THE MYSTERY OF FLIGHT TEN-SEVENTY (Chapter 1)


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.


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


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
Kurzbach 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. 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 to be 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."


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