Stories of the Confederated Star Systems

by Jones, Loren K.

  Old Earth, Atlantic Ocean off of the coast of Florida, May, 2670, Earth Maritime Patrol Salvage Vessel SS Otter, Lieutenant Commander Haugen commanding.

  “Ma’am, we have the beacon that the scavenger left. Our readings match their reported stats. Computer is giving us a ninety percent match on an Avenger type aircraft.”

  The captain sighed. The Earth Maritime Patrol had inherited all of the old earth national navies, and with them the graves of the lost. “Very well. Begin recovery operations. Anything else on the sensors?”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” the sensor tech answered, surprising his captain. “There are two more deposits with the same configuration within a kilometer of this location.”

  The captain sat forward. “Look for any more. I want a detailed analysis of the wreckage as soon as possible. Begin recovery procedures on the other two as well.”

  “Aye, Ma’am,” the bridge staff answered, setting up automatic sequences that would take them to the other wrecks.

  Seven hours later the captain had her answer. The executive officer knocked at her stateroom door and came in before she could answer. “Ma’am, these airplanes are definitely TBM Avengers. The engine blocks are corroded, but we have been able to recover the serial numbers. The first plane was registered as United States Navy TBM-1C, tail number FT-81, BuNo 46325, lost December 5th, 1945, piloted by Marine 2nd Lieutenant Forrest James Gerber. The second plane was United States Navy TBM-1E, tail number FT-36, BuNo 46094, lost December 5th, 1945, piloted by Marine Captain Edward Joseph Powers, Jr. The third plane was United States Navy TBM-1C, tail number FT-117, BuNo 73209, lost December 5th, 1945, piloted by Marine Captain George William Stivers Jr. And ma’am, the computer spit something else out about these planes. They were all part of a training flight out of United States of America Naval Air Station, Fort Lauderdale, Florida, designated as Flight Nineteen. They’re part of the Bermuda Triangle legend.”

  The captain stared at her exec as if he were demented. “The Bermuda Triangle? I thought that kind of superstition died out hundreds of years ago.”

  “Yes, Ma’am, it did. But the fate of the five planes in Flight Nineteen was never discovered.”

  “Until now. Very well, XO, make a report.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Yes?”

  “What do you suppose happened to the other two?”

  The captain thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Who cares? It’s been over six hundred years. Maybe another scavenger will turn them up.”

  Old Earth, Temporal Directorate, June 2670, Temporal Directorate Council Session.

  Senior Councilor Danival Javonich of the Temporal Directorate slammed both hands down on the table to silence his companions. “This isn’t about ancient superstitions! It’s about the fate of fourteen men who were lost without a trace in an incident that sparked the imaginations of adventurers and writers for more than a century.”

  “And we have an answer. They crashed, and it’s no wonder,” Senior Councilor Garret Caruth said as he glared at the rest. “It’s amazing that they ever got those crates off of the ground. How any of them avoided crashing is the mystery.”

  First Lady of the Temporal Directorate Leslie Roberts tapped the table with her fingers. The room became instantly silent. Her proper title, if she weren’t such a crotchety old broad, was Lady Princess Leslie Ann Elisabeth Courtney DelRios Roberts, youngest daughter of King Eldon Del Rios of Hector’s World. Her father had been king, as had her brother, and her nephew was the present King. Her first husband had been Prince Rupert of Andersen’s Planet. After she divorced him, she married Lord Admiral Roberts, First Lord of the Admiralty. Her son was Eric Roberts, the current President of the Confederacy. It was joked, in private, that it was safer to get in a spitting contest with a cobra than a pissing contest with Lady Leslie. She was the only one who thought it was funny. Lady Leslie was the eldest member of the directorate, and had been one of its founding members nine years before. She was old, small, wizened, and feared by all. Her word was law, and the councilors were only there as her advisors.

  “I wish to know more. Send the Wells.”

  I wish to know more. Those simple words, spoken softly by an old woman, ended all discussion. “As you command, Lady Roberts,” the five men intoned together.

  First Lord of the Admiralty Devero Kenyon’s office, Confederated Star Systems Space Force Headquarters, the next day.

  “Captain Erica Reordan of the Temporal Cruiser CSS H.G. Wells, reporting as ordered,” Captain Reordan said to the identiplate as she stood at the door. It opened and she was surprised to find Lord Kenyon standing in front of her.

  “Come in, Erica. There is something that I have to tell you before I give you this assignment.”

  Captain Reordan blinked several times in rapid succession then nodded. “Of course, Lord Kenyon.”

  “There is very little about this assignment that could be referred to as ‘of course.’ Sit here,” he instructed, motioning to his own chair. “Sit back and watch this.” He pressed a button and took a seat to the side as Captain Reordan watched the presentation.

  “The Mystery of the Bermuda Triangle, Flight Nineteen,” a well-trained narrator’s voice said as pictures of ancient Earth began flashing. An hour later the presentation ended with the words “…the fate of Flight Nineteen has never been discovered.”

  “Until now,” Lord Kenyon said, startling her. “Last year a scavenger found three of the planes from Flight Nineteen. The other two are still missing, in spite of a massive search. Lady Roberts herself is giving you this assignment. Go to Old Earth, December 5th, 1945, and answer this question: What happened to Flight Nineteen?”

  Confederated Star Systems Space Dock Three, nine hours later

  Captain Reordan walked briskly through the corridors of Space Dock Three, mechanically returning the salutes that she received without conscious thought. Her orders were held in one tightly clenched fist, while the other hand flexed obsessively around nothing.

  The Marine sentry at the Wells’ airlock snapped to attention as she came into view, but she hardly noticed. “Corporal,” she began as soon as she was within easy range, “all leaves and passes are canceled. Recall the crew immediately. Don’t let anyone else leave.”

  “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 shipwide 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 histo
ry 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 4th, 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.