Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience. THE MYSTERY OF FLIGHT TEN-SEVENTY (Chapter 3) 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. --------------------------------------------------- Ari Ramke and Ben Shepherd leaned over the Voice Print Recorders as the technician replayed the tape. "Ok," the technician said, "here is Houston ATC calling 1070. As you can hear, the controller's calling in the aircraft. Now, here's 1070 replying. As you can see, they don't match up. Houston's telling 1070 to divert, yet 1070 seems to be asking for approach instructions. Neither is replying to the other... strange. Then, sir, you get this funny noise... now." "What is it?" asked Ben. "I don't know. I tried to clean it up. I thought it must have been damaged, but... well, sir? On the CVR, it's the same thing. It's not magnetic interference, it's nothing I've ever heard before, listen?" They all listened for a few seconds as the speaker growled and snapped. It was a sound almost super-natural, like someone was tearing up newspaper, but way louder. "The crew don't appear to react," Ari commented, "like it was normal, or... perhaps they can't hear it? It must be damage on the tape." "No, sir, the tape's fine. I thought of recorder malfunction, but we haven't been able to duplicate it. In any case, Radio log and CVR both have the same thing. How likely is it that they should both have the same malfunction?" "You haven't found an answer," Ari declared, "you must keep trying till you do!" Ben looked at the young tech as he flashed an offended expression. He knew how he felt, Ari was overbearing and rubbed everyone up the wrong way. At first Ben thought the man was just arrogant, but he'd concluded that a lot of cultural difference was coming into play. He'd heard, apparently, that that was the way the German investigators operated. They had a strict hierarchy over there, and young techs had better find answers, or else! He did, though, know his craft well. "It's alternate was Austin," Ben told Ari, "yet clearly they never made it. The last reported position was 70 miles South of Houston Tower, over land, yet the aircraft went down over water in the Gulf. What happened from the time of their last transmission to when they crashed? If they diverted to Austin they were way off course. Why did they turn back, Ari, and why didn't they try and make Austin?" "That storm was very localised," Ari replied, "apart from the Houston area, visibility was fine. The instrument recorder suggests everything was normal for a period of 25 minutes after their last transmission, so we can rule out power failure. No violent fluctuation in cabin pressure either. It could, perhaps, indicate a problem with the O2? The crew may have passed out from lack of Oxygen. In that case, the plane would fly itself until it ran out of fuel?" "It would follow its last heading in that case, on auto-pilot. Not turn itself around and fly the other way?" "Yes... a mystery," Ari conceded. "The only way that could happen is if the nav computer instructed the aircraft to change direction?" "Aha, yes!" Ari snapped his fingers in triumph, "this needs proving, but, what if there was an O2 failure? The crew hear Houston instructing them to divert, but the pilots, perhaps disoriented from lack of oxygen, punch in the wrong code?" "So why would 1070 go down? They still had plenty of fuel." "Hmm, perhaps there were a number of factors... all combining to bring that craft down?" "And you're forgetting about the radar plots, clearly showing 1070 over land, 70 miles South of the tower, when it disappears. Where does that factor come in?" Ari threw his hands up in frustration and sat down once more. He stared out the window for an uncomfortably long time, just thinking. "There are always answers," he muttered to himself, "always answers." ------------------------------------------------ The Hernandez girls were at school and Connie, Raul's wife, had gone off to her job as a legal secretary. Arnim, Kurzbach and Fuller sat around the pool. Raul, himself, had gone to work early after a phonecall. He didn't explain why, but Arnim thought he looked as white as a sheet. 'Perhaps the stress was getting to him?' he mused. He felt sorry that they'd visited this problem upon these good people. "So, you see?" Fuller was telling them. He was something of a science fiction addict and their situation had stimulated every theory he'd ever read about. "We have parallel universes of infinite number. Every moment in time creates a crossroad, see, and..." "So you're implying that merely our presence here has already altered history as we knew it in 2006?" Arnim said. "It has to," Fuller replied, "in our time, Raul had never met us, the 747 would not be on the tarmac at Austin and Bob would not be hiding it away in a shed he'd altered. That shed, for instance, was probably left unaltered and unused. Time has already changed for us." "We must exist as both our younger selves and us here today? Am I 33 somewhere and flying Transalls out of Berlin-Tegel?" Kurzbach asked. "My daughter would have been 11. Does she exist, now? Or maybe disappeared in a puff of smoke?" "There's no reason to think that. Your past life would be the same, that's history, but what happens to you in November 1986? Perhaps you disappeared suddenly while out walking?" Fuller suggested. "My son was born next year," Kurzbach said, "the tenses defy common grammar. If what you say is true, then he wasn't born at all. He doesn't exist now." "He exists," Fuller replied, "but not in this timeline. We have crossed over, see?" "It would be easy to test the theory," Arnim told the others, "call Berlin, now, and talk to yourself? Do you remember ever having a conversation like that? With your older self?" "Of course not," Kurzbach replied, "you'd think I'd remember? You'd think I'd keep it to myself if I had?" "I would," thought Arnim, "they'd have me grounded if I came up with a story like that." "But you were... are, only 8? Children have these fantasies. Your Mother might have patted you on the head and told you how imaginative you are?" Fuller told him. "If I call myself, and I answer, then I have deliberately altered time," Kurzbach considered, "something we agreed we mustn't do?" "And it's clear you haven't done so, otherwise you would have remembered? Obviously, you never made that call, now, or in the future?" "Arnim, this is too much for us to understand," Kurzbach said. "Captain?" Fuller said, "I think I made the call. Not to myself, but to my future wife, Anna. At least corresponded... I think I've been writing to her all along... in three years time when she was 7. Captain, I think her mysterious Uncle in the United States was me all along. Sir, if I'm right, she is waiting for me to appear 20 years older in July 2006. I will be there for our child, I know I will!" "How do you know? How come she never told you?" Kurzbach asked. "Because I told her not to. It's suddenly becoming clearer. If I'd known then, the timeline would've been altered." "Your saying you've been writing to Anna throughout her childhood? So, she knew when she met you that you were to marry?" "She always told me that she'd been waiting for me her whole life," Fuller chuckled, "now I know what she meant. We'd fallen in love before we ever met. Captain, this was all meant to happen... it has happened, we are where we've always been... in two parallel lives that reintegrate on July the 13th, 2006." "I... I... are you sure?" Kurzbach asked, his face ashen. "Everything that is happening, has happened and we are where we're supposed to be?" "Then we cannot change anything," Arnim said, "how can we... it's happened already, like predestination?" "Are you religious, Arnim?" asked Fuller, smiling. "My other self would say no," he smiled back, "but this self is a little nearer to belief, I think." "Then, perhaps, we may see you in Church?" Kurzbach asked. "Maybe... in twenty years time, perhaps." ---------------------------------------------- "Ok, Bob, run through it one more time," Raul asked Garland. The engineer was pale, his eyes unfocussed from lack of sleep and shock. A cigarette trembled between his fingers, a thin trail of smoke shimmered in the still air. A worker had offered him one, even though he didn't smoke. "I thought it was beginning to rain," Bob said, gulping, "last night... about 11 when we were moving the plane... that fucking plane! I never want to see that hoodoo as long as I live!" "Ok, go on, Bob," Raul said, kindly. "You want a belt? I have some bourbon..." "No... the rain was falling from the 747. It was dripping from the wings, fusilage... it was seawater, Raul, fucking seawater. It was running out of the undercarriage wells. It just got heavier and heavier until it was even flowing out the fucking door. That ship was filled to the brim with the sea! And seaweed! My truck was covered in fucking seaweed!" "Then what happened?" "Ok, Raul," Garland said, taking a drag on the forgotten cigarette, "then things started to get weird!" He looked at Raul and managed to grin. "*Really* weird!" ---------------------------------------------- Bobby McClone had known Ben Shepherd for a long time. They'd been rookies together in the Air National Guard before Ben had gone off to college to train as an aviation engineer. They'd kept in touch while Ben worked for MacDonnell-Douglas. Ben had a cabin up in Colorado and he, and their wives, would holiday together in the mountains. Then Ben got offered a job in Washington he couldn't refuse. It was an engineer's dream, that job; to find out what happened when things go wrong. They shook each other's hands warmly, like old friends, and Ben offered to show Bobby around; at what they had so far. "As far as we've been able to tell so far, 1070 just stopped flying. It literally fell out of the air! It plunged straight down, engines at cruise, and the crew apparently did nothing about it. They were in a vertical dive, unaware!" "The CVR?" "Normal crew chatter until they hit the water." "Radio transmissions?" "Now it gets strange. This is confidential, Bobby, I don't want this in the media." "Sure." "The radio log records 1070 asking Houston for approach instructions to Houston tower. But Houston was trying to tell them about the storm and advise them to divert to the alternate, Austin. They are having two different conversations! Houston records prove they didn't respond, yet 1070's log have them apparently receiving instructions. It doesn't square." "No," Bobby conceded. "But, get this. 1070 went down 25 minutes before that conversation. If the CVR time is correct, 1070 was transmitting under the water in the Gulf of Mexico!" "Huh?" "And Houston ATC was tracking it by radar 25 minutes after it went down!" "Oh, clearly the CVR timer was off?" "Now, how can that be? All clocks are integrated into the navigation computer. No, it should self-adjust or switch to back up." "The GPS would keep them on course." "Sure, but they failed to confirm the TACOS waypoint off the Florida keys..." "TACOS?" "Yeah, you probably don't remember that one. It was established last year. 1070 failed to confirm, and that's not like ACIS. They're sticklers for international flight rules." "So you're saying all computers, including back up, had the clocks running fast by 25 minutes? Then they didn't follow IFR by failing to confirm reaching a waypoint? It all would have to be deliberate!" "Or human error. Don't seem likely, does it, yet..." "It doesn't explain why it went down." "No, but it would explain some of the time discrepencies between 1070's recorders and Houston Control." "But not why Houston was tracking it after it went down. Maybe it was another aircraft with a similar transponder signature?" "Nope, it checked out, no mistake. It *was* 1070 they were tracking." "Ben?" Bobby said. His voice was quiet and nervous. He didn't really want to suggest his theory. He was sure Ben would advise him to seek psychiatric counselling. "I have a possible explanation, well, really it's an impossible one. Would you hear me out without comment?" Ben nodded uncertainly at his old friend. With a preamble like that it *had* to be good! "Well," Bobby began, "I met this old man down at search headquarters..." ------------------------------------------ Raul had a reputation as an honest and upright citizen and employee. His job at the freight depot had many opportunities for someone with a penchant for corruption. Raul prided himself on never giving away to temptation, even if it could have made him a lot of money on the side. BFF understood that, and is why they'd given the second generation Mexican the responsibility. He'd never let them down in all his time with the company. As in business, so in his family life. He was open and honest with both his daughters and his wife. That's why it gnawed at him that he couldn't be completely truthful about the situation of his guests. He'd explained to his family that the crew of an airliner visiting Austin had undergone some instrument failure. The crew had needed somewhere to stay till the aircraft could be fixed or a replacement arrived. Raul knew that was never going to happen. He knew that at some time, as his guests continued to remain marooned, he'd need to come up with another story or find somewhere else for 1070's crew to stay. On the other hand, he couldn't leave them without support or at the mercy of the authorities. His parents had taken the hard decision to come to America to start a new life. Their success had depended on the support of the Mexican community here and without their nurture of the young family, they'd never have made it. Raul understood, but it didn't make his situation any easier. As a Father, however, he knew he was too soft. Connie had presented him with four girls and, true, he'd have preferred even one boy to carry the family name. But it didn't rankle much, his girls were jewels and he was intensely proud of them. But having a household full of females often overwhelmed him. It was easier, sometimes, to give way, or run and hide when they argued and fought. Connie, therefore, provided the backbone he felt he lacked when dealing with his children. The girls all had spirit and coupled that to an above average intelligence. Even Connie had trouble keeping them on track, especially now with puberty and all the problems that brings. At 21, Ariana could date whom she wanted, providing it didn't interfere with College. She was a beauty and never short of admirers. But, fortunately, she took College seriously and always managed to balance her romantic and educational life. Her Father had passed that down to her, self discipline, and she was never going to be a 'dumb Mexican' holding down a job at a supermarket checkout with three kids and a string of unemployed bums as partners. Ella, on the other hand, revelled in her sexuality and allure. Her sisters regarded her as the one that had 'the looks' and she played field to the limit. She coupled that with self confidence, however, and boys *had* to treat her right. She could twist her daddy around her fingers, she knew, and he'd stand by her, whatever trouble she found herself in. Last year a boy had attacked her and Raul threatened to put a slug in him if he ever so much as looked at his daughter again. Raul told him there'd be no court in the State of Texas that'd convict him. Rica, at 13, was never short of advice from her sister Ella. She, too, was confident and tended to choose her dates wisely. Her and Ella were close and her big sister looked out for her. Suella had married her childhood sweetheart and the marriage, as yet, appeared to be happy. She was studying postgrad Law and her husband had just started work as a junior in the firm her Mother works for. The Hernandez home was large, but comfortable rather than lavishly expensive. Raul earned a good salary, but, with four daughters, his expenses were heavy. He also dabbled a bit in the stock market, but it had been more of an interest than a serious attempt at making a fortune. Raul knew, though, the value of money. Ariana came home early from morning classes. This day, she was free for the rest of the afternoon. Through the window she watched the little cluster by the pool. They were certainly a strange trio of men, rather unlike anyone she'd ever met before. For instance, she frequently saw them huddled together quietly talking as if they were planning a bank robbery. Their heads leaned together as if in a physical attempt to exclude everyone else. Curious, she tried to pick up some of their conversation, but much of it made little sense to her. Ariana, however, was beginning to piece together a possible explanation for their strange behaviour. Her speciality was linguistics and she had a gift for it. She concluded by their dialects that at least one of them, Krauss, was an East German. The older one, Kurzbach, blended the harsh guttural sounds of 'Hochdeutsch' with the softer consonants of the Southwest. Fuller, though, sounded Rhenish. Arnim, Ariana concluded, had escaped from East Germany. That would account for some of the man's paranoia, but not that of the others. There must be some reason why the trio believed they were being hunted and she *had* to find out. She walked through onto the patio and noted how the trio all flew apart, their expressions guarded. "Hi guys," she said, "is it too early for lunch?" "Don't go to any trouble," Arnim smiled, "we can take care of ourselves." Ariana thought the 'cute' one was the quick thinker. He was hot, that one, and as smooth as silk. She could think of many of her female friends who would pay good money for an introduction. Fuller was morose most of the time and obviously very married. Kurzbach was reserved and correct in manner and she thought him something of a cold fish. "No problem, I'll get you something," she replied, breezily. Later, when she returned with sandwichs, Arnim was the only one remaining. Kurzbach had retreated to his room while Fuller was swimming some lengths. Arnim smiled again and cleared the table so she could put down the plate. In the absence of any invitation, she plonked herself down in a chair next to him. "How'd you get out of East Germany?" she asked, studying his face. A flash of confusion shadowed his eyes before he answered. "You have a good ear for the German language," he told her, "but the Brandenburg dialect is also heard in West Berlin." His evasion, Ariana decided, proved her assumption was correct. "Are you saying you're a Berliner?" she asked. "I am," he said, "but, true, I was born in the East. Thurgau, you, perhaps, have heard of it?" Ariana shook her head. "Did you escape?" she asked, "over the wall?" "No," he laughed, "it is far too dangerous!" "Others have done it." "Yes, and others have died in the attempt. The wall was... is, a sad period in German history whether you live on one side or the other." "What was it like in East Germany?" she asked. "What does a child know but what he knows? We did what every other child did; play, go to school, get up to mischief," he chuckled. "At school I was taught to be proud of my country and it's accomplishments. We knew little about the West except what the government told us, and, of course, they lied. But how were we to know any different? As a child, you accept everything." "In that case, why would anyone want to escape to West Germany?" "Because," he grinned, "they wanted something that they couldn't have in the East." "What was that? Freedom?" "Money... and, perhaps, the freedom to keep it." "What about freedom of speech?" Arnim shrugged, "depends on what you want to say. If you want to bitch about the government in the press or on a street corner, then sure, go to the West. If you don't care then you might as well stay among your friends. Leaving home and trying to start again in a hostile World is overrated, in my opinion. I loved Thurgau, I had many friends there, it was my home. I didn't want to leave." Ariana saw that his eyes had moistened. "So why did you leave?" "My parents took myself and my sister, we had no choice, we were only children." Ariana knew her theory was in tatters. Arnim *was* an Easterner, but his family had left when he was a child. There was no reason to think he was being pursued by the East German secret police. "Kurzbach?" she asked, "where's he from?" "Um, Frankfurt, I think, but his family was originally from Pomerania. His accent is a little odd, don't you think?" Ariana agreed. "Fuller?" "Somewhere near Frankfurt... Mainz or Wiesbaden, I think, but we all have homes in Berlin, now." "I knew Fuller was Rhenish!" "'They sing like the French.' That's what we say of Rheinlanders," he laughed. "By that we are saying that, to us Easterners, they are more French than German." "I guess it's much like North and South here in America. We all have stories about each other... and the West Coast, they are different again." "Yes, similar thing, I think." That sat in silence for a while watching Fuller swim up and down. Ariana fidgetted, not knowing what to ask now that her theory proved to be false. "Have you a girlfriend?" she asked impulsively, instantly regretting asking such an obvious come on. Arnim looked surprised, but regained his composure quickly. "No," he said, "at least not now. I had a partner, Petra, but we split up." "I'm sorry, I..." "Don't worry. Never go out with an airline pilot." "Why?" Ariana mentally kicked herself. She was being transparent and someone as sharp as Arnim Krauss must surely see through her questions. "Weeks away from home, days, nights... Petra was a Nurse so, you see, she had unsocial hours as well. If we wanted a night in together we must plan for weeks ahead!" he shrugged. "Oh!" "She was Polish," he added, "blond and like willow. Her beauty did not go unnoticed among her male colleagues." "I see!" She felt embarrassed. Clearly Arnim had some bitter feelings about the split and she'd touched a nerve. "Without trust you have nothing to build a foundation on. We had not the time to build such trust." "She cheated?" Arnim shrugged and looked away to close the subject. Once again, they lapsed into silence. Just then there was a crash and Raul appeared, throwing open the door to the patio. "Hey," he yelled, "where's the Captain?" Arnim explained he was in his room. "Is something the matter?" he asked. "There's trouble at the airport," Raul replied, breathless, "we've had some... ah... flooding. I'm afraid you have a problem with your aircraft." "What problem?" "A serious problem!" -------------------------------------------- "You need a holiday, Bobby," Ben said, concerned, "how long's it been since you've had a break?" Bobby was a straight up guy. Ben thought he'd be the last person to be captured by, what he called, 'fringe dwellers and hippy loonies.' But here he was, telling him a tale of time travel and 'temporal rifts and reintegration.' If it hadn't been his old buddy telling him this bull he would've called security. "I'm fine, Bobby said, "never felt better. You should talk to this guy." "Ok, if this crock is true, where are the crew of 1070 now? Why haven't they stepped forward? Did this guy tell you where they are now?" "He knows," Bobby said, "but he made a promise..." "Yeah, sure he did!" Ben chuckled, "listen, this Raul sure must've convinced you, Bobby, but..." "Ok, ok," Bobby put up his hands, "I don't expect you to believe me. Hell, I'm not sure whether I believe myself. Maybe you need a little supporting evidence?" With that, he produced the copy of 'Air Spectator.' "Ben," he continued, "take a look at that picture." The photo was grainy and clearly taken with a telephoto lens. It was cheaply printed in monochrome, although the original was probably colour. Above was the headline, 'Is this the latest 747?' It was obvious to Ben it was a Boeing 747-400. He counted the windows in the upper lounge and noted the wings didn't feature the distinctive winglets of the 300. Faintly he detected signs of the wide doors of a freighter. He concluded it was an ERF, an Extended Range Freighter, the same model as flight 1070. ACIS's logo was obvious on the tail. The black on gold showed up well in the fuzzy black and white. "So?" Ben said, "it's an ACIS freighter? You telling me it's 1070?" "I believe it is, yes." "So what does this prove? We've got photos of 1070 much better than this." "Do you recognise the background? Do you know what airport that is?" "No. Look, can you make your point? I'm a busy man right now." "Sure, sure," Bobby said hastily. He was enjoying this, rather like a conjuror about to pull a rabbit out of a hat. "That's Burleigh's freight depot at Austin. You see the old-style sign? Later, they had an extension built over here," he pointed, "but, Ben, do you see the date at the top of this magazine?" "August 1986? C'mon, Bobby, it's got to be a fake!" "Then have it checked out," McClone said, "I already sent one copy off to the FBI photo lab. This one I got from the Public Magazine Archive. Y'see the official date stamp inside the cover? This copy is exactly the same as the one Raul showed me. Even if the old man had the skill to do a fake this good, he couldn't have doctored them all. It's got to be original, yet we know ACIS didn't exist in 1986 and there was no such thing as a 747-400." Ben Shepherd spent a long time staring at the picture. Eventually he slammed it down on the table. "Bobby," he said, "I don't know what you're trying to pull, but I wouldn't have thought it of you. Why did you get mixed up in this? What's the matter? No, don't tell me, just get some help, will you?" With that, he turned his back and stormed off. It took a while for Ben to calm down after his encounter with Bobby McClone. He tried to involve himself in some of the retrieval reports sent from the Navy. 1070 was to be reassembled in an empty hangar at Houston. Each piece was to be put together like some giant jigsaw. Investigators then can tell a great deal by the pattern and nature of the damage. They can discover at a glance, for instance, whether the plane was brought down by an internal explosion or a missile. Both these theories had to be tested quickly because of the public concern about terrorism. 'Upper forward fusilage section retrieved between F3 and F4,' he read, 'Cockpit section in deeper water and appears to have broken off from F3...' -------------------------------------- They all sat in silence for a while, just looking. Raul parked outside the perimeter at a point where they had a good view, yet not easily spotted by the army of emergency workers. Kurzbach was the first to speak. "It's not possible!" he said in wonder, "so much damage!" "Neither is time travel," shrugged Fuller, "yet..." "Bob Garland said the first to go were the tyres," interrupted Raul, "it was filling up with water fast and he radioed everyone to get out of there. He knew what was going to happen, he's an engineer." "Take us through it," Armin asked. "Three times it's own weight," continued Raul, "Bob calculated there was 300 tons of seawater on board, don't seem possible, does it? Never thought water could be that heavy." "Where did it come from?" Kurzbach asked. "Manifested out of thin air, that's all he said. Must've travelled the same way you did. Helluva mess, the Airport Authorities are pissed to Hell! Don't know who they're going to sue." "So the tyres blew?" Armin urged Raul to continue. "Yeah, then the undercarriage began to distort. The plane, Bob said, kinda lurched sideways. The undercart collapsed and the whole thing smashed down on the taxiway. Then it gets weird!" "Yes?" "It began to crumple up. The tail snaps off then the fusilage kinda buckles up as if someone's letting air out of a paper bag. Water just bursts up like a geyser and goes everywhere, flooding half of runway '27' a foot deep. They're going to have reseal the whole of it. The fuel just lay on top and they had to get the crash trucks out to pump foam over it. The water, of course, carried jetfuel everywhere and they closed the whole airport. They reckon it's costing them a million bucks a day." "Extraordinary!" "That's not all," Raul said, "I told you it gets wierd, didn't I?" "You did," agreed Arnim, "and this is not 'weird'?" he asked in surprise. "Hell, no!" Raul replied, "Bob said that... it seems parts of the wreck are missing." "What?" "Yep. He reckons a chunk of the upper fusilage, just behind the cockpit, just vanished. That's where the relief crew were sitting, wasn't it?" "Close to it. You telling me someone misplaced several tons of fusilage?" "Not misplaced," Raul told him, "I didn't say 'misplaced.' I said 'vanished!' ------------------------------------------ KATZMAREK (C)