Stories of the Confederated Star Systems (8 page)

“Aye, Ma’am,” the sentry snapped, but she was already past.

Striding through the
Wells’
passageways, she made her way to the bridge and pressed the ship-wide announcing system stud. “Now hear this, now here this. This is the captain. All leaves and passes are cancelled. Begin preparations for immediate departure. Senior staff to the wardroom. Now, people!”

The sound of scurrying feet echoed through the vessel as the crew jumped to obey their captain. She seldom used that tone of voice, but when she did she was obeyed instantly. Making her own way to the wardroom, she found the XO and Navigator already there. “We wait for Tempelton and Jarred, then lock the door. Of all the…” the captain stopped herself from finishing the comment as the Engineer and Temporal System’s Officer entered together. Captain Reordan motioned to seats, and then locked the door herself.

“Kellin, run this,” she instructed, tossing the disk with their orders to Commander Frazier. He did as instructed, and the staff of the
H.G. Wells
watched as a story that might as well have been written by the man who had given their ship his name unfolded. At the end the captain spoke.

“You now know as much as I do. Lady Leslie’s wish is our command. We depart as soon as everyone is back aboard. Templeton,” she said, turning toward Lieutenant Deeson, “begin your calculations. I want the best temporal plot that you can give me. It would really ruin our reputation if we ran into ourselves over Japan on August 6 or August 9, 1945. Though we probably wouldn’t have time to notice.”

Her weak joke about the dangers of existing in two places at the same time fell flat. They were all aware of the immediate and deadly consequences. That they were sitting there contemplating the error was of no comfort. If they made the error now, then history would adjust itself so that they had never come back from the previous mission. The paradox of time travel was one that nature would not abide.

The
H.G. Wells
left Space Dock Three seven hours later, still missing three ratings who could not be recovered. One was hospitalized, while the other two had been unreachable in one of Earth’s few remaining wild areas. Captain Reordan fumed at the loss, but secretly wished that
she
had thought of that.

The
Wells
made her way out of the system south of the plane of the ecliptic, rather than taking her accustomed path north. The captain had agreed with her TSO that the greatest safety lay in not doing the same things as usual. As the temporal flux drew the ship through the barriers of time and space, the captain reflected that there were reasons that no timeship was sent to the same year twice.

The emergence into normal space was marked by the cessation of the violent shaking that accompanied time travel. “Get me a fix immediately,” the captain ordered unnecessarily. Her crewmen and women were all well trained professionals who were just as interested in getting home as she was.

“Earth, early to mid Twentieth Century. We are analyzing radio broadcasts for…there we go. December 4
^th
, 1945. Right on the button.” Lieutenant Deeson turned and smiled at his captain.

“Keep it up, Templeton. XO, maintain condition ZEBRA. I have a very bad feeling about this mission.”

Commander Frazier looked at his captain with a questioning expression, but obeyed when she didn’t elaborate. Condition ZEBRA was the highest level of damage control readiness, and was normally set only during battle to temporal transit. “Aye, Ma’am.”

The night passed quietly as the crew of the
Wells
waited for morning to reach the North American east coast. Fort Lauderdale was located, and the sensors began recording everything that they could about the primitive world beneath them. At 1410 local time, the last of the five planes that they had come to observe took to the air and the saga began.

The planes headed east, and history recorded their goal as Chicken and Hen Shoals, fifty-six miles from Fort Lauderdale on a course of 091. Once there one plane went low and circled as the other four climbed and began bombing runs against a derelict ship. This continued for nearly twenty minutes before the planes departed on the same course again. Their second historical goal was Great Stirrup Cay, one hundred thirteen miles from Fort Lauderdale. This leg also went without any problem, and the flight turned north at 1510 on a course of 346 true. At 1550 the first message that history recorded of the incident was reported.

“Powers, what does your compass read? Powers? What does your compass read? I don’t know where we are. We must have got lost after the last turn.”

Lieutenant Robert Cox, an instructor pilot with another flight, FT 74, heard the message at the same time as the
Wells
, and sent the message on to Fort Lauderdale.
“Fox Tare seven four. Fox Tare 74 to Nan How Able One, Nan How Able One, there seems to be either a boat or plane lost and is calling Powers. Suggest you inform tower of it. Over.”

Operation Radio, Fort Lauderdale, call sign NHA-1, answered immediately.
“Nan How Able One, Roger.”

Lieutenant Cox then tried to contact the calling aircraft.
“This is Fox Tare 74, plane or boat calling Powers, please identify yourself so someone can help you.”

Fort Lauderdale’s radio called Lieutenant Cox with a request for more information.
“Nan How Able One to FT-74. Tower asks if they have any recognition or identification . . .do they have any recognition?”

Lieutenant Cox replied,
“Negative. Not as yet known.”

“Flight 19,” Commander Frazier muttered. “Don’t you people know each other?”

“Sss!” hissed the sensor tech, grimacing in apology for hissing at the XO.

Commander Frazier grimaced on his own, but in embarrassment, not anger, and shrugged.

Lieutenant Cox and the
Wells
overheard more inner-flight chatter moments later.
“Does anyone have any suggestions? . . .I think we must be over the Keys.”

Lieutenant Cox tried again to contact the lost men.
“This is FT-74 calling lost plane or boats. Please identify yourself? Over.”

He finally received an answer at 1611, but it was ambiguous.
“Roger, this is MT-28.”

“MT-28?” Captain Reordan asked softly. “I thought I heard FT-28.”

“Records show that’s correct, Sir, but their radios aren’t as sensitive as ours,” Commander Reordan answered just as softly. “This may be the first mistake of many.”

“MT-28, this is FT-74, what is your trouble?”
Lieutenant Cox answered, relieved that he was finally in contact with the lost men.

The voice that was now identified as Lieutenant Charles Carroll Taylor, USNR, replied,
“Both my compasses are out and I am trying to find Fort Lauderdale, Florida. I am over land, but it’s broken. I’m sure I’m in the Keys, but I don’t know how far down and I don’t know how to get to Fort Lauderdale.”

There was less tension in Lieutenant Cox’s voice as he spoke this time. Now he at least had an idea of how to help lead this man to land
. “MT-28, this is FT-74. Put the sun on your port wing if you are in the Keys and fly up the coast until you get to Miami, then Fort Lauderdale is 20 miles further, your first port after Miami. The air station is directly on your left from the port. What is your present altitude? I will fly south and meet you.”

Lieutenant Taylor’s reply was clear.
“I know where I am at now. I’m at twenty-three hundred feet. Don’t come after me.”

Lieutenant Cox’s reply was just as clear.
“MT-28, roger. I’m coming up to meet you anyhow.”

“Well at least one pilot down there is competent,” Commander Frazer commented sourly, earning a glare from his captain.

Fort Lauderdale radio called Lieutenant Cox then, asking for clarification of the earlier message.
“FT-74, this is Nan How Able One. Is the call sign of your contact MT-28 or FT-28?”

Lieutenant Cox immediately requested the information.
“MT-28 this is FT-74. Please verify. Are you MT-28 or FT-28? Over.”

Lieutenant Taylor radioed the information, along with a request.
“Roger, that’s FT-28. FT-74, can you have Miami or someone turn on their radar gear and pick us up? We don’t seem to be getting far. We were out on a navigational hop and on the second leg I thought they were going wrong so I took over and was flying them back to the right position, but I’m sure now that neither one of my compasses are working.”

Lieutenant Cox’s voice held a touch of exasperated humor as he replied.
“FT-28, you can’t expect to get here in ten minutes. You have a 30 to 35 knot head or cross wind. Turn on your emergency IFF gear, or do you have it on?”

A somewhat subdued,
“Negative,”
was Taylor’s reply.

Lieutenant Cox decided then to pass on the information to Fort Lauderdale.
“Nan How Able One, this is FT-74. Flight of 5 planes leader is FT-28. He has his emergency IFF equipment on. Requests if he can be picked up on Fort Lauderdale radar gear.”

Fort Lauderdale radio replied moments later.
“FT-74, Nan How Able One. Negative. He cannot be picked up on Fort Lauderdale radar gear.”

“FT-74 Roger. Standby,”
Cox answered, then contacted Taylor.
“FT-28, this is FT-74. Turn on your ZBX . . . FT-28, do you read? Turn on your ZBX.”

“ZBX?” Lieutenant DeBaron asked from his station at the sensors. “What’s that?”

“Homing device,” the sensor tech answered softly.

At 1622 Fort Lauderdale radio again contacted Lieutenant Cox with instructions for Taylor.
“FT-74, this is Nan How Able One, tell FT-28 to have a pilot with a good compass take over lead. Over.”

Lieutenant Cox acknowledged and passed on the message.
“Roger. FT-28, this is FT-74. Have a wingman with a good compass take over lead of flight. Over.”

Lieutenant Taylor’s reply was garbled and all but unintelligible to Lieutenant Cox as well as the
Wells
, with only the word
“radar,”
being clear enough to understand.

Lieutenant Cox immediately tried to reestablish contact.
“FT-28, your transmissions are fading. Something is wrong. What is your altitude?”

Lieutenant Taylor’s reply of,
“I am at forty-five hundred feet,”
was clear of the previous interference.

Lieutenant Cox’s next few transmissions were on different frequencies, but he settled down once he was in contact with Fort Lauderdale again.
“Nan How Able One, this is FT-74. He is now on a new heading. Angels 4.5 and climbing.”

Now a new voice joined the transmissions.
“Nan How Able Three to FT-28: This is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country . . . can you read us?”

Captain Reordan looked at Commander Frazier with a question plane to see in her eyes. The commander quickly reviewed his notes and nodded. “NHA-3 is the Air Rescue Unit #4, stationed at Port Everglades. The phrase seems to be from some play or speech, and is used as a standard radio check.”

Captain Reordan’s raised eyebrows and shrug were an eloquent reply.

Lieutenant Taylor’s reply was almost heartening.
“Affirmative. We have just passed over small island. We have no other land in sight. Visibility is 10 to 12 miles.”

“I am at angles 3.5. Have on Emergency IFF. Does anybody in the area have a radar screen that could pick us up?”

Port Everglades either didn’t hear the request, or ignored it.
“FT-28, this is Nan How Able Three. Suggest you have another plane in your flight with a good compass take over the lead and guide you back to the mainland.”

Lieutenant Taylor replied with a simple
“Roger.”

Lieutenant Taylor followed up that reply a few minutes later with the message,
“FT-28 to Nan How Able Three, one of the planes in the flight thinks if we went 270 we could hit land.”

“We went out on a heading of 120. On the second leg of the hop I took over because I thought they were going wrong, but now I know it’s my compasses that were wrong.”

Port Everglades called back immediately.
“Nan How Able Three to FT-28. Do you have a YG disk for homing DF?”

“DF? What’s DF?” Lieutenant DeBaron asked, his face twisted into a puzzled frown.

“Direction Finding, Mr. Sensor Officer, sir,” the sensor tech answered in a less than respectful tone of voice. “They had to home in on ground-based radio transmitters and triangulate their position as well as they could. They didn’t even have a primitive GPS system until late in the century.”

“Get stuffed,” DeBaron muttered softly, so that only the tech heard.

Lieutenant Taylor’s voice came over the communications speaker at that moment, drowning out Lieutenant DeBaron.
“FT-28 to Nan How Able Three. We are heading 030 for 45 minutes, then we will fly north to make sure we are not over the Gulf of Mexico.”

Another pilot spoke, not identifying himself. “Should I drop the last of my bombs now? “

Lieutenant Taylor answered,
“By all means.”

Fort Lauderdale called Taylor, but didn’t receive an answer. “
Nan How Able One to FT-28, please turn on your ZBX. Repeat, turn on ZBX. Over.”

When Lieutenant Taylor failed to respond to Fort Lauderdale, Port Everglades repeated the call.
“Nan How Able Three to FT-28, please turn on your ZBX. Repeat, please turn on ZBX”

When that message also failed to receive a response, it was broadcasted to all planes.
“Nan How Able Three to any Fox Tare in flight with Fox Tare Twenty-eight, turn on your ZBX. Over.”

Lieutenant Taylor apparently didn’t hear the message, nor did any of his flight. Taylor’s voice came again, ordering his men together.
“All planes in this flight join up in close formation.”
Moments later, he continued.
“How long have we gone now?”