Book IV

by Robert P McAuley

  He looked at the other time travelers and said, “Then, I guess that’s it until tomorrow.” They shook hands and called it a night.

  DATELINE: JUNE 1937 PLACE: LAE, NEW GUINEA

  It was 1:10 p.m. and the sun was hot. The man in a white suit removed his pith helmet and wiped his forehead as he looked out over the runway. He kicked a clump of dry dirt as he paced around and waited.

  Suddenly he stopped and looked out over the hazy horizon. Sunlight glinted off a speck of aluminum in the blue sky. An aircraft! He shaded his eyes as he yelled to another man, who held a camera, “It’s her! She’s here! Amelia Earhart is here!”

  Both men suddenly realized they were standing on the grass and packed dirt runway and trotted to the side, as the engines became audible.

  And then, there it was. The silver Lockheed Electra lowering its landing gear and flaps as it swooped down and touched the earth at 1:14 p.m., after a seven-hour-and-forty-three-minute trip.

  The tail number boldly proclaimed NR16020. Amelia Earhart’s aircraft had landed.

  DATELINE: 2011 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB, NEW YORK CITY

  At ten a.m. on the morning of departure, Bill, John and Matt were enjoying a cup of coffee. Matt had three valises packed, one for each of them. Bill took a second cup and said, “Coffee is especially good this morning, Matt. New brand?”

  “Yes sir,” answered Matt, smiling, “I took the liberty of going back to 1901 this morning and buying freshly ground coffee beans from a little café in Brooklyn, Stephen’s Coffee Shoppe. It’s known by few people and I’m one of them.”

  “John,” Bill queried, “did you find the right time and place to intercept her?”

  “Yep,” answered John, taking a notepad from his jacket’s inside pocket. “We have to be at 180 degrees Longitude, right on the Equator. We have a small timeframe of about ten minutes, from 7:40 p.m. until 7:50 p.m. in the early evening. She was lost and transmitting during that time, and we want to be able to get a visual of her aircraft to lead her away from Howland Island.”

  “And over to Baker Island,” said Bill, picking up the review of the plan, “fifty miles away from Howland. Hope she has enough gas for the detour.”

  “Now,” said John, as he sat forward, “the trip is just under 7,000 miles from New York to Howland Island. Our aircraft cruises at 250 miles-per-hour. To get there at 7 p.m. on July 2, we have to leave New York at 3 p.m. on July 1, 1937. However, I suggest we leave earlier, maybe 1 p.m. to compensate for winds. We can circle the area if we get there early.”

  “Okay,” said Bill, “I’m going to ask Edmund how they’ll handle getting the aircraft into the garden.”

  He took out his communicator and typed the message to his future grandson up in 2066, then sat back and lit a cigar while waiting for the answer. Twenty minutes later the answer came back.

  “BILL, OUR TECHNICANS SAY THE AIRCRAFT CAN BE BOXED AND STACKED IN THE GARDEN ANYTIME YOU NEED.

  UNFORTUNATELY, AS YOU KNOW BECAUSE OF BREATHING PROBLEMS, THEY CANNOT STAY LONG ENOUGH TO ASSEMBLE IT. BUT THEY SAY IT’S EASY TO DO. JUST FOLLOW THE ASSEMBLY INSTRUCTIONS. IT SNAPS TOGETHER AND WILL BE PACKAGED TO MAKE IT TRANSPORTABLE.

  I’M ATTACHING SCHEMATIC DRAWINGS TO THIS MESSAGE FOR YOU TO LOOK AT.

  REGARDS, AND BEST OF LUCK FROM THE GROUP. EDMUND.”

  Bill typed back, “THANK YOU, EDMUND. WE WILL NEED THE AIRCRAFT TODAY. PLEASE LET ME KNOW WHEN IT IS READY. REGARDS, BILL.”

  He turned to Matt and said, “When you’re set, I need you to rent or buy the flatbed Mack truck, take a ride out to Mitchell Field and rent an empty hangar. Then we’ll load the truck with the aircraft parts and assemble them inside the hangar. Good with you?”

  Matt picked up his valise and answered, “I’ll change and be back in a moment, sir.” He went out the door as Bill and John looked at the plans of the aircraft.

  Matt returned in a couple of minutes dressed in bib-type brown coveralls, blue denim shirt, a light leather jacket and work boots. On his head was a flat workman’s cap.

  “Well, sir,” he asked modeling his outfit, “what do you think?”

  Bill gave him a thumb’s up and answered, “Way to go, Matt, see you in the garden.”

  Matt went out to 1937 as Bill and John finished the planning.

  An hour later Bill received another text message from Edmund.

  “THE AIRCRAFT IS IN THE GARDEN STACKED AGAINST THE BACK WALL. THE DATE IS AS YOU SPECIFIED, JUNE 29, 1937. NEED ANYTHING ELSE, JUST ASK. EDMUND.”

  “Let’s get dressed and go downstairs,” Bill said to John.

  Ten minutes later the two met back in the den. Both were dressed in weathered leather jackets worn over light-colored shirts and dark-blue pants with low-cut brown shoes. Together they walked to the door that would take them to their mission.

  DATELINE: JUNE 29, 1937 PLACE: THE 1800 CLUB’S GARDEN, NEW YORK CITY

  In a moment they had opened the door to June 29, 1937 at 11:30 a.m. Once in the garden Bill spotted various-shaped boxes stacked against the back wall. Both men were examining them when the big Mack truck pulled up in front of the garden gate with Matt at the wheel.

  He turned the engine off bringing quiet back to the neighborhood as Bill opened the gate for him.

  “Any problems?” he asked Matt.

  Matt shook his head no, and answered, “Sir, the Mack is a powerful truck, indeed, but it truly handles like a Mack truck.”

  “Hey,” said John walking toward the truck, “I’ve got to get a good look at this baby.” He bent over by the rear wheel and pointed, “Look! It has a chain-drive. No drive shaft. And,” he said kicking the tire, “the wheels are solid rubber.”

  He turned back to Matt and asked, “How’s your back? The ride must be horrendous!”

  Matt gave an exaggerated moan and answered, “Not so much my back, sir, my left leg. The clutch is extremely hard to depress and one has to have arms of steel to shift this beast into gear.”

  Bill dropped the truck’s rear gate and they started loading the boxes as Matt continued his story.

  “I rented a small hangar at the end of the field, sir. It is out of the way and the gentleman settled for a nice price. I also told him that my employer would be stopping by today with some experimental aircraft parts to do some studies. The gentleman seemed uninterested, so I do feel that our coming and going shan’t be watched much.”

  Bill nodded as he lifted a box. “Good going, Matt. We don’t need anyone snooping around.”

  After an hour, the truck was loaded and Edmund was right, no piece weighed more than 100 pounds. The last piece was a small box labeled, “Sperry Navigation / FRAGILE.”

  Bill pointed to it and said, “According to Edmund, this is the latest thing in navigation.” He paused, feeling the lightness of it. “And I hope it works as advertised because I’m no navigator.”

  “Right,” said John, as he tied down the canvas tarp over the boxes, “and we sure don’t want to be the blind leading the blind all over the Pacific Ocean.”

  “No, said Bill, locking the truck’s rear gate, “we sure don’t.”

  Thirty minutes later, at 7:30 p.m., Bill and John climbed up into the spacious cab as Matt started the truck up. He put it in gear with a grind and with a lurch they were off to Mitchell Field, Long Island.

  It was a warm evening and Matt had the canvas roof of the cab rolled back, exposing the stars. Bill noticed a very different Matt from the demure Matt of The 1800 Club. In place of the quiet servant and efficient housekeeper, was a man with a cigar clenched between his teeth, workman’s hat on backward and a grin from ear-to-ear as he stomped the clutch and shifted the monster truck effortlessly.

  You never know, Bill thought with a grin, you just never know.

  It was 9:30 p.m. by the time they drove over the grass field and pulled up in front of the hangar Matt had rented. Bill and John hopped out and opened the hangar’s double doors, allowing Matt to drive the truck through. They closed the doors and switched on the o
verhead lights. All three men started emptying the load inside the cavernous, empty hangar.

  Unloading the flatbed truck went quickly and Matt provided hot coffee and sandwiches from somewhere. Bill tacked the schematic Edmund had provided, up on the wooden wall and they started assembling the airplane according to the plans.

  Bill took a two-foot section with a rounded edge on one side marked ‘A’ and easily inserted it into another two-foot section marked ‘B.’ “So far, so good,” he said as it clicked and locked in place.

  It took them eight hours to assemble the aircraft, and finally the three men stood back and admired their handiwork. John wiped the photoelectric cells that covered the upper wings. They were there to catch the sunlight and convert it into electric power for the engines.

  “Wow!” he said. “We did it, guys. We really built an airplane.”

  “Boy,” answered Bill, looking at the hangar lights reflecting off the smooth plastic skin painted a sky blue with yellow trim on the wingtips and tail, “we really did. We built an airplane. Those guys up in ’66 sure know what they’re doing.”

  “Just hope it flies as advertised,” said John, as he did a walk around of the aircraft he was expected to fly 7,000 miles one way—on the first try.

  The interior was designed as an executive aircraft with rolled and pleated leather throughout and mahogany seat sides and overhead compartments. It was air-conditioned, and the lavatory at the aircraft’s rear was the latest in washroom comfort. The four seats reclined to full-length beds.

  They stocked the plane with provisions Matt had bought in a local deli, mostly sandwiches, soda and coffee. They placed the food in the spacious refrigerator beneath the two seats on the left-hand side.

  John got into the rather sparse cockpit and went over the instruments. “Bill,” he asked, “will you hand me the flight instructions?” Bill passed a thin book to him and John read the few pages, put it down and said, looking at what was before him, “They sure do make it seem easy.”

  He looked at the flat-screen computer and continued to read the instructions out loud, more to himself than anyone else, “Type in the type of aircraft you would like the Visionaire to emulate.” He typed in ‘Twin Beech D18S, an aircraft he was familiar with, and then looked back at the computer screen that read, “Enter starting point and destination.” He typed; Mitchell Field, New York, two zero degrees, to Equator, by 180 degrees Longitude. The computer quickly made the computations, followed by the inputted information displayed on its’ screen;

  FLIGHT PLAN: ENTERED AND STORED.

  TIME TO DESTINATION: APPROXIMATELY THIRTY HOURS.

  AIRCRAFT SELECTED: TWIN BEECH D18S.

  RANGE AVAILABLE WITH FULL CHARGE: 22,607 MILES.

  AIRCRAFT ON AUTOPILOT AND READY FOR FLIGHT.

  John looked at Bill and said with a shrug, “Guess, it’s all set to go. All we have to do is point her into the wind and start her up.”

  Bill nodded, “We have to wait until 1 p.m. to meet the timetable.” He looked at his watch and said, “It’s 6 a.m. right now, so let’s get some rest.”

  Matt reclined three seats turning them into comfortable beds.

  The three men slept in the comfortable interior cabin of the aircraft and were awakened by Bill’s wristwatch alarm. They washed up in the hangar’s small restroom, and then gathered in front of the aircraft sipping hot coffee.

  “Well, guys.” Bill said with a shrug, “I guess we open the doors and roll her out.”

  They slid back the tin double doors and the mid-day sun poured in. John entered the aircraft and settled into the pilot’s seat as Bill and Matt stood by each wingtip to guide him out.

  “Here goes,” said John to himself, as he pressed the red circle on the computer’s face. A deep rumble came from within the left engine and the big propeller started to turn. It smoothed out and the right engine started up. Soon both engines were purring in a low, synchronized sound of power. John pushed the throttle forward a notch and the aircraft quickly started rolling as Bill and Matt walked the wingtips clear of the doors.

  “Wow!” said John, “she taxies beautifully.” He applied the right brake to turn the aircraft slightly and then he was out in the early afternoon sunlight slowly rolling along. The grass behind the aircraft was almost flattened by the blast of air from the propellers.

  Finally, he was at the edge of the long runway. Bill shook hands with Matt, and then jumped in, closing the door behind him.

  “How does she feel, John?”

  “As good as my Twin Beech, but much quieter. When Edmund said it’d handle like any plane I wanted, he meant it! I feel as though I have hundreds of hours in this baby already.”

  Bill nodded and looked at his watch as he tightened his seatbelt. “One o’clock. Right on time.”

  A crackle came from an aperture next to the computer screen, followed by the control tower asking,

  “Twin-engine aircraft, are you taking off?”

  Bill pressed a button marked “transmit” and said, “Twin-engine aircraft to tower, that’s a roger. I’ll be outbound to New Jersey and most probably will return in a day or so. Am I cleared for takeoff?”

  “Hold one moment, twin engine,” came the response.

  Bill looked at John and said, “Oh boy, wonder if there’s a problem?”

  The crackling came back, followed by, “Twin-engine aircraft, you are cleared for takeoff. Be advised that there are storm clouds up to 20,000 feet forming over central New Jersey. Have a safe trip, and she’s a beauty. Good luck.”

  Both men looked at each other and grinned. “Here we go, buddy,” said John as he lowered the flaps and advanced the throttles.

  The twin engines spun up to full power and she rolled forward as he released the brakes. She used just half of the runway and lifted off into the blue sky.

  John pulled back slightly on the controls and she climbed as he shook his head. “Beautiful! Just beautiful. She climbs like a homesick angel.” He pulled up the gear and flaps.

  Back on the ground Matt shut off the lights and locked up the hangar. He lit a cigar, hopped back up into the truck and roared off back to New York City and The 1800 Club of 2011.

  Five hours into the flight, New Orleans glided past beneath their wings. They flew at 35,000 feet, which was higher than anything in the military’s inventory at the time. The electric engines hummed rather than roared and the cabin was extremely quiet.

  “How are you feeling, John?” asked Bill.

  “No sweat, partner. This plane flies itself.” He looked at Bill sitting in the co-pilot’s seat. “Bill, this is the best. The automatic pilot will take us all the way to the spot I plotted in the computer. From there, I just reset it to where we want to end up. It’s a snap. But, I’ll take a sandwich.”

  “You got it buddy.” Bill got out of the seat and went through the small door leading to the rear interior cabin.

  Matt had stowed enough food and drinks for four, along with Bill’s laptop, CDs and other gear. In one of the overhead compartments he got two sandwiches and saw that Matt had provided six thermoses of Starbucks coffee and insulated mugs. Leave it to Matt, he thought, as he poured the coffee.

  He went forward and passed a sandwich and coffee to John and said, as he looked at his watch, “After you eat, I’ll sit in and you can go back and take a nap. At this altitude, we can’t bump into anything and we have twenty-five hours to go and want to be fresh when we get there. Okay with you?”

  John nodded as he took a bite of his tuna salad on rye bread. “Yep, as much as I love flying, it can make you drowsy seeing the same blue sky and white clouds.”

  He finished and went to the still reclined, seat and was quickly asleep while Bill sat up front.

  The trip was uneventful with both men trading off taking naps and sitting at the automated controls. They spotted a few aircraft, all at a much lower altitude.

  Later, while both men were in the cockpit, a light hum came through the radio aperture as Matt checked
up on them.

  “Club to High Flight, come in.”

  Bill was at the controls at the time and responded; “High Flight to Club, how’s it going, good buddy? Over.”

  “Matt here. All’s fine here, how’s it going there? Over.”

  “All’s green on the dashboard. I suppose that means it’s going as planned. Over.”

  “Sir, I popped back to thirty-seven, if you get my drift, and a dispatch came over the wire that Miss E. had a problem at Darwin with some of her navigation equipment. Over.”

  John turned to Bill, nodded and said, “That’s right, I remember reading that she had some malfunctions and some of her nav system was iffy at times.”

  Bill went back to the radio, “Thanks, Matt, keep us informed. Over.”

  “Right-o boss, will do. Over and out.”

  The clock on the control panel said they were eighteen hours into the flight. Bill woke from a nap, washed up and used the electric shaver they had brought with them. He put his head into the cockpit and asked, “Hey, John, coffee or nap?”

  “Coffee,” he replied, looking at his watch, “It’s 7 a.m., July second. We’re at hour eighteen. I’ll nap in a bit. I’ve been watching small meteor showers over the Pacific. Beautiful!”

  Bill took the co-pilot’s seat and sipped his coffee while they both watched the celestial show, accompanied by the soft drone of their engines.

  DATELINE: 10 A.M., JULY 2, 1937 PLACE: LAE, NEW GUINEA

  A group of people had gathered at the runway, many with cameras and one man with a motion-picture camera, which would provide the last movie of her aircraft taking off. The hard-packed dirt runway was bumpy in spots, mostly at the ends where clumps of uncut grass and weeds grew. The crowd watched as the aircraft waddled under her load of fuel to the end of the runway in preparation of taking off.