "Raul Hernandez." "Let him through," Bobby told the guard, "I want to talk to him." ---------------------------------------- In late November, 1986, Burleigh Freight Forwarders had extensive operations out of Austin airport, Texas. It's depot building was a giant 'L' with the base line facing the passenger termini nearly a mile away. In front was BFF's tarmac, now with a huge 747 towering over it. The 747 was so big there was just enough room for one other aircraft, in this case a Lockheed Hercules. Should the Boeing remain there long, it would seriously hamper BFF's operations. Of more serious importance, however, was the attention it was attracting. 'Well,' thought Reiner Kurzbach, Captain, 'it was impossible to miss.' From the glass-fronted office area he saw the tall tail tower over the roof of the depot building. It was painted in a garish fashion seldom seen in 1986. It stood out like the only traffic light in some small hick town. It had taken a year of research and study by a design company to come up with the colour scheme and logo. The fusilage and wings were bright red with ACIS painted in large gold letters towards the forward section. The fin was gold with the company's emblem in black. That emblem was a dove with its wings spread. Between its claws was a globe featuring a map of the European Union in blue. Painted upon the base of the tailfin was the aircraft's registration letters, D-TTBB in black. A story had gained traction around the airport that this was a brand new prototype from Boeing undergoing route testing and it had been painted up in some bogus company's colours to divert attention. That Boeing should paint this supposedly highly secret prototype like a circus wagon appeared to defy logic. Yet a surprising number of people accepted the story. Raul Hernandez, BFF's Operations Officer, had organised strict security around the 747 but, ultimately, he knew he had to find somewhere to park it away from the public. Clear across the other side of the airport, Lomax J Cleeton III also noticed the brightly coloured 747. He was a local freelance photographer, ambulance chaser and airplane enthusiast. Occasionally he sold his work to a local aviation magazine called 'Air Spectator.' The editor of this magazine had heard rumours of a new 747 prototype at Austin and called Lomax to try and get some photos. Through the chain link fence, Lomax snapped off a roll of film using his telephoto lens. Through the viewfinder he could clearly see the registration code on the tail, D-TTBB. He made a note of it so he could check it out. Later, back at his apartment, he looked it up and found the code had been allocated the year before to a Dornier Skyservant owned by a small commuter airline based in Frankfurt, West Germany. It didn't make sense and his newshound's nose began to twitch. ----------------------------------------- Meanwhile, the surviving crew of 1070 sat in Raul's office discussing what their plan of action should be. Bob Garland from Seattle sat in, intrigued by the whole situation. Raul, himself, had to attend to business; specifically, the offloading of the company's Hercules. "We need to get the plane out of here," announced Captain Kurzbach, "soon US authorities will be taking an interest. We do not have any paperwork to show officials in 1986." "Yes," agreed Armin Krauss, "we cannot prove who we are in a way they will believe us. Then, should we convince them we are from 2006, what will happen then? We have direct knowledge of the next twenty years. I'd imagine we'd be an extremely important resource for the US government." Kurzbach managed a wry grin. "An understatement!" he agreed. "Everyone will want a piece of us," Jurgen Fuller also agreed. "Financial institutions, State Department, political parties... everyone will want to know their future. But can we do that? Honestly, can we play God with the lives of people like that? For instance, if we tell someone their time and manner of their death, they will change their future if they could, only natural. This is too much responsibility." "Should we prevent 9/11?" Armin asked, "would those terrorists then strike somewhere else, somewhere we could not predict? To us, those people are dead. But if we tip off the FBI, we may condemn others to die, others that would otherwise be alive in our time." "We cannot do this," proclaimed the Captain, "we must go back to our own time. The future... er... past, would be too monsterous!" "Well!" Bob Garland spoke up, "Boeing could sure use one of you in the Research and Development Department. Your knowledge of future trends in aviation..." "Again," Kurzbach interjected, "you ask us to change the normal order of things. To be fair, we would have to share our knowledge with your competitors, say Airbus." "The temptation to use us to gain an edge... surely you must see the dilemma?" Armin said. "Sure, sure," agreed Bob, "you would cost a few people their jobs... perhaps mine?" Just then, Raul Hernandez looked in. "We gotta get you folks out of here," he announced, "it's turning into a circus out there. I just had a call from Raytheon wanting to examine your cockpit. Boeing, too, called from Seattle. They want to send a man down. Word's getting around and it won't be long before the Feds show up. I can get you out of the airport, no problem. But that plane, Hell, where do you hide something that big?" "Have you got a shed at Austin big enough?" Bob asked, "we need to lock it away under guard." "Hmm, United have a large hangar down near the freeway from when they used to do maintenance here," Raul told them, "it's big, but I'm not sure the tail will go under the beam. They've been looking for a buyer for it for a year, but their asking price has been too high. No-one has any use for a shed that big." "Cut the beam if we have to?" suggested Garland, "then weld an archway. The tail only needs to get inside the building far enough to close the door. Is the shed empty?" "Yeah, United stripped everything out of it when they moved to Houston." "Can you rent it from the airline?" "Probably," Raul said, "but who's going to pay for it? And the alterations?" "What's the freight worth?" Bob asked Kurzbach. "You can't," exclaimed the Captain, "that's theft!" "It seems to me you were going to hand it over to Burleigh in any case. I doubt they're going to be able to find the recipients. Raul, what would the company do if you cannot deliver the goods? Or, say, you're not paid cartage and storage?" "We can seize the goods and sell it to cover our costs. But we'd have to put it under bond for three months in case of other legal claims." "Clearly there'll be no legal contest as the customers have not yet ordered their merchandise. You can do pretty much what you want with it, who's going to argue?" "Shoot, I can hear our lawyers screaming already. And head office? How the Hell do I explain all this without them thinking we're going to have our asses sued?" "Just sell one thing at a time, Raul, so nobody grows suspicious. A bit of creative paperwork, perhaps?" "I'm... I'm, not sure I can do that," Raul explained, "as the Captain said, it's technically theft. I ain't never done anything like that..." "The alternative is to inform the FBI, or the FAA. You want to try and explain this to them? And if you convince them, what then? What happens to these boys?" "This is liable to blow up in my face, I can feel it." "One thing at a time, Raul, let's just focus on getting that ship under wraps." "I guess," Raul replied, doubtfully. ----------------------------------------------- It was 5pm and BFF's day workers were going off shift. Some of the men stared curiously as three workers wearing company issue green boilersuits joined the queue by the time office. Few had seen these workers before, however, one or two *did* recognise them. They'd last seen them wearing sky blue jackets and peaked caps. But no-one said anything. The shift was over and they couldn't give a shit. Raul Hernandez waited for his guests in his F-100 crewcab. The Germans piled in quickly and Raul squealed out of the car park. "You will get in trouble for this?" suggested Kurzbach, concerned. Raul shrugged. "My Father and Mother arrived in the United States in a cattle truck, covered in shit. As a boy, I sometimes went with him to the border to pick up wetbacks. This feels like old times," he smiled. "Your Father was a people smuggler?" the Captain asked, in surprise. "Smuggle? No, the people'd already arrived in the United States. My Father merely gave them a lift to where they wanted to go. They were mostly from our village in Mexico, our neighbours," Raul explained. "Ach, I think I understand," Kurzbach replied, "my family was from the East, in what is now Poland. In 1945, towards the end of the Hitler war, my family fled before the Russians. My parents walked all the way to Frankfurt, to the Americans. It was a terrible time for them. When I was born, in 1953, there were still bombsites. But we, too, had to start a new life among strangers. My family had been landowners, you see, quite wealthy. They lost everything." "My grandfather was an American soldier," Fuller spoke up, "he and my grandmother went to America but Omi was homesick. They returned in the 1950s. It was not easy for him, he couldn't speak the language. Luckily, he was a carpenter. There was plenty of work for carpenters then. He stuck it out for Omi's sake, even though his home was America. He was from Dayton, Ohio." "You got family still there?" Raul asked. "Sure! Aunts, uncles, cousins." "You got a story, Armin?" Raul said. "I'm from the East," he told them, "from a small town. The Wall came down when I was only eight. I was due to go to Karl Marx Stadt Gymnasium in the next two years, I remember. I was looking forward to joining my sister there. I never made it. The steel mill closed the next year and my Father was out of a job. We had no money, so we left our house and went to Berlin looking for work. Papa eventually found a job in an auto plant, but it took him three years. Through that time we lived on relief, in a shitty tenement you wouldn't keep a dog in." "So you trained as a pilot? How'd your daddy afford that?" "By working his ass off doing 12 hour days, 6 days a week. He put both myself and my sister through University. In Germany, the State subsidises students, but, even so, he gave us all a comfortable life until we could pay our own way." "You guys married?" Raul asked. "Divorced!" Kurzbach answered. "Yes," replied Fuller, "we're expecting our first child." "No," Arnim said, "my girlfriend and I hoped we'd get married. But we split up a couple of months ago." "So, you into some good home cooking? My wife is Puerto Rican, best cook this side of the Rio Grande," he smiled, "but you must stay away from my daughters," he added, still smiling, "they're at *that* age, when anything in trousers..." "How many daughters have you?" Arnim asked. "Four, and no sons!" "Poor man!" Kurzbach shook his head. ---------------------------------------------- Bobby McClone felt he'd just met either the biggest looney of all time, or the most convincing confidence trickster. The man seemed amiable enough, though, and in all other ways genuine, but what he told Bobby sounded like a Hollywood script. Raul Hernandez was a sprightly 75 years old. He explained he retired fifteen years ago, an Operations Officer for an air freight company out of Austin. He said he retired before his time was up, due to some wise investments he'd made in stocks and bonds. Bobby concluded he must have made a fair amount of money from what he told him. He clutched his briefcase so tightly Bobby became uneasy. He began to wonder whether the man was carrying a bomb. McClone thought it wise to hear the man out unless he flipped. You can never be too careful these days. "It was November 1986," the man began to tell him, "and it was a busy time for our company. We had planes landing... you have no idea how hectic the freight business can become. Austin Tower called me to say an approaching aircraft was having some difficulty and wished to speak to me. We had a Herc coming in that day, later in the afternoon, and I thought it must have been ahead of schedual." "And was it? The flight you were expecting?" "Not ours," he smiled, "but another plane, a 747. I spoke to the pilot, he was German..." Raul paused for emphasis and watched Bobby for signs of a reaction. "He seemed agitated," Raul went on, "like he was under stress, having a real hard time." "So what did he want?" "Well, see, I was confused at first. His English was good, but he couldn't explain himself very well. He wanted us to fix his radar or something, but why he was talking to us I'd no idea. That, Mr. McClone, turned out to be Reiner Kurzbach!" "What? Twenty years ago? Ok, so he was flying 747s back then? You're telling me you knew the pilot of flight 1070? Well, I guess, I'm sorry, Raul, it must've been quite a shock. But how did you find out he was flying 1070? Did you still keep in touch?" "Now hold on," said Raul, holding up his hands, "let me continue?" Bobby nodded, thinking he was beginning to catch the drift. He was a friend of the pilot and wanted to share some memories. Sure, he guessed he had the time to hear the old man out. "The Second Officer came on next. He made a little more sense and asked us to contact the contractors. We said, 'sure,' but then he began some crazy talk," Raul chuckled, "tried to tell us Burleigh operated these 747s when I knew we didn't. Least ways, not then. We got some later on, but back then, we only had 4 Hercules, a Carvair and some DC-8s. ACIS were good for us, put a lot of money our way and allowed us to expand throughout the US. That Second Officer, sir, was Arnim Krauss!" Again, Raul paused for emphasis and studied Bobby's reaction. McClone furrowed his brow in confusion. "That can't be correct," he told him, "Krauss is a young man..." "28. He was 28 then and is 28 now. Or should I say he's 48 now? I really don't know how it works." Raul shook his head in confusion. He drew a finger through the air as if trying to sketch the conundrum. "He was 28 on the 13th and 48 on the 14th. Or should I say he existed as both a child growing up and as a young man? You know, you can have both in the same temporal dimension? I think them quantum physics people would be in for a shock." "Ok, Raul, you've lost me... completely." Bobby thought the 75 year old deluded. Maybe he'd just stepped out of the 'Twilight Zone'? "Well, Bobby, maybe you'd better take a look at this." Bobby felt a twinge of fear as Raul unlocked his briefcase. He wondered for a split second whether they'd all be blown to Hell. But the old man merely pulled out a magazine. "Here," he said, "take a look at that picture?" ---------------------------------------------- The Hernandez family was big and bustling. Although English was the normal language, conversations between some of the members of the extended family frequently reverted to rapid Spanish. Raul's wife was large, in her mid forties, and well-used to having sudden guests. Raul introduced her as Connie and she immediately hustled the 1070 crew into the lounge, commanding her daughters to serve them coffee. Arnim and Kurzbach's German accents set the girls giggling. Connie scowled at them, chiding them in Spanish. A little sibling rivalry appeared to be developing between two of the oldest sisters as to who would serve Arnim. Clearly, the handsome, blue-eyed, blond appeared to be the girls' favourite. Raul intervened, apologising, and ordered the girls out. Fuller threw Arnim a knowing look while Kurzbach remained inscrutable. The girls, themselves all featured the same lustrously thick brown hair, a family trademark. Their dark, mischievous eyes were complemented by their olive skin and pretty Hispanic features. Ariana, the older, was 21, her sister, Ella, 18. The youngest was Rica, who was 13, and another daughter, the oldest, was married to a local. Connie looked forward to grandchildren, soon, but complained that Suella and her husband appeared to be taking their time. Arnim noted that Fuller wasn't happy. The talk of babies awakened the thought that his wife was due any day now. "But Fuller," Arnim told the man in German, "in this time she is only a child, perhaps not even at school yet. You are missing nothing. Think of it as a 20 year pregnancy?" Fuller managed a weak smile, unconvinced. "Who's having a baby?" bounced Ariana, listening from the other room, "I'm studying German and French at College. You said, 'a 20 year pregnancy'," she repeated in German, "is that some kind of a joke?" "It is rude to eavesdrop on our guests!" her Mother chided, as the crew of 1070 looked at each other in surprise. "Jurgen's wife is having a baby," Arnim explained, "I merely told him that 9 months seemed like twenty years. He has been going on about it for so long, we are quite tired of hearing about it, isn't that right Jurgen?" Fuller nodded, shrugging. "See?" Arnim laughed. "We must be careful what we say around here. The fewer people know about our situation the better," Kurzbach leaned across, his voice low. "How was I to know the girl could understand German?" Arnim complained, whispering. "You cannot assume, Krauss, that people around you don't understand." "I don't understand," Fuller said, shaking his head, "in any language!" -------------------------------------------- Lomax J Cleeton lll rang the editor of 'Air Spectator.' He told him he'd send over the film he'd shot for processing. He also explained about the bogus registration and suggested there might be a story. The editor, however, was unconvinced. Lomax was known to be something of a wannabe investigative journalist and it wasn't the first time he'd come to him with gossip that turned out to be hot air. "Ok, Lenny," Lomax said, "you hide a tree in the forest, right? So why would Boeing paint it up like that, huh? And how come we haven't heard anything about a stretched Boeing before now?" "What's that?" Lenny asked, "you say it's stretched?" "Yep, I counted the windows in the upper cabin. She's stretched, all right, and her tail's way over the building." "Did you see any winglets?" "Nope, flat wingtips but increased span, I'd guess." The editor, Lenny, knew not to challenge Lomax on his aircraft recognition. The man was a planespotter from way back. "Ok," he said back, "find out what you can and we'll take it from there." "Sure, sure," he said excitedly. He then put a call through to Boeing's Public Relations Office in Seattle. He didn't expect much from them but thought it a good place to start. ------------------------------------------- With a flurry of phone calls, Raul organised the rental of the abandoned hangar. He found a contractor prepared to carry out the work of the alterations ASAP. Bob Garland elected to stay at the airport and supervise the work. He'd trained as a structural engineer and still had his ticket. He could certify the work to the satisfaction of city hall. He decided it would be easier raising the complete middle beam up 6 feet. They would have to take away 10 feet of the roof at the front, but it was steel and bolted together in sections. The whole building had been designed for ease of construction and alteration. Rather like an enormous Lego set, he thought. The work went apace and, by 11pm that night, things were ready to move the aircraft. Bob Garland borrowed a tractor from the Airport Authority and soon he had it coupled up to the front of the 747 by rigid tow. The 747's APU, the auxiliary power unit that provided some power to the cockpit systems, had been wound down. Garland had to get the ground crew to wind off the brakes by hand. Laden with cargo, and still with half its fuel on board, the aircraft was a heavy sucker to tow. Eventually it took two big TEREX/CAT aircraft tractors, coupled together, to get the 747 rolling. Bob followed directly behind in his truck. Behind them, and in front, the Airport Authority had pilot vehicles with flashing lights. They hadn't gone more than 300 feet, however, when Bob noticed a light, misty rain beginning to fall. 'Damn,' he thought, and hoped it wasn't going to get any heavier. Rain hadn't been forecast and he cursed the State Met Service. Turning on his wipers, however, left a crystaline scum over his windshield. 'What the fuck?' he thought, before it occurred to him what it was. "Salt!" he said aloud, "it's raining saltwater!" Just then, there was thump on the front of his truck and something splattered over his hood. He quickly turned off to check the vehicle. Getting out, he noticed the hood was covered in a thick, slimey green materiel. "Hey, that you Bob?" his two way radio blared. It was the rear pilot vehicle. "Yeah?" Garland answered. "Hey, that ship's leaking something," the man said. "What? Fuel?" Bob asked. "You ain't going to believe this," he said, "but it looks like seawater!" ---------------------------------------------- KATZMAREK (C)