THE MYSTERY OF FLIGHT TEN-SEVENTY (Chapter 10)


By KATZMAREK (C)


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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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Arnim knew that the 21st Century would herald a life dominated by the nano computer. He knew a person could change the style, texture and colour of their clothes by selecting from a menu imprinted in the label. The clothes would then conform to whatever the wearer chose.


Coffee, or any other drink, could be obtained by announcing to a box on the wall your preference. Anyone could change the colour of their apartment; a voiced instruction could open clearview panels in the walls or ceiling. Anyone could communicate instantly with anyone anywhere via holocom or get the daily news and weather from Tblisi; all by effortless voice command.


But also, many island Nations and countries, such as Bangladesh, would be swamped by global warming and the World had hitherto not solved the problem of the widening gap between the underclass and the privileged. Alternative energies had rescued the countries that could afford it and China was unravelling politically after years of extraordinary economic growth. Again, the scarcity of fossil fuels was the culprit and countries that still had reserves made a killing on those who hadn't.


But although the World still had immense problems to overcome, for those lucky enough to be born American or European, life was increasingly effortless and boring.


Many people of the 2020s would have given anything to live in a simpler time when folks did their own shopping at the Mall or supermarket. They hankered after a time when life wasn't dominated by the Nancom; when folks drove to work in real cars with internal combustion engines; a time before risk was virtually eliminated and you had to hire yourself out as a mercenary to encounter 'real challenges.'


The Guardians, though, still insisted on monthly reports in detail and Arnim's presence by Transtemporal Holocom to quiz him on various aspects of the operation. Clearly, they wanted to be satisfied his team was not just living it up at their expense.


And living it up they were. By the late 2020s air travel was hugely expensive and unnecessary. Gas-guzzling Jumbos had virtually disappeared from the skies except for Asia. In that part of the World, there were still enough rich people wanting to travel to justify large passenger jets. Arnim and his team could fly to wherever they wanted relatively cheaply. He could even afford his own private plane, a 5 million dollar Cessna Citation, and what's more, could fuel it and fly it himself.


Hagerman, New Mexico had only one strip. Too small to employ a full-time ATC, instead the manager of the airfield merely confirmed when it was safe to land. Otherwise, 'Visual Flight Rules' applied, in that the pilot used his own eyeballs to check whether it was safe to land or take off. It was a far cry from the big metropolitan airports with 'stackings,' 'approach corridors,' 'Instrument Landing Systems' and radar control.


It was essentially a private airfield with maybe one or two cropdusters. No regular service passed through there. Anyone wanting to catch a flight had to go to Roswell or Hobbs and catch one of the 'third level' airline services.


Following the dictates of VFR, Arnim first circled the airstrip to confirm the runway was clear. He scanned the sky for any other traffic before coming around for landing. He turned on his powerful landing lights as an added warning to any other aircraft.


Hagerman's airfield had been extended to take Arnim's jet. The Citation was a fast plane with a higher landing speed than the average light plane. Arnim had paid for the improvements himself.


Hagerman used to be one of the poorest towns in the State with no less than a third of families living below the poverty line. With a population of 1500, some 60% percent were of Mexican origin. Jobelessness had been as high as 50%. But that was all in the past.


The town had become the centre of holo-technology overnight. A Company, Holo-Imaging Technologies, or HIT, had taken advantage of generous State tax concessions to move its operations to Hagerman.


HIT had brought in a team of highly skilled scientists and technicians. Additionally, as part of the deal with the State, they founded a Technological College, offering scholarships to many likely candidates from poor families all over New Mexico.


Hagerman had transformed and now, instead of people wanting to leave, property owners found emigrants willing to pay silly money for their modest dwellings. There was even talk of a regular air service starting up soon.


Ariana Krauss leaned against the white Lamborghini watching Arnim taxi. Her husband had snapped up one of the sports cars quickly now that the Italian company had been bought out by VW-Audi. Arnim had told his wife that it had the best possible combination, Italian design flair and German engineering.


This day she wore her cutoff pants and close-fitting shirt. Over the years she'd tried all kinds of hair styles, but Arnim had preferred it loose and unfettered. Today, it flowed around her in the slight breeze, reaching down to her waist.


Ariana had been on tenterhooks for days in anticipation of this moment. That morning she'd dressed the way Arnim liked and posed herself like a model next to his favourite car. He couldn't help but get the inference.


She looked up at the cabin and saw him smiling in his wrap-round shades. The man had devastatingly good looks and Ariana often wondered why he'd never given in to the temptation of other women these past twenty years.


Arnim spotted her and grinned. She was leaning on the car, one knee slightly bent, in imitation of an automobile billboard. At 41 she was trim and gorgeous, despite giving birth to their two children. Her dark, thick hair hung loose, her soft lips stretched in a wide grin. Beneath her sunglasses, he knew her eyes were dancing for him. He couldn't wait to power down and take her in his arms. Ariana could've had any man she wanted over the years but only took him into her bed. He'd frequently asked himself why.


The door swung open and he jumped down onto the tarmac. He strolled towards her in an imitation of nonchalance, still with that wide grin that turned her insides to mush. A brief searing blast from the desert barely interrupted his stride as he closed the distance.


Wordlessly, Arnim circled her waist and planted a kiss on her lips. It soon became a kiss full of promise as their bodies meshed in a fierce embrace. Ariana felt him press insistantly between her legs. She was so hot he could've taken her then and there and she would've let him.


"Good flight?" she managed to ask.


"Uneventful; some high stratus over the Rockies, otherwise clear and beautiful."


"How's Garland? The Professor?"


"Spritely for their age. They still haven't found a suitable person to take over. They are to begin a small scale practical test."


"How small?"


"The regression of a radio signal back 2 seconds."


"That's small!"


"But significant! It will show them they're on the right track. They will need to wait for the development of a fusion reactor practical enough to provide sufficient power."


Ariana reluctantly slipped out of his arms so Arnim could open the door of the car. To the accompaniment of a howl from well-tuned German engineering, they sped off down the road and into the desert.


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Ari drove the silver Audi nervously down the side streets of central Hamburg. He knew a park by the river that would afford them the privacy they were after.


What'd caught his attention was the short, black skirt. Although she was a bottle blond she was tall like Ella. Her make up had been caked on with a pallette knife giving the appearance of a deathly paleness. Her Panda eyes were indistinct and glassy as though she was hooked on drugs. The painted face couldn't conceal her youth, though, and Ari suspected she was underaged for the profession. If she was over 18, he concluded, then she'd been plying  her trade from one of the storefront registered brothels where they had rules and security.


She was Eastern, perhaps Polish or Russian, and her German was limited to her menu and cliched 'chat.' Ari wanted a backstory, however, as if it would mitigate against the fact he'd just picked up a young, and probably illegal, prostitute. He wanted to know whether she was saving for University, or providing for her sick Mother, or wanted to be an actress or model. He got little out of her, though, as her German was strictly for business.


"50 Euro, oral, no touching, ok?"


"How much to put my hand, er...?" he asked, unused to the whore-jargon.


"Ah, finger? 10 Euro, finger, no fuck!"


"Ah, fingerfuck?"


"Ja, fingerfuck, ok, titsuck ok, then blow, ok?" She reached out her hand expectantly and Ari pulled the cash from his pocket. She counted out the money before slipping it into a bag lashed to her wide belt. 


Ari found what he was looking for, a dimly lit carpark near the river, and stopped under an Elder tree.


Her tight, black croptop suggested well-proportioned perky breasts of delightful shape. He soon discovered fabrication when he reached out his hand to touch one. She was practically flat and the bra was well-padded. Ari thought it churlish to display his disappointment and instead hummed his approval. What he really desired were those long legs and what lay barely concealed beneath her skirt.


The girl flashed a brief, forced smile before looking away out the window distractedly. That suited Ari because he'd no wish to look into her black smeared eyes. They betrayed a lifeless disinterest, a bored acceptance, perhaps, and an impatience for him to get it over with so she could turn the next trick.


She shuffled one tit free and aimed a nipple in his direction. Ari flicked it with his tongue while stroking her legs. The sheer hose was rough to the touch and thick. Being Winter, Ari respected the girl's need to stay warm on the cold streets. 


The girl pressed her palm into Ari's crotch and whispered 'big boy' a couple of times. He wasn't impressed with either her timing or the phoney compliment and pushed her hand away. He was completely unaroused by the situation and needed more time. He began to feel a little foolish, but he'd paid good money and wanted the full twenty minute's worth.


The stocking finished in a band just above the hem of her skirt. Ari briefly felt warm flesh before encountering the lace of her panty line. As his fingers sought the soft puffy mound, he had a sensation of rough stubble, as though she needed a touch up with the razor.


"Tut," he muttered to her, "leave it on or leave it smooth!" She looked back, not understanding, and Ari smiled at her as if he approved. She stretched her mouth briefly before looking back out the window.


The problem was she wasn't Ella Hernandez. This girl was less than half her age; yes, he'd checked Ella's profile on the Net. It gave only the scant PR data, he expected nothing more. It described her as 'Mexican American, 38, with a degree in Sociology from Texas State. That surprised him; he'd expected some Scientific qualification. She also had a post-grad diploma in Psychology; 'that figures,' he thought, 'that figures.' Media Studies, Print and Television Journalism Diplomas, the usual stuff filled out her CV consistent with a TV reporter on the up and up. There was nothing about her partner anywhere on the Web and Ari began to wonder whether he was some ficticious ploy to keep him at bay.


The girl betrayed her impatience with a heave of her chest. Ari snapped back to the business at hand and wormed his finger under the elastic. She was dry as a bone and she quickly produced a tube of lubricant so he could penetrate her. She breathed steadily as he pushed his finger in and out, parting her long legs to make it easier.


"Ah!" she gasped, "ja, gut!" Ari knew, however, that it wasn't. He closed his eyes and in his imagination he saw Ella, stretched out and willing him on. Only then did he feel something. It was that tight skirt. He dreamed the girl's legs were fuller, shapelier and more sensual. By contrast, the girl's were skinny, like sticks, poking out beneath a small rounded bottom. He thought briefly of a young girl of about twelve who suddenly shoots up in height leaving her baby fat behind. 'The girl could be as young as 12,' he thought, but dismissed that horror. 'Clearly she's old enough to know what she's doing!'


When she placed her palm again on his fly, there was something now worth considering. Deftly she peeled down the zipper and scooped him out from his trousers. Through closed eyes, he focussed on the feeling of her lanolin smothered hand. He thought again of Ella.


The girl's perfume was cheap, pungent, and over-abundent. She reeked as if she bathed in the stuff. Unlike Ella's subtle dabs, the girl's scent tickled his nose and made him want to sneeze. Try as he might, he couldn't convert the smell into Ella.


At least she was well-practiced at the job in hand. Like a professional, she teased him out so she had something to put in her mouth. She bobbed rapidly, milking him with her hand between breaks for air. She sensed him reaching a crisis and quickly pulled on him, placing a tissue over the bulb.


When his dick had ceased pulsing, the girl screwed up the tissue and discarded it in the ash tray of the Audi. Impatiently she waited him to recover enough to drive her back to her next job.


An ejaculation in a car, from a girl whom he didn't care for, was a poor substitute for romance. Ari arrived home depressed and disillusioned.


He felt like a shower and ascended the stairs to the bathroom. As usual the bedside lamp was on in the bedroom. He went right past, however, and turned on the shower. Just as he was about to enter the stall his cellphone rang.


"Hi," the voice said, "what're you up to?" It was Ella and the way she asked the question made it sound pornographic.


"I'm having a shower," he told her.


"Huh? I thought it was raining at your end. Fancy a nightcap at my hotel?"


It took a while for him to answer. He combatted the shock, the rushing in his head and his jeart threatening to burst from his body. "Yes," he croaked, "an hour?"


"Somethin' wrong?" she asked, "you sound like you've got a cold?"


"No, fine, see you!" he rang off.


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Sumilov, Garland and a bevy of their senior technicians gathered in the room to watch the experiment. There was a faint hum in the air and their skin tickled from the static charge in the air.


In the centre of the room was a long, white tube mounted a metre above the floor. At one end was the beam emitter with its bulky 'yoke' containing the focus coils. In time to come, this could be made smaller and more efficient, but now, it was the best they could do with the available technology.


Various sensors had been attached to the tube; the assembled wires forming a loom above their heads before heading off to the control room next door.


Inside the test chamber was a simple radio transmitter with a receiver mounted at the other end of the tube. A large digital display measured the time in nano seconds. It would flash on when sensors recorded the reception of the signal, a simple code 'Q.'


No-one was 100% certain whether the device would explode, or bathe the room in dangerous levels of radiation. The computer modelling had assured them it wouldn't, but then, computers were unlikely to blow up. The assembled retreated to the lead-shielded control room as the time approached.


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The Air Force base had been closed in 1944 and there now was little left. From the air the old runways could be seen forming as triangle. Once upon a time, conspiracy theorists had linked the strip to various Roswell theories about UFO crashes and secret experiments on aliens. It amused Arnim. He thought the rumours had persisted well past their shelf life.


He'd bought the old Hagerman Field cheaply. The hangars had long since disappeared but the remains of the old control tower could still be found. The runways had been designed to handle B-29s, but Arnim only bothered to restore just enough for his ancient Boeing-Stearman Biplane. At one end he'd built a small hangar for it.


His luxury home had been built near where the barrack block had been. It was large and sprawling and featured everything you'd expect in the house of a successful businessman. What attracted Arnim in particular was the fact that standing on the roof you could imagine being the only person left on Earth. There was precisely nothing but desert whichever way he looked.


Ariana emerged from the bathroom towling her long hair. She'd thrown on a baggy T-shirt that ended at her hips. Arnim noticed, as she reached up, the hem of her shirt rode up enough to reveal the dark hair of her pussy. She was aware of him checking her out. She'd deliberately chosen the briefest shirt for that purpose.


Now that their children had moved down to Mexico for training, Arnim and Ariana had the house to themselves. It had enabled the couple to rekindle some of the unbridled lust that had characterised the first year or so of their marriage. She'd fallen pregnant quite early in their relationship and the last 20 years had been spent raising the brood. Now, however, they had the opportunity to indulge any erotic fantasy they chose without the risk of being disturbed. 


Of all the bondings that had gone on with the team, their's had been the most constant, the most passionate. Their enduring affection for each other had often been a talking point with the others. They'd always made sure to mix the ingredients that kept the romance alive.


They each knew the other's sexual triggers. They'd always had a tendancy to voyeurism and mutual masturbation had been a feature of their sexual menu. They liked to watch each other getting excited.


Arnim came over to her and kissed her on the lips. Her hand reached out to 'grope the package' and he gave her a little stroke.


"Mmm, babe, you must've been born with a hard on," she smiled.


"Huh! I think you were playing with yourself in the womb!"


"Sure! I was getting myself ready for that big dick of yours."


"You've never thought of doing it with someone else... just for a change perhaps?"


"You really want me to answer?" she teased, "and what about you? Never fancied jumping some cute Hotel maid somewhere? Y'know, you'd never have any trouble getting her to open her legs for you. I know lots of women who'd..."


"You do?" he said, rubbing his jaw, "mmm, maybe..."


"No way!" she laughed, "I'm not sharing this." Ariana ran her fingers along his semi erect pole. "You asshole! You're thinking about it, aren't you?"


"No," he grinned, "I was thinking about last night, in the kitchen."


"Oh yes," she smiled, "you liked that, didn't you? And the tub, did you like that too?"


"Of course, but not having to mop up the floor afterwards."


"Lazy!"


"What do you like best?" he asked, moving closer so he could run his hands under her shirt and onto her naked bottom.


"Everything," she said, kissing him, "but most of all... I like you touching me... knowing what you're thinking and wanting to do.."


"Like now?"


"Mmm. I like watching the desire grow in your eyes... and body," she sniggered, clutching his cock in her hand. "And I wonder what I'd done in a past life to deserve you, Arnie. It's not just your cock, it's you, babe."


"Ariana, you give all the guys erections. You'd make even a priest..."


"Don't say it!" she laughed, "can I suck it for you?"


"Sure, but only if you turn around after... over the sofa!"


"It's a deal," she replied, kneeling. "Talk dirty to me while I've got my mouth full?"


"Just get sucking, bitch," he grinned, "and warm up that cute ass of yours. I'm going to slam it hard... lick my balls..."


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Fernando ducked down as he saw the silver Audi pull out of the driveway. The street was well lit and he felt exposed. He waited for a minute after the tail lights had disappeared unless Ari Ramcke suddenly returned for something he'd left behimd. The man was in such a hurry, he mused, that he might've forgotten his pants!


He quietly got out of the car and walked quickly towards the house. There was a street lamp just outside, a mercury vapour, and it poured a garish yellow light around the front door. He looked around once more before ringing the door bell.


Even though he could see a light on in an upstairs window, he could detect no movement inside the house, even after ringing three times. Looking around, he walked nonchalantly along the path to the side of the property. 


There was a garage at the side made from the same spray-on stucco material. Two windows were set high up on the wall. They were small and rectangular, like gun slits on a pillbox, and too narrow for a man to slide in. Fernando climbed on the low, brick boundary wall and peered in.


Pushing his torch up to the window, he saw the sleek, black shape of a vintage car inside. It looked like an old Lagonda touring car from the 1930s and the polished chrome gleamed back at him in the torchlight.


"Hey!" a man's voice yelled, "what are you doing?" Startled, Fernando lost his footing and stepped back to fall on the other side of the wall. He landed on prickles: a rose bush it turned out. "You idiot!" the voice continued, agitated and angry, "I'll call the Police!"


"No, don't!" Fernando said, trying to extricate himself with dignity, "Gas Company, here!" He fumbled in his pocket for his fake ID, found it, and held it up for the man. "There's a report of a gas leak in the neighbourhood. I need to check the house."


"I see," the man said, still suspicious, "and you get no answer? Is it standard practice to go peering into windows?"


"No, sir. I was trying to find someone to let me in."


"He's gone out... you just missed him. I heard his car not more than ten minutes ago."


"Mrs Ramcke?" Fernando asked.


"She won't answer the door," he explained, "she suffers from severe agoraphobia, I believe. Never seen her. Been here ten years and I've never seen her."


"That so?"


"Nope, never leaves the house!"


"I need to get in," Fernando told the man, "there could be danger!"


"Can't help you there," the man shrugged, "you have a pass key?"


"Sure."


"Won't help you. They put in security last month: dead locks, sensors everywhere, keypads for this and that. I tell you, a mouse couldn't get into that place. He's some bigwig at the BFU, y'know, apparently there's been threats or something. I don't know too much about it."


Fernando thanked the neighbour and retreated to his car. He called Ella and passed on the news.


"Wierd," she told him, "poor woman! Maybe only 5% of cases are that severe. No wonder Ramcke's such a cold fish!"


Ella Hernandez turned off her cellphone and left her hotel room. She wasn't sure what her next move was going to be. She'd thought to get Ramcke out of his house for a couple of hours to give Fernando time to check out the place, but her sidekick had drawn a blank. She shivered at the thought of having to entertain Ramcke for no apparent purpose.


The man had few social skills, no sense of humour to speak of, and his conversation lacked the sparkle and challenge she enjoyed. Sure, he fancied her, but that was business as usual for Ella. She specialised in sexual allure; it was how she gained control over her subject.


But she felt she'd pretty much played the German investigator out and she'd little left to learn. A wife suffering from agoraphobia, and subsequently housebound since whenever, explained a lot about his character. Only someone with immense amounts of self-discipline and control would cope with such a situation. 'And,' she reminded herself, 'love.'


According to Ramcke, his wife didn't like being touched. That would indicate  an obsessive-compulsive disorder of some kind. If so, his wife would appear to be a psychological mess and their relationship bound to entertain psych students for many months.


'Oh well!' she thought, riding down the elevator, 'perhaps I'll find out something after he's had a few shots of scotch!'


The doors opened and she spotted him across the lobby. His eyes darted around, looking. They were eyes full of expectation. Ella shrugged her shoulders, sighed, then waved out to him.


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'Santisima Trinidada' had been the name of a four deck, 136 gun, Spanish ship of the line at Trafalgar. The battle of Trafalgar had held a fascination for Ben Shepherd when he was a boy: which was why he'd decided to pass through there all those years ago in the Dodge van. 'Santisima Trinidada' meant 'Holy Trinity' and the ship had been one of the largest in the World in its day. By contrast, the town had been tiny and dying.


'Holy Trinity' was an ironic name for the modern resort. It seemed a travesty to call the place by words so closely linked to the Catholic Church. Christian worship seemed furtherest in the minds of droves of young holiday makers who flocked to the wide, open beach on the shore of the Pacific Ocean.


Ben observed many of the women were sunbathing topless. A small inlet around the coast a little had been provided for those who wished to go completely nude. The local Police adopted an altogether relaxed attitude. That is not to say that everything was open slather in Trinidada. Fights were broken up swiftly and the guilty hauled off to jail. Visitors and locals were expected to treat each other with respect. But, if someone wanted to get wasted on Tijuana Gold, drink themselves into a coma, or frolic naked in the surf and caused no harm to anyone else, then that was tolerated.


Emilie accompanied Ben down to the beach. She wore a brief, red bikini with a leather bag slung over her shoulder. In the bag was her machine pistol with two spare magazines. 'Enough,' Ben thought, 'to clear most of the beach.'


"Why the artillery?" he asked, "expecting trouble?"


"Pray for peace," she replied, "prepare for war."


"Who told you that?"


"Mom. She's good, y'know. She could knock that guy off his board at 200 yards without missing her stride," she pointed to a distant surfer, "and you wouldn't hear the shot... even standing right next to her."


"I'll remember that!" he replied, shivering.    


Emilie was a tall, bikini-clad, pretty blond on a beach thronged with the same. The scent of suntan lotion pervaded the atmosphere, drifting inland on the weak sea breeze. A beach vollyball game was in progress, their excited voices had American accents. Their bodies appeared shaped by the best efforts of surgical and dietary science.


"So, Sugardaddy," Emilie said, "where do you want to start?" 


"I dunno," Ben replied, "I'm outa practice. This seems to be like Spring Break. They seem barely out of their teens."


"Probably," she agreed, "there's a coupla tourist bars down the beach. Maybe you'll find something you like there?"


A beachball arrowed in towards Emilie. It was thrown by a couple of young guys nearby and, no doubt, designed to attract the pretty girl's attention. With one movement, Emilie caught the ball and slung it back with sufficient force and accuracy to catch the thrower full on the face and send him reeling.


"Hey, bitch!" his friend snarled, "whatareyadoin'?" The guy advanced towards Emilie posturing and clearly drunk. Ben stepped aside, in no doubt at all what was going to happen. As the guy came within range, Emilie lashed out with her foot and caught him right under the jaw. As Ben looked on, the boy's head snapped back and he fell in a heap on the ground. Emilie barely missed her stride. Her face betrayed no fear or look of triumph, and she picked up the conversation with Ben as though nothing had happened. 


"'Fidel's' is the best one," Emilie continued, "caters for the older crowd. 'El Montana' is where all the American college students go and there's another one further on called 'Rittmeister'."


"Rittmeister?' A strange name for a Mexican bar?"


"Yeah! Daddy owns it. It's got pictures of the Red Baron and stuff on the wall..."


As Emilie described the various bars along the street, Ben saw that things were going to get ugly. The two young men Emilie had dropped had gathered a number of their drunken friends together and were following the two of them down the beach, shouting. The girl was unconcerned and Ben thought she hadn't noticed. "Don't worry about them," she smiled, noticing him looking behind.


Presently, the girl spun around, gun in hand, and fired a short burst in the air. A shower of brown glass was all that was left of the projectile as she shot a half-full beer bottle out of the sky as effectively as any skeet shooter. The drunks stopped and gaped as Emilie commanded them to pick up all the pieces of glass. 


Warily, they advanced, staring at the machine pistol, and began to search through the sand on their knees for the errant dangerous litter. Ben had to laugh.


"'The Rittmeister' sounds great!" he told her.


"Cool!" she said, "this way."


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KATZMAREK ©


                                                                                                                                                                                                                                            