One Thousand Years

by Randolph Beck

  — George Orwell, author and journalist, (May 19, 1944)

  Friday, May 19, 1944

  Pounding into the atmosphere, this was the first time McHenry could physically feel the hull's vibration within the Tiger. This was a surprise. The simulations had never hinted at this. He fell back on his earlier training in Tuskegee, where he had learned to trust his instruments, and they looked good. This was the first time he could sense that he was moving— even a little bit — and that felt good.

  But he didn't know that the ship could take it. He worried about the unterkarbon net, known as it was for being fragile. For the first time, he thought more seriously about the lack of a full test. The Luftwaffe must have had these inspection and test protocols for a good reason. At this point, the only thing he could do was hold on and pray.

  A heat dissipation warning appeared on the forward dome's alert panel. Göring could detect him now, he knew. No matter, he thought. A seasoned Tiger pilot could have avoided this but he didn't have time for a full pre-atmospheric braking. Besides, he was counting on being sighted. Once, anyway.

  He was passing far above the western United States, heading northwest. More warnings appeared that radio sensors were out while transiting the ionosphere. This was also normal. He'd seen it in every simulation. The picture of the Earth remained the same, the Tiger's rechners using whatever sensors remained to display as much as possible.

  He adjusted the dome to display only visuals. This was America at night. It was dark below, and long past midnight. Away from the coasts, there were no lights-out policies, but even the busiest and brightest cities had long gone to sleep. No matter, he needed to see America as a free man again.

  He turned on the indicators again. Soon, the warnings disappeared. He let it continue for another full minute on this course. Not being certain how good Göring's sensors might be, there could be no taking chances.

  Then, after a quick check on the status of his ship, he brought the navigation panel to the top of the dome, and initiated his second set of coordinates. The Tiger's course shifted abruptly southward. He would be landing in Hawaii.

  The plan was crazy, he knew. Once in Hawaii, it would be a more difficult trip back to the mainland. But his initial landing would not be picked up by Göring. If he was quick enough, his pursuers would need to access a satellite, and that might buy him time to disappear. He had no idea how much time, but it might be his only shot. The only certainty was, he would get caught eventually.

  He unlatched the seat, and swung himself around to see the west coast of the United States receding behind him, wondering whether he would ever see it again.

  *

  At 100 kilometers out, McHenry switched to a telescopic view of the airfield. This was much larger than his base in Italy. He slowed his approach while scanning the hangars with an infrared view, letting the autopilot slowly approach the airfield. He needed an empty hangar large enough to accommodate his Tiger. Finally, he spotted one by a squadron of dual-engine C-47 cargo aircraft.

  The base appeared almost like it was abandoned. He slowed his approach to under 1,000 kilometers per hour, and began circling the field. To his left, he saw Pearl Harbor and its Battleship Row, also strangely quiet. A closer scan showed some activity, a man standing watch here and there, and a few cars. But there were very few people. None of the ships were loading, unloading or moving. Then zooming his view back on Hickam Field again, he noticed that none of the aircraft were flying. Finally, he saw some activity at a bomber squadron. It looked like a single B-24 was being preflighted. This was hardly what one would expect in the middle of a war.

  It was when searching for the barracks, and trying to see through the walls, that he realized his error and laughed at himself. He'd been staring at the Tiger's night vision for so long that he forgot it was night. There would be very few flight operations at this hour.

  Now grinning, he used the Tiger's rechner to bring him back to the C-47 squadron he found.

  There were two men on watch here. He held back a few moments to time their pacing, now hovering well above the two-hundred meters needed to maintain invisibility. It was not the Americans he was hiding from. The base radar was never going to detect him, and he had the cloak of night even without the unterkarbon net around him. The real danger was still above.

  He began the dive toward the hangar as each man had turned away. A warning sounded. The ground was affecting the unterkarbon's stealth field as the altitude passed below 150 and then 100 meters. The visibility level status turned red, and then an audible alarm spoke in German. He ignored them all. He simply swerved into the hangar, gracefully retracting the newly repaired unterkarbon net as the Tiger entered. The only adjustment needed was to angle sideways to fit into the short hangar. He extended the landing gear at the last second. The Luftwaffe pilots could not have done better, he thought. Test flight completed.

  It was night outside. The view was illuminated by the Tiger's night-vision equipment. McHenry wasn't sure how to get the local time but he estimated sometime between midnight and three o'clock in the morning.

  He opened the hatch, and allowed the ladder to extract while enjoying the mild breeze of Hawaiian air. There was a hint of an oil and gasoline smell to it, which he had missed since his capture. He stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dark.

  He thought again of chocks, set the emergency kit down by the ladder, and went about a quick post-flight inspection. Somebody was going to be back for the Tiger, and it would be better for them, and for him, if it was still in good shape. He was at the landing gear when he heard a shout. A soldier on watch came running into the hangar, with a whistle in one hand, and an M1 rifle in the other.

  “Easy, soldier,” McHenry barked. Then as the man approached, in a more normal tone, he spoke the words he had been planning during the flight. “I am Lieutenant McHenry of the 99th Fighter Squadron. This is a captured aircraft. It is to remain top secret. My presence here is to remain top secret.”

  The young private lowered his rifle but didn't say anything.

  Another private, with a rifle and a flashlight, came running in to meet them.

  “I am Lieutenant McHenry, 99th Fighter Squadron,” McHenry repeated, stepping away from the landing gear. “This captured aircraft is to remain top secret. My presence here is to remain top secret.”

  The two men looked to McHenry, then to the smooth shape of the Tiger with its black exterior, back to McHenry, and then back to the Tiger. One of them pointed his flashlight on the subtle gray Luftwaffe markings.

  “Wake the duty officer,” McHenry ordered. “You are to contact no one else. You are not to use a radio or your phone. You are not to let anyone else discuss my presence by radio or phone. This is top secret.”

  The soldiers still said nothing. Astounded, shy, or simply disrespectful, McHenry couldn't know. But it didn't matter. This was one of the times when he just didn't care.

  “Do you understand me?” McHenry asked firmly. It was more an order than a question.

  Finally, the first soldier looked to the other, who nodded, and then looked back to McHenry again. “Yes, sir. We'd better take you to Lt. Donaldson.”

  The duty office was in a different hangar, a long walk made longer by the fact that his time was limited. McHenry let the first man, Private Williams, lead the way, and then walked briskly in that direction. The other, Private Dalton, followed behind.

  A C-47 cargo aircraft was parked inside the main hangar. Even in the faint light, he recognized repair marks indicative of patched-up bullet holes — a reminder that cargo aircraft are valuable targets. Perfect overseas transport, too.

  Once inside the duty office, Private Dalton went into a back room to wake the lieutenant. The office was spartan. The furniture looked small. It was startling to be again in the company of men about his own height.

  McHenry could hear a groggy voice, and then Dalton talking about a Negro officer and a Nazi zeppelin. When he heard that, McHenry made his way t
hrough the door.

  “That must be a blimp,” said the lieutenant. “A zeppelin wouldn't fit into these hangars.”

  “It's neither,” McHenry interrupted. “Look, I don't have time for this. I'm on a top secret mission. Could we speak privately?”

  First Lieutenant Donaldson, wearing pilot wings, was blond and tall, like an American version of Vinson but only about McHenry's height rather than in excess of seven feet.

  “You apparently had time to pull your aircraft, blimp, or whatever it is, into another squadron's hangar,” said Donaldson. He looked as though he was sizing McHenry up as well, scanning up and down at McHenry's immaculate, apparently too-crisply pressed uniform. “Can I see your orders?”

  “I don't have any. This is a special circumstance.”

  Donaldson fixed his eyes on McHenry's pilot wings. “Are you really a pilot?”

  “Yes. My name is First Lieutenant Sam McHenry. 99th Fighter Squadron.”

  “What did you train on? Did you fly the BT-13?”

  “Yes, in training.” He wondered what Donaldson was getting at.

  “What's the service ceiling?”

  “What?”

  “The service ceiling. You ought to know that one in your sleep.”

  Now he understood Donaldson's intention. Tuskegee seemed like a lifetime ago now, but those numbers that had been drilled into his head. He recited from memory, “twenty-one thousand, six hundred and fifty feet.”

  “Yup. You're an Army pilot,” Donaldson said more cheerfully.

  McHenry relaxed a bit. He was impressed with Donaldson. His plan needed somebody like him, although he didn't want someone so close to where he parked the Tiger. Still, he didn't have much time, and he could do worse in finding help.

  Donaldson waved the men outside, and then his face took a more serious tone.

  “I believe you're a pilot, and I believe you're an officer. I don't believe any cockamamie story about you being on a secret mission, but I didn't want to argue with you in front of the men. Look at that uniform you're wearing. Nobody outside of Washington irons their shirts that way for a utility uniform unless they've got you serving some generals' coffee.”

  “I don't care whether you fully believe me or not. You can have my aircraft, for all it will do you, but I don't recommend being too close. The Reich — that is the Nazis — are coming back for it.”

  “In Hawaii? I hardly think they'll be invading Pearl.”

  “Think what you like. They'll be here sooner than you think. I only need two things: Assistance getting out of here, and secrecy. You can't inform anyone of my presence by radio or phone.”

  “That's a no-can-do,” said Donaldson. He shook his head and reached for the phone on the desk.

  Startled, McHenry jumped for it, yanking the line out of the wall. Donaldson grabbed the base of the phone, and tried to kick McHenry away. Both were quickly on the floor, but McHenry eased back when the two privates came rushing in, Private Dalton aiming the muzzle of his rifle at his face.

  “Sit down in that chair!” Donaldson demanded, rising to his feet, and feeling his face for injuries.

  McHenry complied. “I didn't want that, but you cannot use the phone. This is more important than you know.”

  Donaldson grabbed his hat, and looked to Dalton. “Keep an eye on him.”

  “Don't make any phone calls,” McHenry insisted.

  “I'm not doing anything until I take a look at your blimp.”

  “Donaldson!” McHenry called. “There's a radio — of sorts — sitting by the ladder. Bring it back with you.”

  Donaldson nodded, then gestured to the other private, and the two went outside through the dark hangar.

  *

  Alone with Private Dalton, McHenry looked up and noticed a clock showing two-forty-five. He regretted the time he'd wasted here, and the additional time before he could get out. Any flights to the States would probably be leaving early in the morning. He knew he only had a few hours.

  Dalton lowered his rifle and reached into a wastebasket. He pulled out a newspaper and tossed it to McHenry. “Here's a Negro paper some passenger left behind.”

  Was he making a subtle racist jab, McHenry wondered, or was that a genuine attempt to be polite? He decided it best to play aloof and disinterested. He looked at the masthead. It was the Chicago Defender. “Thank you, Private. I'll look at it later.”

  Dalton nodded and went to a radio that sat atop a cabinet. It was large, bulky, and primitive-looking to McHenry, now that he'd seen the future. After it warmed up, the soldier turned the knob to find a station broadcasting at this hour.

  “I'd like to hear the latest news, if there is any,” McHenry said, trying to sound more at ease.

  “That's fine with me,” he said. Then, thinking better, he added, “Sir.” Presently, he found a station reciting sports scores.

  McHenry looked back to the clock. It shouldn't have taken so long. He wondered if Donaldson was playing with the controls. It might solve so many problems if the Tiger could just explode.

  The voice on the radio was now talking about the war. It was the victory at Monte Cassino again. Nothing new to McHenry. Then the reporter was talking about Germany, playing brief clips of Roosevelt and Churchill. Then he heard Hitler shouting on the radio.

  Without thinking, McHenry rose to attention. He quickly realized his faux pas, but not quickly enough to avoid generating a look of puzzlement from Dalton. Before he could think of something to say, Donaldson returned, the emergency kit in his hand, and a friendlier look on his face. He ordered Dalton outside.

  “Let's start over,” he said. “Call me Ward.”

  McHenry shook the man's outstretched hand, deciding then that it's best to tell the real story. Or, most of the real story. Secrecy would serve him well. “I'm Sam.”

  “I see the Luftwaffe emblem,” said Donaldson. “I know it's not a zeppelin. I know it's not a rocket. What is it, and how did you get it, and why is it here?”

  “I'll be frank with you,” McHenry said. “I'm not on a secret mission. I just wasn't sure you would believe the whole truth.”

  “Try it.”

  “I'll start from the beginning. I am a pilot in the 99th Fighter Squadron. We're in the Mediterranean Theater. I was flying out of Italy.”

  “I heard about you guys. There's an article about your squadron in that Negro paper. You're a long way from where you're supposed to be.”

  “I had to ditch into the sea in April. Engine trouble. I would have been killed but I was rescued by Nazis.” McHenry paused here, unsure. Was seeing the outside of the Tiger really enough that Donaldson would believe him? He went this far. He might as well say it. “But these Nazis were from the future.”

  “That's a time machine?” Donaldson laughed, without the slightest pause, having gone in an instant from receptive to skeptical to dismissive. “There won't be Nazis in the future, Sam. The war in Europe will be over by Christmas. We're not going to lose.”

  “It's worse than losing. We're giving up. They'll get a negotiated settlement.”

  Donaldson was now going from dismissive to outright angry. “The President will never settle. Those defeatists begging for a peace settlement have already been exposed for what they are. They really don't care about peace at all. Half of them are outright Nazi sympathizers. The other half simply hate the Roosevelt administration.”

  “Roosevelt will be dead of a stroke in a couple of weeks,” McHenry said grimly. But as distressing as Donaldson's disbelief was, McHenry noticed — and appreciated — the anger behind his words. This was a man who could fight, not just now, but in the future when it mattered.

  “Vice President Wallace wouldn't settle either,” Donaldson said slowly. It was a half-hearted statement but McHenry was still losing him for the moment.

  “I'm guessing you didn't go inside the ship.”

  “I didn't see how to open a hatch. I gave it a long walkaround.”

  “That's how I got this uniform,” Mc
Henry said quickly. He was going to open the emergency kit. The display functions would surely convince anybody, but then he looked again at his uniform. “The material itself looks the same as ours but it's not like the real ones at all. It's tough. It never wrinkles. Coffee stains come right out. I've worn this for a couple of days, and it feels fresh, like I just took it off the clothesline.”

  Donaldson looked more dismissive.

  “Let me show you something,” McHenry said. “Let's compare wings.” He opened his jacket, reached inside his shirt and pulled the clasps off the pilot wings from his shirt. Donaldson hesitated only for a moment. His eyes noticeably widened when McHenry's shirt stretched so easily. His own shirt had to be unbuttoned in order to pull off his own wings.

  “Compare the silver. Try bending mine. You've never seen metal as strong and as light as this,” said McHenry, letting Donaldson hold both sets of wings. The normal wings were not that heavy. It was a small piece of metal. But the advanced material of McHenry's wings were so noticeably lighter. He was confident Donaldson would believe it all now.

  *

  “The American had been detected entering the atmosphere,” said Hamilton. “The flight path leads to China.”

  “That's all?” asked Dale from the back seat.

  “This was seventy-five minutes ago,” said Hamilton. He detached the satellite connection. “He's invisible again. He may not have made a landing. We will be able to find him when we're closer in.”

  Bamberg switched the dome from nav to sensor mode. They would be hitting atmosphere soon, and he wanted one more look at the full display. “Who here thinks McHenry is stupid enough not to know the rechner would be picking up on his interest in China?”