One Thousand Years

by Randolph Beck

  “He's a twentieth-century old-timer,” Hamilton said. “He doesn't have the intellect of an Übermensch.”

  “He is smarter than you give him credit for,” said Vinson from the back seat.

  “I saw no evidence of that.”

  “And yet, he was told, time and time again, that escape was impossible,” Bamberg snickered.

  “Hamilton,” Dale interrupted. “It may be prudent to touch the region's monitoring satellite before we descend any further. It could have observed his landing by now.”

  Hamilton looked down at his side-panel. “That will waste at least half an hour. We still have a chance to stop him before he alters the future.”

  “We will waste three hours if we reach China and it turns out he landed in Guam,” said Bamberg.

  “Or Pearl Harbor,” said Dale.

  *

  Once convinced, Donaldson had taken to understanding the situation immediately. He called the two men on guard duty and had them close the hangar doors. There would be a shift change at 0400, but the men would gladly stay on for the rest of the morning. In this way, the Tiger's presence would remain a close secret. Now, it was time to take it to a higher authority.

  “No one senior who might be watched,” McHenry cautioned. He hadn't taken the time to detail the full panoply of his experience aboard Göring but Donaldson appeared to accept that without question.

  “Not a problem,” Donaldson replied. He reached into a locker and pulled out two hats, tossing one to McHenry. “My squadron C.O. is with the rest of the squadron that moved west. This detachment is run by a lieutenant colonel. But I do have to tell someone. You can't ask me to keep a hangar closed on my own authority.”

  McHenry nodded, picked up the emergency kit, and grabbed the newspaper on the way out the door. “For the flight. I'm hoping for a long trip.”

  “That ship in the hangar can travel through time?” asked Donaldson, once the jeep was in gear.

  “No, it's only for normal space, short range. It can make it as far as the other planets. Think of it as a combo C-47 and B-25.”

  “She's armed?”

  “It was just under maintenance. It only has beam weapons right now. That's more deadly than anything we've got but it's small potatoes compared to what it could have, and much less than what the Göring has. That's their main ship. But fully armed, these could destroy cities with atomic bombs if they wanted to.”

  Donaldson looked bewildered.

  “Atomic weapons are real, although different than H. G. Wells described.”

  “It's not that. I just read a story about atomic bombs in Astounding last month. Everything seems more real now.”

  They arrived at the officers' quarters and walked along the sidewalk to a door at the far end.

  The lights turned on, a moment after Donaldson knocked. Then the door opened, revealing an unshaven man in his mid-thirties wearing only his underwear.

  “May we come in, Colonel?”

  Blanding looked over at McHenry, and then back to Donaldson. “No. What do you need?”

  “I have a story to tell you, sir.”

  “Are you giving me a story or just an excuse?”

  He motioned Donaldson to come inside. Donaldson looked back at McHenry apologetically.

  “I'll be in the jeep, said McHenry sullenly. The fate of the world is at stake, the entire future of mankind, and yet he has to wait for jim crow protocol.

  He took the newspaper from the jeep, and stepped toward a lamppost adjacent to the building. It was a fine spot to read, but instead of reading, he realized that he was out in the open. Looking all around him, his mental reflexes came back from when he was flying his P-40. This would be an easy shot for one of those SS robots, he realized.

  Most likely, he imagined, they would be wearing U.S. Army uniforms. It would be done unobtrusively, so as not to draw attention to themselves, or they would be changing history even more. They might prefer that he's hidden. Then he realized that, when they get within a mile, it'll probably be too late for him to get away. There was no sense worrying about close-quarter combat. He needed to get off the island as fast as possible.

  He opened the paper to start reading when Donaldson came out again. Blanding was behind him, fully dressed now, but badly needing a shave.

  “Back to the hangar,” Donaldson beckoned.

  *

  Briefing Lt. Col. Blanding might been more difficult than first thought, but he became a different man when he saw the inside of the Tiger. McHenry sat at the controls; Blanding sat beside him; and Donaldson stood behind, just awestruck.

  “Rechner, aufleuchten!” McHenry ordered the Tiger's rechner. The dome was now displaying the view from inside of the hangar. They could see the night outside beyond as though it was daylight. The two guards, Dalton and Williams, were clearly at their posts whispering to each other. The presence of the hangar doors and walls were noticeable but it was not a barrier to the view of the distance. McHenry knew that, despite the lesser spectacle, for them it must be something like how he felt when he first saw the Earth in Kontrolle.

  “I've got to hand it to you, Lieutenant,” said Blanding. “I don't know how you managed to steal this thing, but you've got to be one brilliant son-of-a-bitch.”

  “You believe it now, sir?” asked McHenry.

  “Why are these seats so big?” asked Blanding.

  “They're bigger than we are.”

  “What kind of ordnance do we have?”

  “It's a beam weapon of a sort, but nothing we can use against them, and nothing we can remove. They were finishing an overhaul when I commandeered it.” McHenry left it at that. The time was wasting away. He considered saying good-bye, and leaving it all in their hands. But he needed one more thing from them. Something big. McHenry reached toward the control panel. “I'm sorry, sir. We need to get out of here. I don't know how long we've got. I've burned over an hour already, and I still need something from you.”

  “Hold on a second, son,” Blanding interrupted. “Yes, I do believe you. Right now, I'll believe anything you want to say. But this is a strategic asset. I am not just leaving it here for these Krauts.”

  “The knowledge I have is a strategic asset, sir,” McHenry said. “It will be lost as soon as they get me. This ship will be gone soon. There is nothing we can do to stop them from either taking it or blowing it up.”

  “Colonel Blanding is right, Sam,” said Donaldson. “This is just too much to give up. We can win the war right here — with both Germany and Japan.”

  Exasperated, McHenry shook his head. “No, we can't. They won't let us win the war. If we did win the war, they can take over any time they want. They want history to go on exactly as it did for them before. That's the only thing stopping them from doing anything they want to do.” After a pause, he corrected himself: “Well, that's almost the only thing.”

  Eyebrows raised a fraction, the two other men looked over at McHenry.

  “Sorry, Ward,” McHenry apologized. “You'd better step outside. This is need-to-know.”

  “What? I'm no...,” Donaldson started to protest.

  “Nothing personal. This stays compartmentalized. They'll get to us each eventually, and they will find out everything you know. The only chance we have is if one of us survives, and the information is separated.”

  “Got it,” Donaldson acknowledged warily. “I'll be outside.” He took one more quick look around the dome, and then stepped toward the door.

  “Donaldson, hold on,” the colonel called, pulling his keys out of his pocket. “Go to the vests in the lockers. Get your pistol, and then get mine for McHenry.”

  “Yes, sir,” Donaldson said, and then disappeared.

  McHenry waited until he could see Donaldson outside on the dome, then held up the emergency kit in his hands. “You'll have to take my word for it that I have good reasons to compartmentalize what I tell each of you. I don't know all their capabilities but I do know that they are more capable than you can imag
ine. There is something I haven't told you. The Reich has another enemy. They're here. They could tip the balance.”

  “You mean people on another planet? People that aren't human?”

  McHenry nodded. “They call them the Grauen.”

  “They're potential allies!” The colonel looked at the box McHenry was holding and understood the connection. “What you're thinking is that you have an advanced kind of radio here that can contact these people, creatures, or whatever they are.”

  McHenry nodded again.

  “Doesn't this ship have a radio that could work? Just take this thing up to altitude for a better signal. Why couldn't we just call them right now?”

  “With all due respect, sir, you don't have the authority. Nobody on this island does. We don't know that we will like the Grauen any more than the Nazis do. The martian invaders of H. G. Wells had no interest in finding allies. These might be no different. This can only be a decision for President Roosevelt.”

  “You're right,” Blanding admitted slowly, easing his grip on the seat. “We would be gambling the world. The devil we know or the devil we don't know.”

  “Yes, sir. I'm only guessing that we can send a message on a channel that the Grauen would immediately recognize as out of our time. It might get them curious enough to send a response. But if it works, the Grauen could be worse than the Nazis. From what I've gathered, the Nazis have had almost no interaction with them other than occasional firefights. The men and women on that ship tell me they know very little about them.”

  The colonel showed visible surprise. “They're carrying passengers?”

  McHenry needed a few seconds to understand his meaning. “No, sir,” he said. “The women on that ship aren't passengers. They're crew.”

  Blanding looked like he was stifling a smile.

  McHenry stifled his own smile, too. He considered telling him about the woman Führer, the woman Kommandant, and especially about Mtubo, the black SS-Oberführer, but thought it best to keep things simple. Time was running out.

  Blanding went back to staring at the dome again, through the back wall of the hangar and beyond. “I'll tell you something I've not thought much about since the attack on Pearl,” he said. “I used to like America First, one of the groups that, before Pearl Harbor, had opposed our getting into the war. I wasn't an actual member, you understand. I was a Roosevelt man. But the talk of staying out of the war made sense to me. And I trusted Lindbergh.”

  “I do understand that, sir,” said McHenry.

  “And when all the communists changed from being anti-war to pro-war, it only made more sense that we should stay out of it.”

  “A lot of people felt that way.”

  “Too many people still do,” Blanding snapped. “But not me. I changed my mind on December seventh. And after what I've seen and heard here, I'm never changing it back. I'm in this war even if the rest of the country gives up.”

  “I'm glad to hear that, sir.”

  Blanding pulled himself out of the seat. “Okay, Lieutenant. You're the only man who really knows what we're up against. I think I know what you're going to ask for, but this is your mission. You tell me, what's your next step?”

  “I need a flight to California,” said McHenry, standing up beside him. He was starting to like Blanding's rough charm. He felt bad about having given him the bum story. If there was one thing he took from Dale, it was what she said of the Treaty of Versailles. Calling the Grauen was never going to be part of the real plan.

  *

  Donaldson was waiting at the ramp outside.

  “File a flight plan to California and order up some fuel,” Blanding ordered. “You're flying co-pilot. We'll get somebody to wake up Taylor for navigator, and one of the mechs for the preflight. I want one who can fly loadmaster. Make this look like a regular flight.”

  “Can we do this?”

  “Nobody's going to worry about the regs when this is over. I'll leave a note for Watkins so that he can keep our stories straight.”

  Dalton and Williams had pulled the hangar door open enough for a jeep to get through. The jeep had its canvas top on.

  “It will give you some cover from anyone looking from overhead,” Donaldson explained.

  “You just saw they can see through walls,” sneered Blanding. “What's that going to do?”

  “It's still good, sir,” said McHenry, still carrying the emergency kit. “Every little bit helps. A little bit could make just enough of a difference. Just one thing, sir. I need to stay away from here until you're ready to take off, just in case they get here before we're ready.”

  “Williams!” Blanding shouted. “Hustle over to the B.O.Q. and get Lieutenant Taylor now. Tell him nothing about what happened here, but tell him to get here now. He can get dressed on the way. I'm not kidding either. I want him getting dressed on the way!” Then back to McHenry, “Okay, you stay with Donaldson while he files just in case all hell breaks loose here. But don't you worry. We'll be ready to turn engines by the time you get back.”

  *

  Chapter 21

  SEDITION TRIAL DEFENDANTS CLAIM ‘FREE SPEECH’ ISSUE

  The Defense in Washington's mass sedition conspiracy trial yesterday laid a basis for making “free speech” the issue upon which to seek acquittal of the 29 defendants.

  “Free speech is the paramount issue — the only issue,” Lawrence Dennis, a defendant, told the jury.

  ...

  Dennis, described by the prosecution as “the Alfred Rosenberg of the (Nazi) movement” in this country, who supplied “ideas” to other defendants, called it a “political trial” and urged the jury “not to blame the defendants, because they didn't ask for it.”

  — Associated Press, (May 19, 1944)

  Ground and air crews were about, heading for early preflights, as Donaldson pulled the jeep into the parking lot at the tower. “I'll make it quick. I don't think Blanding's going to mind if I fudge some details.”

  They were parked near a streetlamp. McHenry pulled out the Chicago Defender after a few minutes of waiting. As Donaldson had said, there was an article about the 99th. It was right on the second page.

  TWO 99TH PILOTS BACK IN U.S.

  That was them. As the sole black fighter squadron, the Tuskegee airmen were the only “99th” that mattered to readers of the Defender. But even before starting to read the story, McHenry's heart leaped when he spotted the name Capt. Joseph C. Parker in the first paragraph. Expecting it to say something else, he read the words without comprehending. He read the entire paragraph again slowly to be sure he hadn't misunderstood the context.

  Parker was alive! There was no mistaking it. The article said he was reassigned, and back in the United States, having completed his combat deployment in North Africa and Italy. It even quoted him at a redistribution station in Atlantic City.

  Confused, grateful, angry, and teary-eyed, he immediately believed he had been the victim of a cruel lie. But after reading the paragraph once again, and thinking it through, he knew it could only mean one thing: For the Reich, history had changed from the time that Göring had left the thirtieth-century. The change may be minor, to be sure, but it could only be catastrophic for the crew aboard Göring.

  The implications raced through his mind. If he had stumbled across this one discrepancy, he wondered how many other changes there could be. It explained a lot about the recent secrecy. Most of all, a weight was off his conscience. Whatever he does now to change the course of future history, it could not affect the men and women aboard Göring. That die had already been cast by someone else.

  But he could not understand how this could happen. If nothing else, he trusted the professionalism of Göring's crew. They were meticulous. Something else must have happened. Something big.

  Donaldson came back flashing a thumbs up. McHenry waved that off. “There's a monkey-wrench in the works.”

  “Serious?”

  “It is serious for them. I have no idea how it affects us.”

>   He flattened out the page of the newspaper and held it up to Donaldson. “See here? I know this man. He's my friend. I looked him up on this machine they have, telling what happens to everybody. He was listed as being killed in action last month.”

  “But it's a common name. Could there be two?”

  “Not without me knowing about it. This is him.”

  Donaldson lifted his hands. “Well, either this paper's wrong or your Nazis lied to you.”

  “They had no reason to lie to me,” McHenry said. “Not about something like this, anyway.”

  “Could it be some kind of trick for interrogation?”

  “I wasn't interrogated. They already know everything there is to know.”

  “Then they must have done something.”

  “They're too careful. They don't want history changing. Otherwise, there won't be a home to go back to.”

  “Irregardless, your escape couldn't have changed this. This happened last week,” Donaldson said, pointing to the paper. “Somebody else must have changed something before you left.”

  “Yes,” McHenry agreed. Someone. Was it the Grauen? he wondered. Or someone aboard the Göring? But why? And how? He couldn't imagine.

  *

  Private Williams was standing his post at the well-lit hangar entrance when he saw the two white-uniformed naval officers arrive on foot. He carried a flare gun now, having had to give the rifle to the man who came to relieve him at the end of his watch. He fidgeted with the flare more nervously when he spotted the gold braid on one of the officer's hats. He stood crisply at attention, saluted, and warned the men to halt.

  “Who is in charge here?” asked one of the men.

  Blanding rushed out the hangar's side exit, saluting the senior officer. “I'm in charge, Commander,” he said. He cast a confident eye to Williams, not to reassure him, but to strengthen his resolve. “My name's Blanding.”

  “I'm Commander Harrington of Navy Special Projects,” the man replied, sharply returning the salute. “We've had a secret aircraft stolen. We believe you have it in your hangar.”