THE MYSTERY OF FLIGHT TEN-SEVENTY (Chapter 5)


 By KATZMAREK 


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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.


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Reiner Kurzbach was regarded by ACIS as one of their best pilots. At 53, he had over 20 years experience in the first seat and was selected as one of the first to fly the new generation 747s. He was a training Captain and IATA's representative for all of ACIS's flying staff.


All of the freight company's staff worked long hours, but Kurzbach had racked up more hours than anybody. His life was flying and he had very little time for anything else. In short, he was a workaholic.


But, at 53, he was tired. His marriage had ended 5 years ago and his ex-wife and two children had moved to Hamburg. He had tried to maintain contact with his children but time and distance made it difficult. He had never the time to be a proper Father to his kids in any case, and his time with them had been awkward.


Kurzbach would admit he found it hard to express love for anything or anyone. His colleagues regarded him as old fashioned and reserved. But he did have feelings, they lay behind his dignity.


His family had been minor aristocracy, once, in the former German province of Pommern or Pomerania. However, the post Great War peace had shifted the Polish border westward and they became ethnic German citizens of Poland. In 1939, Hitler 'reunited' them back to the Reich before, 5 years later, the Russians pushed them westwards. There was no going back to Poland, Pommern was 'Pommorz' and Germans weren't wanted.


Reiner was born into poverty in Frankfurt am Main. Their Polish estate was now a State farm and their old house lay derelict and forgotten. The young Reiner was reared hearing about 'how things might have been if it wasn't for the Russians.' His parents were bitter about what they'd lost and never stopped reminding him about it.


He was, perhaps, the last person you'd expect to walk into the Polish Trade and Consular Office in Los Angeles in November 1986 and request an entry visa. 


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


The Hernandez house in the middle class Alamo Lakes suburb of Austin had once featured an extensive attic area. Raul, though, had converted it to guest bedrooms to accommodate their frequent visitors. In one bedroom, Arnim Krauss of Berlin-Neustadt watched amused as a naked Ariana Hernandez played with his Toshiba laptop computer.


She sat on his bed crosslegged, a look of concentration on her face, as Arnim directed. She found in his photo collection pictures of his family and Petra, his ex-fiance. Looking at the tall, slim blond she couldn't help but wonder what Arnim saw in her.


Petra was busty and in view of her general body type, possibly a result of a breast enlargement. Her legs were long and her face was classically beautiful. Her long blond hair fell loose around her.


Arnim had been reluctant to talk about her but she'd insisted. He told her that he was well and truly over her but his voice lacked conviction. If that was the case, she thought, then why did he still carry photos of her?


"I never got around to deleting them," Arnim explained.


"Are you going to put some photos of me on there?" she asked. With that, Arnim reached into his bag and produced a digital camera. He asked her to pose on the bed, but she complained she didn't want her naked body being available for him to show to all his friends.


"These are for my eyes only," he grinned and gradually he coaxed her to remove her hands from her breasts. Later, he even got her to pose lying back with her legs open. Her body shook from giggling, but he made the shot.


"My turn!" she insisted, and after Arnim gave her a quick lesson, she snapped off a few of him. For the last one she zoomed in on his dick, lying flaccid between his legs.


Arnim downloaded them straight on to his computer while Ariana, again, marvelled at the technology.


Ariana Hernandez had only three lovers since she'd become sexually active. Unlike her sister, Ella, she tended to have long-term relationships. There were few men that made the grade. They had to be at least as smart as her yet still be able to turn her insides to mush. Many applied, but few got the job. Ella described her as an 'under achiever' while she complained her sister was 'too keen to open her legs.'


Her youngest sister Rica, she believed, was going to follow in Ella's footsteps, being 'too interested' at thirteen. Ariana was sure she was already 'fooling about' with some of the local boys.


"Arnim?" she said a little later. She wore a puzzled expression. "Arnim? Are these supposed to be dates on here? What does this mean? It looks like 2006?"


"Ariana?" he replied, sucking his breath between his teeth, "I have to tell you some things. Promise me to reserve judgement till I have finished?"


She looked into his face, saw the serious expression, and nodded slowly.


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


The seabed of the Gulf of Mexico had long been extensively mapped by oil exploration companies. These companies' business had given rise to specialist diving firms, well equipped with the latest technology. Ben Shepherd, his investigation flush with Federal funding, hired a Florida company, Ferruno Diving and Salvage.


Ferruno owned their own Remote Submersible Vessel, an RSV, equipped with the best underwater cameras available. In addition, the RSV came with a Magnetic Anomaly Detector and other high tech devices. Ben stared into the blue water of the gulf from the deck of the 'Ferruno Sawfish' as the crew went about their business, quickly and efficiently.


Ari Ramcke had declined to come. He told Ben he saw little point and advised that the Navy knew their job and should be left to get on with it. In Germany, such interference would be frowned upon.


"What exactly *are* we looking for?" the Sawfish's Captain asked. He was a big man with long experience of diving and the sea. This had to be the strangest request he'd ever had.


"Anything," Ben shrugged, "anything that shouldn't be there."


"What? Someone's lost anchor? You, maybe, dropped a dime while out fishing? My boys would like to know what they're doing."


"Buck? You know the gulf like no-one else. Tell me? Is there anything strange down there?"


"Well, sir? Y'know, when you've known the sea, first hand, for as long as I have, it still holds surprises. Can you give me an area and I'll tell you what I know."


"Ok," Ben replied, taking a chart out of his pocket, "what can you tell me about here?" he pointed, "this circular area. What do you suppose made that?"


"That, sir, looks to be either an ancient sunken volcano crater or maybe an old meteor strike."


"The Navy took some magnetic readings," Ben explained, "they got a strange track." Ben took the tape from his pocket and showed him. "What do you make of these fluctuations?"


"Hmm," Buck pondered, "you expect some deviations, especially if there's an old meteor down there... cos of the iron, y'see? Those things are mostly ferrous."


"It seems to be pulsing at a constant frequency."


"Well, I've seen something like that before. Mostly it's wave action. Y'know, that can have an effect? Did the Navy do a sonar scan?"


"Yep, flat as a pool table... here?"


"Infra-red?"


"2 degrees above normal. It shows a kind of ring pattern, like a hot plate on a stove. It corresponds more or less to the magnetic scan. The Navy think its a volcano, but say both the heat and the magnetic forces are receding, trending down. Their instruments are very sensitive. They say the thing's probably been cooling down for 100 years."


"Yeah, well, they may be right. But you don't think so, do you?"


"Well, Buck, they're not volcanologists and they're looking for a missing piece of aircraft, not craters. I kinda think they shrugged their shoulders then moved on to another piece of ocean."


"So what's your angle? What are we really looking for?"


"A portal," he told him, almost apologetically.


"What's that? What the Hell does it look like?"


"No idea," he shrugged, "but it has volume, some kind of mass..."


"Ben, you just described my icebox. Y'suppose it's full of Buds?"


"Let's have a look, shall we?"


"You're payin'."


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


Arnim Krauss sat nervously fidgetting in the anteroom. He had been well-schooled by Representative Hartman's PR guru about how to answer the questions. The reporters, he was told, had been specifically invited because of their newspaper's 'sympathetic' opinions. They shouldn't give him too hard a time. In any case, a minder would be with him to close down any 'controversial' questioning.


It was understood that no photographs were to be taken and he was to be known simply as 'George.' The Press were told that the pilots had families back in East Germany who may suffer if the real identities of the men were released. Similarly, the Press were instructed not to request any details about their miraculous escape lest it prejudice future similar attempts. Arnim was pleased with the conditions. It stopped them being recognised and spared them questions about the weakest link in their story.


But that left general questions about life behind the iron curtain and political ones about the Reagan government's policy towards the Soviet Union. How was he to answer?


He was only a child when Germany reunified. For him, his memories of Thurgau were of friends and the happy times of a child. He'd known little of Cold War politics and even less of the West. His real nightmare had been struggling in inner city Berlin schools, post reunification; of poverty, of people who didn't want him there.


The checkpoints had been thrown open and streams of East Germans flooded West. Many wanted to see for themselves what they only heard as rumours. West Germany was glittering, the shops full of merchandise and the streets teemed with luxury cars. But they'd found that the East German Mark was worth next to nothing and many spent their life savings on a Western television or microwave, then headed home.


Others, of course, searched for their friends and relatives, in the joyous knowledge they could spend as much time with them as they wanted. Still others, with useful skills, sought a Western wagepacket and lifestyle. But after the euphoria of family reunions, many had found they were not wanted by their Western counterparts. West Germans claimed they depressed wages because they were willing to work longer hours for less pay. Easterners had found it hard to cope with a liberal society that tolerated extremism, youth gangs, public drunkeness, drug taking and prostitution. They'd found themselves the victims of exploitative landlords and employers. For many East Germans, life in the West hadn't lived up to the promises.


Arnim, naturally, couldn't explain all this to the journalists of the pro-Republican Press, it hadn't happened yet. Blinking, he stepped out into the auditorium believing he had to lie his head off.


The Press conference was carefully stage managed. Hartman sat on his left and, to his right, his Press Officer controlled the questioning.


"Sir?" the first reporter answered the call, "welcome to the United States." There followed a murmur of agreement followed by a lengthy, and embarrassing, applause. "First of all, I'd just like to congratulate you boys for your courage in escaping Communism." There was another loud applause. "What do you think, sir, of America?"


"The girls are very nice!" Arnim replied. The room burst into laughter and Hartman slapped him on the back. He'd dodged the first bullet by telling the truth. He laughed along with them.


"You like our Texan women?" another asked.


"Yes, sir?" Arnim grinned. This was easy, he thought. He'd imagined hard political questions but all they wanted was soft candy.


As the questions continued, Arnim realised they knew even less about East Germany than he did, as a child, of the West. What's more, they didn't care either. He could say that DDR President Erich Hoenecker walked around in a kaftan wearing a clown's nose singing the 23rd Psalm and he'd little doubt they's just pass on to the next question.


"What about food queues?"


"What about them?" Sure, he'd heard Russians had to queue for some commodities in some Soviet cities, but he couldn't remember that happening in Thurgau.


"Why'd you escape to the West?" another asked.


"To meet you!" he smiled, and there was more laughter.


Afterwards, he realised he'd told them absolutely nothing. Hartman told him not to mind, it had gone very well indeed and besides, 'they'll make up their own copy anyway.' He told him they just wanted to find out whether they liked you. 'They did, and they'll take care of the story.'


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Bobby McClone walked around it before calling Chet to help him pull down some of the dust covers. He seen enough, though, to conclude it had been there a long time. The cockpit windows were cloudy with age and neglect, the Red paint dull and flaked.


It looked as though someone had neatly sawn it off from the rest of the aircraft. A section of framing showed signs of a gas axe. There was a faint trace where evidently tie-downs had been used to secure it to a flat-bed trailer.


But, remarkably, it was in pretty good condition. He could see some of the cockpit instruments and he had no doubt in his mind it was a late model, probably built after 2000.


He pulled out his cellphone and dialled Ben Shepherd. "It's here!" he told him.


"Anything else?" Ben asked.


"No, Ben, just the cockpit. No trace of the rest of it."


"Well, I guess, that's our missing piece of jigsaw."


"What do you want to do with it?"


"I... I got to figure this out. We *should* transport it to Houston, but, Godammit, what the Hell do I tell the investigation? 'Hey, we located the cockpit section. Damned, if it wasn't in Austin all this time'!"


"I can't help you there, Ben."


"No. Hell, I'm beginning to believe in stuff I'd thought were the ravings of lunatics and science fiction addicts. I kinda wish a flying saucer would beam me outa all this."


"You goin' to tell 'JF'?"


"I guess. Hey, y'know, I wonder if this has ever happened before? You think 1070 was the only one in all the time this thing's been down here?"


"I dunno. You found the portal?"


"Listen, Bobby, I don't know what I've found. Everything the divers have discovered so far can be explained geologically. What if someone or something's turning this thing on and off?"


"Extraterrestrials?"


"Why not? Folks, here, are beginning to think I'm crazy anyway. Might as well do the whole enchilada."


"Well, see you on Betelgeuse?"


"Yeah, sure, bye!"


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Ariana Hernandez had been in a dream all day. She felt that her whole life, all that had kept her grounded, had been shifted sideways. She went home from UTA early, unable to concentrate on class.


Arnim hadn't returned home yet from the Press conference. He had warned her he may be held up pressing palms with local politicians. She desperately wanted to see him, hold him, as if to reassure herself he hadn't faded back to his own time.


She'd spent hours listening to him last night. Their lovemaking had been temporarily set aside while she tried to come to grips with what made Arnim so different from anyone she'd ever met. She'd taken some convincing, but suddenly everything seemed to fall in place. She realised all the little mysteries about him that had her baffled, vanished once she accepted what he told her.


But what of the next day? Was anything going to be the same? Would last night be forgotten now, particularly since he had so many things to work out? She'd screwed the guy on their first date, something she'd never done before. *She* wasn't the impulsive one, she left that to her sister. Maybe he was going to discard her, now, like a piece of trash?


She'd understood what her sister had told her about falling in love; *really* falling in love, like it was as important as the very air she breathed. Ok, she'd been fucked like never before. Arnim was a beautiful man who understood her, both physically and emotionally. No man before had ever come close. He was perfect for her in every way, except, when he was born she was already a teenager. To think that when she slept with him she was wondering whether he may be too old for her!


Ella was already home when she went inside. Did she know, she wondered? Had Fuller made the same confession to her? Was her sister going through the same sort of turmoil?


"Hi!" Ella grinned knowingly, "you made a lot of noise last night," she told her, giggling, "I guess you're an item now?"


"What of you and Fuller?" she asked.


"Lucked out," Ella replied, "no action, but plenty of chat."


"What did you talk about?"


"Stuff... it was kinda nice, though, just talking. He slept in my bed but we didn't do anything except talk. Never happened before... he's a great guy."


"I guess being married..."


"Yeah, he misses her. She's in East Germany and can't get out."


"He told you that?"


"Not exactly, but I figured it out."


'So,' Ariana thought, 'he hasn't told her'. "Ella? Did Fuller talk about East Germany at all?" she asked.


"No. I don't think he likes to talk about it."


"Why do you think that is?"


"I dunno," she shrugged, "maybe it's too painful? They must have had a tough time."


"Ella? He doesn't talk about it because he hasn't been there. He's from Frankfurt in *West* Germany."


"Huh?"


"Arnim is the only one from there, except he left when he was a kid. Neither of them are East Germans because, for them, East Germany doesn't exist."


"Um? I don't understand."


"Arnim was born in 1978... and he's 28 years old. Fuller is a year younger. He's 27 and born in 1979. Do the math?"


"Um... I don't get it, Ariana, the punchline, I don't get it."


"It's not a joke, here, let me explain..."


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


It was late afternoon before Arnim returned. The downstairs was empty, he knew Fuller had gone into town, but there was no sign of the women. As he climbed the stairs to his room, however, he heard muffled voices coming from his room. Opening the door, he found the sisters playing on his computer.


Guilt flashed over their pretty features. Ariana looked embarrassed and defensive. "Honey, you're early..." she started to say.


"What is this?" Arnim said, angry at the women's presumption.


"Arnie," Ariana whined. She had begun to use that diminuative and it grated on him. Arnold Schwarzeneggar was riding a wave of popularity, thanks to 'Commando' and 'Terminator.' But the future California Governor wasn't one of Arnim's icons. "Arnie, I had to show her..."


"Why?"


"To prove..."


"You told...?"


"Yes."


"Without asking? Ariana, these are our lives..."


"I'm sorry, I should have..."


"Yes, you..."


"C'mon you two," Ella intervened, "Arnie, I asked her to. And could you two finish a sentence? I know married couples are supposed to read each others thoughts, but..."


"Ella?" Arnim said sternly, "may I speak with Ariana alone?"


"Sure, sure," she ducked out grinning.


Once alone with Arnim, the tension of the day began to well up. Not easily given over to sobbing, Ariana did he best to maintain her dignity as he rounded on her.


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Ben Shepherd finally found a Physicist who was willing to discuss time travel with him. The man was a Doctor Anders and had done a great deal of theoretical research on the subject at Caltech.


"Yessir," he told Ben, "it has been done using a field generator. A particle the size of a speck of dust was made to move backwards in time a few micro seconds. The energy requirements, however, were far in excess of any benefit from the research so the team was closed down."


"What sort of energy requirements are we talking about?" Ben asked.


"Well, sir? I believe it took practically the output of a nuclear power station for that experiment. If you're talking larger objects, say an automobile, your talking about a fusion reactor the size of the sun. The field generator would have to be the size of a planet... that's the kind of energy requirement, sir."


"Are there any other ways of doing it?"


"None successfully, as far as I'm aware. The Soviets were working on it for years without success. They poured a whole heap of money into it, far more than us, and they didn't get any further."


"How would someone move a large object, say, the size of an airliner, back twenty years? What would be the most theoretically practical way?"


"Umm, an airliner back twenty years? Hell, your talking about all the energy in the universe and then some. You need to be able to bend space... there's some that say black holes do just that, but that theory is by no means accepted by everyone in the science community. No, I can't say there's any practical way known to science, unless..."


"Unless what?"


"Theoretically? I remember there was a research paper published some years back. It outlined three possible methods. The first was by field generator; second, a black hole; the third, I believe, was the use of anti-matter. Now that's getting into Captain Kirk country," he laughed briefly, "but if that sort of energy could be focussed and intensified, so the theory goes, it would create what we call a time fissure, a kind of a tear in time."


"A fissure?"


"Yes. The burst of energy would need to be brief, say less than a second, because it would dissipate quickly. The paper stated that a power accumulator would need to be charged over a period of years before it reached critical, but the values would be constant. The critical value of the discharge would have constant and measurable similarity."


"In English, please?"


"Sure," he chuckled, "an object would be sent back the same interval of time on each occasion."


"Got it! And how far back would that be? Twenty years?"


"Depends on the amount of energy an accumulator could store. I would've thought seconds rather than years."


"Any chance of seeing this paper?"


"If you like I can give you the name of the author. He'd be able to tell you much more. But, remember, this is all highly theoretical. We get 100s of these kinds of papers every year. It doesn't mean it has any credibility."


"Would you say this paper has credibility?"


"Intriguing, in my opinion, but too far out on a limb as far as science goes. There's no way, at present, a team could get funding for any projects around that idea. No-one has that kind of money. It has credibility so long as it can be proven, and that isn't going to happen."


"Thank you, sir," Ben rang off. 


A half an hour later, an Email arrived with the details of the theoretical paper. It was from a Dr. Jordan Freeman of Seattle. The similarity to 'JF' was obvious. Ben believed that 'JF' and Jurgen Fuller were one in the same. Perhaps the real author of the paper was Jurgen himself?


He next rang the FBI to track down the mysterious 'JF' and his apparent alias. It was time, Ben concluded, to get all this out in the open so he could finish the investigation.


He knew the investigation would have to be 'cause unknown.' It was unsatisfactory to a man like Ben Shepherd, but, for his peace of mind, he needed to know the truth.


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


Reiner Kurzbach took a room at a hotel in LA. Raul had lent him some money and he'd promised to repay him once he'd got established. He then went to the Polish Consulate that afternoon to make an application for an entry permit. He decided to use his Father's name, rather than his own. He thought that if they checked up they would be nearer in age.


He spent an hour filling in the questionnaire and was briefly interviewed by a staffer. The nice Polish lady told him that it was unusual to get requests for immigration from someone in his position. The most common immigrant were elderly Poles wishing to spend their remaining years in the land of their birth. 


The next day, the nice lady called him at his hotel and told him he had to undergo a further interview.


The questioning lasted on and off most of the day. He was passed onto another person, a man, and it was obvious that he was an Intelligence Officer.


During the second interview, he was reminded that the Polish State Airline, LOT, had suspended its service to the US in protest at the suspension of landing rights to Aeroflot, the Soviet Government Airline. This was one of the measures metered out by the Reagan Administration in response to Soviet involvement in Afghanistan.


Kurzbach felt he'd handled the questioning well, giving, what he thought, were convincing replies. Therefore, he was surprised when he was called back for a third interview.


This time there were two interviewers, the Polish Intelligence man and another, who said little at first.


Eventually, the other man rose and spread a series of photographs in front of him on the desk. Shocked, Kurzbach saw it was he and his colleagues from flight 1070.


Arnim Krauss was filmed leaving the Press interview in Austin. Jurgen Fuller was buying cigarettes from a stall downtown. Kurzbach could just make out Ella Hernandez standing by on the pavement. His shot was filmed getting into a taxi outside the Hernandez house.


"You three are friends?" said the second man. Kurzbach instantly knew the man was Russian. He also realised he was in trouble. As he cast about for a response to the revelation, the Russian continued, "tell me, what are your real names?" Kurzbach lapsed into silence. "Why do you want to immigrate to Poland after first defecting to the West? This doesn't make sense. But you didn't come from the Democratic Republic, did you? Berlin has no knowledge of you. Whatever lies you tell the Americans are your concern, but what are you doing *here*?"


"I want to go to Poland to be close to my roots. I want to start again," Kurzbach explained, "I'm tired of what I'm doing."


"And what *are* you doing? You say you fly aeroplanes, but no-one has any record of you. Tell me, are you working for American Intelligence?"


"No!"


"Is this some elaborate trick to get into Poland? What do you intend to do there?"


"I told you..."


The questioning continued with the Russian growing more and more impatient and aggressive. Other people came, spoke briefly with the Russian, then left. Eventually, he left the room leaving Kurzbach alone with the Pole. The intelligence agent, however, was no longer friendly and refused to speak. He remained silent as Kurzbach demanded to be allowed to leave.


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


Arnim's anger hadn't lasted. It was one of the things Ariana liked about him. He would flare, then subside quickly, having expressed his feelings. He explained it was part of the psychological training of a modern commercial pilot. Safety demanded he stay in control of himself under stress.


Ariana thought it bullshit and he'd grinned back before pinning her to the bed on her back. His kissing was passionate and lived up to all she remembered about last night in the car and beyond.


Outside the door, Ella retreated as she heard the bed creaking and their conversation replaced by sighs and gasps. She was temporarily without a guy, or a 'TWAG' as she and her High School friends said. She knew she could snatch any one of a dozen boys, but she was getting choosey of late.


By the time she made it to the bottom of the stairs, the groaning of the bed  had become rhythmic. Clearly Arnim and Ariana were getting serious, she thought. Ella felt a wave of horniness and decided to head to her room for a little privacy. 


As she worked on her own pleasure centres, she wondered whether it was Arnim's sexiness that had so turned her on. Perhaps, though, it was just the thought of the two lovers upstairs and what they were doing together?


Meanwhile, Ariana's top had only been pulled up just enough for Arnim to gain access to her nipples. He struggled down her tight jeans and panties while alternating between her breasts and her mouth. Ariana tore open his shirt and pinched and bit his chest. She was desperate to be joined to him once again.


Their lovemaking was fast and furious. As he pounded into her, Ariana held his cheek to hers, the other arm around his shoulders pulling his weight down onto her. As she came, she struggled for breath, but didn't want to let go of the intense moment. Afterwards she cried uncontrollably, clinging to Arnim as if he was a life bouy.


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


Kurzbach remembered little of the next day, just a series of disjointed impressions. He remembered the Northwestern flight but wasn't sure what the destination was; it was Vancouver. He remembered being taken on board another aircraft and thought it was Russian built. He didn't, though, know where it was going nor the airline. It was an Ilyushin Il-62 of Aeroflot and the destination, Moscow.


He was aware he'd been drugged, but his legs and arms had so little energy he could hardly lift them. Two strong men on each side kept him propped and walking in the right direction. Once on board the Russian flight he felt cold steel around his wrists. He dozed for a long time, he couldn't remember precisely how long.


All this time, his two minders said hardly anything except 'come' and 'this way.' The drugs made him nauseous but the two men wouldn't let him leave his seat. He remembered afterwards willing himself not to throw up in the aisle.


The drugs, however, didn't prevent his brain from processing. He cursed his naivete in thinking he could bluff Polish immigration officials about his identity. He should have realised they would have the will and the resources to thoroughly check all he told them.


But what he couldn't have guessed was the fact that the Russian KGB knew not only his real identity but how he came to be there.


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KATZMAREK ©









