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Subject: {ASSM} The Mystery of Flight 1070 (Ch 1) (By Katzmarek) (No-sex)
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Date: Wed, 26 Jul 2006 10:10:01 -0400
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 Air Accident Investigation with a twist.

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<1st attachment, "The Mystery of Flight 1070 1.txt" begin>

THE MYSTERY OF FLIGHT TEN-SEVENTY (Chapter 1)

   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.

   ---------------------------------------------------

   On the 13th of July 2006 a German Boeing 747 freight airliner, on a
schedualed flight from Berlin, via Rotterdam, was approaching Houston when
it suddenly disappeared from radar screens.

   --------------------------------------------------

   Reiner Kurzbach reminded his second pilot of a dog who just wouldn't let
go of the bone.  He was a worrier, a perfectionist, and half an hour after
flight 1070 failed to pick up the TACOS waypoint he was still trying to
work out the reason.

   "Let it go, sir," Armin Krauss told his chief, "perhaps it's just down
for servicing?"

   "But it should be gazetted.  It must be in the Bulletin.  This is most
unusual.  We *did* receive the latest Flight Information Bulletin?"

   "Of course, sir.  Austin has closed 41 South for upgrade.  That was all,
see?" Armin, again, held up the copy of the FIB they'd received before
departing Rotterdam.  They'd both read it cover to cover.  Captain Kurzbach
insisted they do so.

   In any case, the TACOS beacon was merely a double check of the GPS. 
Flight Engineer Jurgen Fuller merely used it to compare the data on his
screen.  In 8 years with the company he'd never had to make even the
tiniest adjustment.  Jurgen was growing frustrated with the Captain and
deeply wanted to change the subject.

   "Three minutes to Houston Control!" he announced loudly.

   "Good, thank you," Kurzbach acknowledged to the relief of the rest of
the crew.

   Behind them, in the cabin, the relief crew were playing cards.  At
Houston they were to change places for the flight to New York.  On a
passenger Boeing, this would be the upper lounge, but on the cargo version
it featured curtained bunks, a kitchen, and entertainment systems for the
crew's downtime.

   The international air cargo business is highly competitive and time on
the ground costs the company money.  Air Cargo International Systems prided
itself on its management that kept most of the fleet working 24/7.  Fast
turnarounds, reliability, punctuality; these virtues were hammered into the
crews from the day they started work.

   ACIS had grown rapidly in the 10 years of its existance.  It had started
out as a domestic cargo carrier in Germany known as Zeitzler Berlin Air. 
ZBA had undergone several changes of name before 'going Euro,' as ACIS, in
1996.  Internationally, they relied on a number of affiliated companies to
provide depots and freight.  This enabled the company to penetrate the
lucrative American market through a US domestic company, Burleigh Freight
Forwarders.

   Flight ten-seventy was a standard schedualled service of ACIS.  From
Berlin-Templehoff it flew to Rotterdam, then Houston, New York, London
before heading back to Berlin.  There, both crews were to have a week off
before recommencing another round trip.

   The preferred aircraft for ACIS was the Boeing 747-400ERF Freighter.  In
2003 ACIS bought 17 of them, factory-fresh; one of the largest single
orders for that particular model.  Clearly such a huge investment required
them to be worked hard, and ACIS did just that.

   "Houston Control from Flight 1070 heavy, you copy?" Jurgen called into
the radio.

   "Houston Control.  Welcome to America, sir," came the reply immediately.
"Is your transponder on, Flight 1070 heavy?"

   "Yes sir, Houston Control," the Engineer responded.  Captain Kuzbach
turned around to his Engineer, a quizzical expression on his face.

   "I've no data on my screen for you, 1070 heavy," replied the Air Traffic
Controller, "can you tell me your registry, destination and company, sir?"

   Fuller smiled in amusement.  He watched his front seat colleagues roll
their eyes and shake their heads.  He knew what they were thinking,
'millions of dollars spent on state-of-the-art traffic control and it
couldn't identify a frequent, schedualled flight.' "Delta Tango Tango Baker
Baker, Houston, Air Cargo International Systems, code 'ACI,' Houston
Control," Fuller explained.

   "Thank you, sir...arr...  sir?" came the reply from Houston Control,
"I'm still not getting a match, 1070 heavy.  What's your type of Aircraft?"

   "Boeing 747-400ERF, Houston Control."

   "Ah...  aha...  sir, can you repeat that, 1070 heavy?" Fuller did, and
the Controller punched in the details.  "Ok, he replied after a pause,
"still nothing...  I'm getting 'void registry,' you sure of the data?"

   "Of course," Fuller was growing irritated.  This was their crossword
puzzle, their software problem.  All he wanted was course, speed, and
weather to Houston.

   "Ok, 1070 heavy," the Controller said at last, "maintain course, descend
20.5, weather fine and clear, wind South 4 knots.  A beautiful Texas
morning, flight 1070 heavy."

   "1070 heavy, maintain course, descend to 20,500 feet, thank you, sir. 
And it's evening, is it not?"

   "10am, 1070 heavy."

   All three of the crew looked at each other, mystified.

   A moment later, the Captain spoke up so both of his colleagues could
hear.  Precisely, he asked each of them to look at the screen, where he'd
brought up the weather radar.  Mindful of the Cockpit Voice Recorder, the
CVR, he wanted both of them to acknowledge what he was seeing.

   "Storm front over the Houston area," Armin Krauss confirmed, "pressure
below 680, sir, severe risk of wind sheer on approach." Kurzbach nodded and
called over the Engineer.  For the benefit of the CVR he had Fuller repeat
the data.  The Captain was sure there'd be an enquiry.  Houston Control had
stated the weather was clear, yet that was obviously incorrect.

   "Houston Control, Houston Control," he snapped, "this is 1070 heavy. 
Will you confirm the weather over Houston?"

   "Fine, clear, South 4 knots, 1070 heavy." The Controller sounded peeved.


   "I'm reading a storm front, Houston, wind sheer alert!"

   There was a deafening silence for several minutes before the Controller
came on again.  "Houston Tower confirms weather fine and clear, wind..."

   "With respect, that's bullshit, Houston Control," snapped the Captain,
"give me a course to our alternate, Austin.  I'm not landing in that shit!"

   "Sir...  ah...  1070 heavy, I don't understand.  I can see out the
window, it's..."

   By now the crew of 1070 could clearly see the inky black storm ahead. 
Already the wings were beginning to tremble from the eddy currents.

   "Austin!  Houston Control, give me Austin!  Course and weather, if you
please!"

   "Yes, sir, 1070 heavy, your call!  Ah, come to 130...  Height 20.5... 
handover to Austin tower in 15 minutes." Houston Control sounded relieved
to get rid of the puzzling and ill-tempered crew of Flight 1070.

   "Thank you, Houston, get some sleep!" Kurzbach acknowledged,
sarcastically.

   A few minutes later a call came from another flight.  "1070 heavy, this
is Delta Flight 501 heavy.  We've just left Houston, sir, and there's no
sign of a storm."

   "Thank you, 501 heavy, but I prefer my own radar data," Kurzbach
replied. He was in no mood for interference.  He was a man who made up his
mind and nothing on earth would shake him from it.  "And the evidence from
my own eyes."

   "Suit yourself, 1070 heavy!"

   "What the fuck's going on, Captain?" Armin Krauss asked Kurzbach, "maybe
they're in some sort of storm's eye?"

   "Even so, they should see the storm from the tower at Houston.  That
Delta flight must be flying through the shit right now."

   "I can't find him on the screen...  that Delta flight...  can't see him
at all!" added Fuller.

   "Air pressures, perhaps?  Sometimes they do strange things to the
radar," suggested Krauss.

   "Never known that before," grumbled the Engineer, "not with this
equipment anyway."

   Kurzbach, the professional, knew what he had to do if the radar was
malfunctioning.  Although he didn't like it, he had to inform Houston
Control.  "Houston Control, this is 1070 heavy.  We may have a problem with
our navigation radar.  Can you assure us of 5 kilometres separation?"

   "Yes, sir, 1070 heavy.  You're good to Austin Tower.  American 377 is
above you, 1000 feet...  there's a private Cessna 2000 below, 4 miles
South."

   Fuller took another look at his screen but saw neither of the two
aircraft.  Instead, a blip hove into view, below, and 8 kilometres distant.
Where the transponder information should be was the code, 'UA,'
unidentified aircraft.

   "What's below us, 8k?" Fuller asked Houston.

   "Clear air, 1070 heavy.  I've nothing on my screen."

   "You can't see it, Houston?" Kurzbach interrupted, aghast, "its heading
appears to be 170, height 19."

   "No, sir, 1070 heavy, can't see a thing."

   "1070 heavy, this is American 377 heavy.  I'm not getting anything
either.  You sure it's not some kind of echo?" chimed in the American
Airlines flight above them.

   "We need to get the radar thoroughly checked out," announced Kurzbach to
his colleagues, "this is simply not on."

   "Weird," said the Engineer, "never seen anything like it.  This
equipment is so reliable, state of the art."

   "Anything built by mankind can fuck up, in my experience.  Lets get onto
Austin Tower and put this crate on the ground.  I want full logs, Engineer,
to help the techs identify the problem.  I want clean systems before I'll
allow this aircraft to take off again."

   "Yes, Captain, I'm on it."

   Shortly afterwards, Austin Tower called.  They'd been already informed
of 1070's problems and, like Houston, couldn't find a match for the flight
or aircraft on its database.  Again, like Houston, they filled in the
flight information manually.  As 1070 settled into its distant approach to
Austin Airport, Kurzbach asked to be put through to ACIS's agents, BFF.

   "BFF, sir, I'm Raul Hernandez, Operations Officer, how can I help?"

   "This is ACIS Flight 1070, diverted from Houston.  We're having problems
with our radar systems, here.  Could you call the contractors and have them
ready when we touch down?  I want everything checked before we continue."

   "Who are you, sir?" asked the BFF man.

   "ACIS 1070, from Berlin via Rotterdam.  You'll need to arrange transfer
of the cargo.  There's a printing press on board for a company in Austin.
I'd suggest that's makes things a little easier, at least."

   "Sir?" the man sounded confused, "I haven't heard of your company.  Have
you something to do with Burleigh?  Have you the right company, sir?"

   "Of course I have," Kurzbach replied irritated, "you've been associated
with us for 8 years.  Air Cargo International Systems, the second largest
air freight company in Europe.  Now does it ring a bell?"

   "No, sir, can't say it does.  What do you want us to do for you?"

   "Have all you Americans completely lost your wits?" Kurzbach exploded.
Armin saw his chief grow from unease to a point where he was losing
control. He felt he needed to try and calm the man down for their safety.
Unlike his Captain, he was slow to be thrown by unusual circumstances. 
They tended to compliment each other.  Kurzbach was a stickler, fussy, who
saw likely problems before they became serious.  He, Armin, worked well
under stress and could think creatively out of situation.

   "Sir, allow me?" he suggested to the Captain.  Kurzbach was glad to hand
the radio to his second officer while he concentrated on picking up the
ILS, the Instrument Landing System.  "Raul, I'm sorry about that...  tough
day at the office."

   "No problem.  We all have those.  What can we do?"

   "Do you have a contracting company for Raytheon Systems?"

   "Sure do.  Texas Flight Systems Maintenance, sir."

   "Can you ask them to give us a hand?  We need the radar checked out."

   "Consider it done, sir.  Where will you be parked?"

   "Can we use your tarmac, sir?"

   "I guess.  Will you be staying long, sir?  We're expecting a Herc in
three days."

   "We'll be out of there before that, I hope.  You still using Hercs,
Raul? I thought they'd all been retired?"

   "Retired?  Hell no!  Lots of hours left in those birds yet."

   "Odd, I heard you'd all gone over to the BCF."

   "BCF?"

   "Boeing 747-300B Converted Freight."

   "Nope, never heard of it."

   "Are you sure?  We got the ERFs in 03, remember?  Burleigh had just
bought 5 BCFs for the LAX La Guardia service the year before.  I'm fairly
sure you converted completely by late 2004."

   "You say, when?" Raul asked, confusion in his voice.

   "Late 2004, don't you remember?"

   "Sir, are you kidding me?"

   "Where's the fucking ILS?" interrupted Kurzbach.  Armin apologised and
quickly hung up on the BFF agent.  "I can't find the ILS," complained the
Captain.

   "Where are we?" the second officer asked.

   "85 kilometres from Austin 41 South.  We should've been on ILS for the
last 60 kilometres.  I get nothing at all."

   "What does the tower say?" Armin asked.

   "You ask them.  I get nothing but nonsense." Armin feared that Kurzbach
was losing the plot.  The unusual goings-on was finally beginning to
unhinge the Captain, and Armin was worried.

   "Austin Tower, this is 1070 heavy.  We are not on the ILS, is there a
problem?" Armin asked.

   "Austin Tower, 1070 heavy, ILS is fully operational.  You should pick it
up in...  3 minutes."

   Something else seemed strange, Armin thought.  41 South was supposed to
be closed for an upgrade.  He'd read it in the Flight Information Bulletin
back at Rotterdam.

   "Thank you, Austin Tower.  Please confirm 41 South?  Is it not closed?"

   "No sir," Austin replied, "good to go."

   Beside him, Kurzbach was leafing through the Airports' Manual.  At last
he found Austin and read the data quickly, as one who knew what he was
looking for.  "There," he announced, "Austin, ILS range 150 kilometres.  I
knew it, it's the best there is.  They put it in last year."

   "Austin Tower from 1070 heavy," Armin asked, "are you on back-up ILS?"

   "Aha!" Kurzbach announced, relieved, "got it...  there's the glide
slope, see?  Approach looking good!"

   "Forget it, Austin Tower, we're on ILS now," Armin called, "speed 180
knots."

   "Looking good, 1070," confirmed the tower, "welcome to Austin."

   "Thank you, Austin Tower."

   The crew of 1070 breathed a collective sigh of relief as the big 747
squealed down on the runway.  They rolled past rows of airliners parked at
the passenger termini.  Most appeared to be 737s and DC-9s of domestic
airlines, such as Delta.

   But all the crew noticed that there was something strange about many of
the parked aircraft.  Most of them sported airline livery that had either
gone out of fashion, or representing airlines that had long since merged or
gone out of business.

   It was as if Austin was locked into a period 20 years ago, before the
enormous shake-down of domestic air travel that had occurred in the 90s and
following 9/11.

   Kurzbach was speechless in shock and couldn't cope at all.  Fuller just
stared out the window in wonder.  It was Armin who regained himself first.

   "There's BFF," he told the others.  Pulling himself away from the
contradictions around him.  "That van must be the contractors.  Raul's
pretty sharp, isn't he?"

   Kurzbach looked at him, open-mouthed.  He clearly hadn't heard a word
he'd said.  Armin took control of the taxiing aircraft and guided it
towards BFF's terminal.  A controller in a day-glo boiler suit guided them
to a stop on the tarmac in front of the huge BFF depot building.

   It was Armin who wound down the four CF6 Turbofans and went through the
postflight routine.  A tractor pushed a ladder up to the crew door and two
technicians in blue boiler suits with day-glo vests jogged up it.  Armin
went through the crew cabin and down the stairs to greet the men.

   The three relief crew, he noted, were still playing cards while strapped
to their seats.  He smiled as he hurried past.  They'd clearly no idea what
had been going on.

   The first of the technicians to appear introduced himself as 'Bull'
Martin.  He shook hands warmly and asked Armin for a quick run down of the
problem.  As he explained, 'Bull' furrowed his brow in thought.

   "I ain't heard nuthin' like that before," he told Armin, "what you got
in this aircraft?"

   "A ninetyseven fifty, he replied.

   "Ain't heard of that," Bull said, "hey Damon," he asked his friend, "you
heard of a ninetyseven fifty?" Damon shook his head.  "You sure it's a
Raytheon?"

   "Of course," Armin told him, "take a look?"

   "I guess, but I ain't sure we've got modules for that model.T We might
have to call Raytheon." The two technicians ascended the stairs to the
cockpit.

   The next to appear was Raul, BFF's Operations Officer.  He introduced
himself warmly and asked Armin whether he could be of any assistance.  The
Second Officer liked the man instantly.

   "Hungry?" Raul asked, "you're welcome to have lunch in our diner. 
Biggest steaks in Texas!"

   Something else occurred to Armin, another anomally.  It was supposed to
be evening, local time, by their calculations, yet clearly it was midday.
Armin let the thought pass for the present.  There was time enough to
figure out all these anomalies later.  He followed the techs up the stairs
to convey Raul's invitation to the other crewmembers.  He found the techs
staring in wonder at the cockpit instruments.

   "What the Hell?" Bull said when Armin appeared, "I ain't never seen
anything like this!"

   "Like what?"

   "Well, like this here.  Like your Engineer said, you just touch the
scope there and you can switch from weather to navigation.  What the Hell
is that?"

   "A touch screen.  You've never seen one before?  All the 400s have
something similar."

   "Damn, and that control column..."

   "'Fly by wire'."

   "I gotta study this.  I ain't never seen this before," Bull said.

   "Don't take too long," Armin told him, "we have scheduals to keep."

   "Sure, sure," Bull said distractedly.

   The crew decided to accept Raul's invitation and made their way
downstairs.  Kurzbach seemed defeated by the situation and followed them as
if in a dream.  Armin leaned towards Fuller and asked him in a low voice,
"what's your theory on all of this?  Weather only we can see; radar
anomalies, runways that are supposed to be closed; an airport seemingly
locked in some 80's timewarp; midday when it's supposed to be evening; and
now, Raytheon technicians who don't recognise cockpit systems carried by
every 400 in the World?" Fuller shrugged.  "Have you phoned your wife?"

   "No."

   "Do it, now," Armin told him.  A thought had entered his mind, the only
explanation he could come up with that fitted the facts.  He hesitated to
call the solution rational, because it wasn't, but he had to find out.  And
he was 99% sure he was correct.

   "Nothing!" Fuller announced, tapping his cellphone.

   "Can't get through?"

   "Can't get onto the network...  not a fucking thing."

   "I thought so," Armin told him.

   "Why?"

   "Because GSM cellphones haven't been invented yet." Fuller stared at
him. He knew he wasn't kidding because Armin's voice was deadly serious. 
Fuller didn't want to believe it, it offended all that was rational, but he
had no other explanation that came anywhere near to what had just happened.
"Let's get some thing to eat," Armin told him, gripping the man's arm.

   ----------------------------------------------

   Meanwhile, three men sat dejectedly around a monitor at Houston's Air
Traffic Control Centre.  Outside, the storm raged unabated and all runways
had been closed since 3 that afternoon.

   "See?" Manager George Foley told the others, "here the signal flickers
then disappears.  It looks like a catastrophic event." Controller John
Klinsman wasn't looking.  He had his head in his hands and wept
uncontrollably.  George was sympathetic.  In twenty years as a controller
himself, he'd never lost one.  It was a nightmare they all lived with.

   The centre's emergency response team had reacted swiftly.  Already calls
had gone out to the Coast Guard, local sheriffs, and to the National
Transportation Safety Authority.  Foley knew that their actions would be
closely reviewed later and didn't want any slip ups in procedure.

   "Bobby?" Foley asked the third man.  He was Bobby McClone and was
responsible for Search Co-ordination.  "Anything?"

   "Nothing, but it's still early.  The Coast Guard can't get any choppers
up yet because of the storm.  All counties in the flight path are beginning
ground searchs.  The National Guard, too, has been alerted.  We've had no
reports of explosions, falling wreckage, nothing at present."

   "Maybe they went down over water?" Foley suggested.

   "I dunno, George.  It doesn't seem possible with the ship breaking up
like that.  It's kinda strange that we haven't heard anything yet.  Maybe
with the storm and all, folks just thought it was thunder?"

   "Yeah, must be.  Hey, see how it flickers?  What is that?  I've seen
logs of crashes before but nothing quite like that."

   "Maybe the radar's picking up falling wreckage?  Perhaps they had a
power failure?  The NTSB maybe able to explain."

   "John, maybe we should call Trauma Support?" Foley said, looking at the
stricken controller, "a lot of folks here are going to be in shock."

   ----------------------------------------------

   Later, the crew of 1070 all sat around a table in BFF's diner.  The
relief crew were still locked into the card game on the aircraft.  Armin
was trying to explain his theory to the Captain, but Kurzbach refused to
accept it.  He wasn't surprised, it didn't seem possible, and yet...

   Above them on the wall was a television set.  The midday CBS news was
playing and on came Ronald Reagan at a news conference in Iceland.  He
discussed meeting President Gorbachev of the Soviet Union and what moves
had been made towards strategic arms limitation.  "Archival," announced
Kurzbach, "it's clearly some aniversary!"

   "My God!" Armin exclaimed, "the East!"

   "What?" Fuller asked.

   "The East!  The Wall has not come down yet.  I was born and raised in
Thurgau in the East.  I am in America and, for all they know, I'm a citizen
of the German Democratic Republic!"

   "My God, you're right!" exclaimed Fuller, "it must be before 1990..."

   "1986, in fact.  That's when Reagan met Gorbachev, in 1986.  I remember
it from school."

   "Nonsense," Kurzbach said, "this is all nonsense!"

   "You can't go through immigration here, you'll be arrested, deported!"

   "To where?  To my own time or back to East Germany in 1986?"

   Fuller shrugged.  "Can any of us go through immigration?  Huh?  The
European Union does not exist, our passports are no good here."

   "I will call Berlin," Kurzbach announced, "they will sort out this
problem.  I will call Schmelling and explain what is going on.  He will
need to organise the offloading of our freight in any case."

   "And fuel?" Armin added, "we'll need to fuel the aircraft.  I bet the
company has no account here." He noted that Kurzbach didn't contradict him.
Already, he felt, his Captain was coming around to their way of thinking.
In 1986, ACIS didn't exist, but was a small freight service out of Berlin
called Zeitzler Berlin Freight.

   Like Armin's and Fuller's, his cellphone would not register on the
network so he went off in search of a usuable telephone.

   The men's steaks arrived and Raul was not exaggerating.  They were the
biggest they'd seen and had been ordered on the BFF man's personal account.
The crew were grateful.  All they had were Euros and they were pretty sure
they couldn't convert them to dollars.  Likewise, Armin was sure their
credit cards were unusable, they hadn't been issued yet.

   Kurzbach's meal had gone cold by the time he returned.  His face was
white, his body, shaking.  He was mumbling to himself and Armin put a
steadying hand on his arm.  "What is it?" he asked.

   "I've...  I've spoken to Berlin," he explained, slowly, just barely able
to control himself.  "It's not possible...  it's crazy."

   "What?"

   "At first I couldn't get through," he told them, collecting himself, "so
I ring a few numbers and then I get the operator.  They had no number for
ACIS so I tried Zeitzler Berlin Freight.  That worked, and I...  I..."

   "Go on!" Armin urged.

   "I talked to Zeitzler himself.  I know it was, I recognised his voice...
it's not possible!  He died 4 years ago."

   "See?  You must accept it," Armin said, "we are in 1986...  somehow, I
don't know how, we've travelled back in time."

   "We must get back!" Fuller gasped, "my wife, she is having a baby soon!"

   "What did Zeiztler say?" asked Armin.

   "He said," he shrugged, "that I was a madman and hung up.  What would
you do if one of your employees calls you from the future?  I joined
Zeitzler in 1989, he didn't even know who I was."

   "Of course," shrugged Armin, "and I was eight years old and a 'Young
Pioneer'."

   "I was 7.  I don't think my Mother would've allowed me to fly." Fuller's
weak attempt at humour went ignored.

   "What are we to do?" Kurzbach asked, desperate.  "You, Armin, so full of
ideas, have you got any thoughts."

   "We must go through the flight records," he considered, "analyse each
anomaly and find a point when things started to go screwy."

   "Makes sense," Fuller agreed.

   "Then perhaps if we flew back over the same spot.  Whatever happened to
time must have happened then.  Then, maybe, it can shoot us back to our own
era."

   "We don't belong here," contributed Fuller, "maybe we'll just fade back
in a day or so."

   "Maybe!  You think so, Armin?" Kurzbach asked.  Armin shrugged, he'd no
idea.

   ---------------------------------------------

   The coffee was good, comparable to Germany, and they all had a second
cup.  Presently a stranger approached, accompanied by Raul.  He introduced
them.

   "Bob, this is the crew of the Boeing.  Folks, this is Bob Garland from
Seattle.  He's an Engineer from Boeing and just happened to be visiting. 
He wants to speak with you."

   "May I sit down?" Bob asked, retrieving a chair.  The Germans nodded. 
"That's some ship you've got out there," he said, "tell me, I've worked on
all the 747 models but I ain't seen that one before.  What is it?"

   "A 400ERF," Fuller told him.

   "Are you guys kidding or what?  The 400 is not even a concept."

   "So what's your explanation, Bob?" Kurzbach asked him, coldly.

   "Well see, I was hoping you could tell me.  Those systems...  I took a
look why you were having Lunch...  that cockpit, well, I just never seen a
layout like it before.  And it seems stretched and the wingspan is wider
than a 200.  I've seen drawings for the 300, they were thinking of doing
something similar...  but that plane, well, it's way out of my league and I
work on the God damn things."

   "You checked the serial number?" Armin asked.

   "Why?"

   "You will discover the aircraft's history, it's year of manufacture,
maintenance schedual..."

   "Suppose you tell me?"

   "It was delivered to my company in 2003." Garland fell back on his chair
in shock and disbelief.  "You see?  Armin told him, "it appears we have a
problem." Garland's mouth worked, but nothing came out.

   --------------------------------------------

   An hour later they'd only half convinced the man from Boeing.  "Folks,"
he announced, "I have to tell you I don't know what to think.  You don't
happen to know who wins the next Kentucky Derby do you?" he tried to
lighten the mood.  The crew shook their heads.  "Pity," Garland said.

   The crew had told them about the Berlin Wall and the collapse of the
Soviet Union.  They told him that George Bush would follow Reagan as
President and some Islamic militants would fly some airliners into the
World Trade Centre and the Pentagon.  "The Pentagon?  Are you serious?"
he'd exclaimed, "God Damn!"

   "Should we be telling him this?" asked Fuller, "wouldn't we be altering
the timeline or something?"

   "Like 'Star Trek,' temporal anomalies and meeting yourself as a child?"
Armin managed a grin.

   "Stop it!" snapped Kurzbach, "we should be figuring out how to go back
to our proper time, not discussing TV shows and such."

   "Yeah, but he's right, you know," Garland said, "now if I was to tip the
FBI off about this World Trade Centre thing..."

   "They'd arrest you as a terrorist," Fuller said.

   "You could be run over by a bus tomorrow anyway," Armin suggested, "then
what will happen?  The knowledge goes with you."

   "Thanks for the tip, buddy.  I'll fly from now on and stay away from
buses."

   "Will you two stop it!" Kurzbach shouted, "I want to hear some ideas,
not silly talk about timelines and buses."

   Just then, Raul approached.  He looked puzzled.  "Folks," he said, "do
you know where that relief crew of yours went to?  I can't find them on the
aircraft." The Germans shook their heads.  "Damn funny, first they were in
that cabin playing cards, then they were gone.  No-one saw them leave."

   The crew looked at each other.  They all knew what the other was
thinking.

   "They've gone back!" Fuller said, excited.

   ---------------------------------------------

   Raul, Bob and the crew of 1070 rushed outside to the tarmac.  Already, a
small crowd had gathered around to have a look at this unusual 747.  Word
had quickly spread around the airport.  Bull, the technician, spotted them
and hurried over.

   "Hey, you folks," he called, "what the Hell are you trying to pull?"

   "What's wrong?" Armin asked.

   "I tell you what's wrong.  Everything in that aircraft is calibrated
twenty years from now.  What is it, a fucking time machine?  Even the
goddam magazines in the cabin, what the fuck's goin on?"

   "I think we took a wrong turn somewhere," Fuller shrugged.  'What *did*
they tell the man?'

   "I know my aircraft, sir," Bull continued, "and that thing's a fucking
freak.  I called Raytheon...  they shit themselves when I told them about
that cockpit.  'Fly by wire' you call it?  Hell, they know about 'fly by
wire,' only they haven't begun production development.  They say I'm not
suppose to know anything about it.  Fuck, man, am I in a fucking movie?"

   "We call it 'the Digital Cockpit,' now.  'Fly by wire' is old hat!"
Armin explained.

   "Don't!" Bull yelled, "I don't wanna know!  You get Captain Kirk to help
you, I ain't going back up there!" The two men stormed off to their van.

   "Raul?" Garland said, "we need airport security here.  We'd better not
let anyone on board that ship."

   "Yeah," Raul agreed, shaking his head, "are you folks really from the
future?" he asked.  Armin shrugged.  "Damn!  It don't seem possible.  They
got time machines where you come from?"

   "Yeah," Fuller told him, "happened right after Boeing moved its factory
from Seattle to Moscow." Raul looked at him in shock.  Fuller smiled, Raul
play-punched him in the arm.  "You're kidding, right?"

   Bob, Boeing's Engineer, looked at Arnim in alarm.

   ---------------------------------------------

   It had only been 24 hours since the disappearance of flight 1070.  Bobby
McClone hitched a ride on the Coast Guard Sea Hawk as it fluttered out over
the Gulf of Mexico.  He needed to see for himself.  That way he could
dismiss all doubt from his mind, even though he sorely wished they all were
wrong.

   At least it was some kind of closure.  He pitied that poor young Air
Traffic Controller.  For him it was a life sentence; wondering for the rest
of his life whether he could have done something differently.

   He'd done his time at the screens himself.  He knew what it was like to
be under pressure, short handed, and the blips keep coming.  Thank God he'd
never lost anyone, although he'd come close many times.  Near misses, they
were the worst and most often the Controller's fault.  It was a mistake so
easy to make.  But catastrophic failure?  That happened so seldom and
obviously beyond the ATC's control.  But, to an Air Traffic Controller,
everything on the screen was your responsibility.  That was how you were
trained to think.

   "Hey, Bobby?" called the crewman, "there it is!" McClone shook himself
out of his thoughts and peered through the open door of the chopper. 
Below, the ocean was calm and glassy as if the terrible storm had never
been.  Its mirror-like visage was blighted, however, by a dirty brown scar
that slopped sluggishly in the weak swell.  Flecked in, and around, the
scar sparkled pieces of wreckage in many colours.

   "It seems very localised," he shouted above the noise, "like she dove
straight down virtually intact."

   "I guess," the crewman shouted back, "hey?  What's that...  I think it's
a body."

   "Can you take us down?"

   "Sure.  I'll tell the chief." The chopper circled and dropped down to
where the crewman had indicated.  "I'll get the harness," the crewman told
him, "his clothes might be all that's holding him together."

   Presently, the still form was gently plucked from the ocean.  The corpse
was remarkably intact, his face serene in death with no sign of the horror
he must have been through.  Also remarkably, he was fully dressed.  Often
in air crashes the clothes are torn off the bodies by the tremendous forces
involved.

   McClone bent over the body.  He appeared tobe a young man in his early
thirties.  His sky blue jacket had a single gold band around each sleeve.
On his lapel was a badge.  Below the ACIS Company logo was the name,
'Reinhardt Stumpf.'

   "Reinhardt, eh?" Bobby said to himself, "lets get you home to your
folks."

   "What's this?" asked the crewman beside him, "up his sleeve, look!"

   "What is it?"

   The crewman retrieved something caught up inside the dead man's sleeve.
"It's a playing card, sir.  He's a cheat!"

   "What card?"

   "The Ace of Spades."

   "Hmm," McClone grinned wryly, "unlucky for some."

   --------------------------------------------------------
   KATZMAREK (C)

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