Box Set - The Time Magnet Series

by Russell Moran

  “What? I didn't give anyone written permission to broadcast my words. Did you?”

  “Come to think of it, no,” I said, “but shouldn't we give them some memories of our historic flight.” I was being sarcastic, not toward Jack, but toward the bureaucrats in DC.

  “Hey, hon,” said Jack. “Remember that Bonnie Rait song, ‘Let's Give ‘em Something to Talk About?’ Well I've got a great idea. As soon as we land, why don't we get a room?”

  I could see where Jack was going with this. He has a devilish sense of humor at times. I decided to play along and give the gang at the Pentagon some words for posterity.

  “And what, pray tell, would we need a room for?” I asked, fighting off a laugh.

  “Well,” said Jack, “I was thinking, maybe we could screw our brains out.”

  “You mean just like that, screw our brains out?” I’d love to be a fly on the wall at the Pentagon when they listen to this.

  “Well, not just like that,” said Jack. “We'd need to warm up, of course.”

  “You mean, like naked in the shower, with all sorts of warm sudsy water?” I said, biting my knuckle to avoid a laugh.

  “Actually, I was thinking about us doing it on the lawn in front of the hotel.”

  We both cracked up. Besides getting our permission, the Pentagon folks would have a lot of editing to do before they broadcast our conversation.

  ***

  I've loved Jack since 1861. Well, that's 2013 with a little time travel adjustment. Long story. Besides being a prolific writer, Jack has a great sense of humor. He is also ridiculously good looking. Tall, well built, and with the most beautiful blue eyes I've ever seen, his handsome face also results in his constant TV appearances. I read that the Nielsen ratings show a 40 percent spike in young female viewers whenever Jack is on a show, a nice attraction in a key demographic. His agent isn't ignorant of that fact either. Jack's blue eyes enable him to get much higher appearance fees. I hate to think of all those young women ogling my Jack, but I get to ogle him all to myself. And he’s all mine.

  With his executive salary, books, articles, and appearance fees, Jack makes a ton of money, which is just fine by me.

  What was about to happen was not fine by me.

  Chapter 4

  The plane hit a sudden turbulence. Because the weather was clear, I didn't expect it. The bright daylight suddenly turned to coal black. Although I’m not sensitive to motion I felt nauseous. The turbulence continued for about 15 seconds.

  “Holy shit!” I yelled.

  “I second that,” said Jack.

  “We've lost all navigation, Jack. Look at your screen, do you see anything?”

  “No, babe, it's blank.”

  “And look at the sky,” I said. “It was a bright autumn day a moment ago. Then it went dark and now it's light again, but completely overcast. Thank God the clouds are high so we have visual contact with the ground.”

  “And where the hell are our escorts?” I said, a pit starting to form in my stomach.

  I tried to contact the escort jets but heard no response. I couldn't see them either.

  “Jack, have you seen our escorts? They were in front of us a few moments ago.”

  “They're not there, Ashley.”

  “Why don't you call LaGuardia?” Jack suggested.

  “LaGuardia Tower, LaGuardia Tower, this is United States Navy Flight 2657.”

  I repeated the call three times. No response.

  I switched to the open channel on the radio, the one that everybody monitors.

  “Any aircraft, any aircraft, this is United States Navy Flight 2657, radio check, over.”

  Silence.

  “I hope the Cockpit Voice Recorder is working. No jokes, this time, honey. We have to make a recording of what's going on.”

  “This is Admiral Ashley Patterson flying United States Navy Flight 2657. The current time is 0935 on October 20, 2016. I'm flying with my husband, Lt. Jack Thurber, on a mission set by the Office of Public Affairs at the Pentagon. Two minutes ago at 0933 we lost all navigation and communication abilities. No GPS, no radar. We're flying to LaGuardia Airport in New York City. Our Inertial Navigation System appears to be out also. Our escorts are not in view, and do not respond to radio calls. I am flying by Visual Flight Rules only. My heading is 335 degrees according to my backup magnetic compass.”

  “Any thoughts, Mr. Investigative Journalist?” I asked Jack.

  “Yes, Ashley, I think I’m having the same thought that you're having.”

  “No! It can’t be.”

  “Yes,” said Jack, “that turbulence was a goddam wormhole. We’ve both been through this before. Do you have any other explanation?”

  “Jack, please jot these numbers down.”

  I gave Jack a latitude and longitude position from memory. I've been trained, as all sailors are, to take a navigational fix whenever something out of the ordinary happens. What just happened to us qualified as out of the ordinary. But the only fix available to me came from my fallible memory.

  “Ashley, don't we have a Flight Data Recorder, a Black Box?”

  “Yes we do, Jack. That will give us an exact fix.”

  A sudden thought gripped me like a wrench. If we’ve really hit a wormhole and travelled back in time, how the hell are we going to read the data on the Black Box unless there are instruments and the technology to do it?

  “Jack, I’m worried about something. Our Black Box may be worthless unless we have a way of to read it. If that thing we hit was a friggin’ wormhole or time portal, we can bet that we’re not in 2016.”

  Chapter 5

  According to my paper and pencil calculations, we were about 30 minutes from LaGuardia. I could see the vague outline of New York City in the distance.

  “Jack, we need to take a look around to see what we're dealing with. I'm going to take us on an aerial tour of New York City.”

  We have an apartment in Manhattan, and both Jack and I grew up in New York, so we had a visual history to go by. Also, I once had a job as a New York City tour guide the summer before I went to Annapolis, so I was familiar with all the major landmarks. Fortunately I have an excellent memory. Not as good as my husband, Mr. Encyclopedia, but good.

  “Jack, please take notes of what seems to be missing, if anything. Hopefully we may be close to the year 2016.”

  I flew over the Narrows, the patch of water at the entrance to New York Harbor.

  “Verrazano Bridge, not there.”

  “When was that built?” asked Jack.

  “Mid 60s I think, around 1964. Yes, the year of the 1964 World's Fair.”

  We continued our flight to the foot of Manhattan, aiming for the Hudson River.

  “The Freedom Tower, the building that replaced the World Trade Center Towers, isn't there,” said Jack. “Finished construction in 2014.”

  “There's the Empire State Building,” I said. “I know it was built in 1931. And there's the Chrysler Building. It was built in 1930, the year before the Empire State.”

  “Well, we're starting to narrow things down a bit,” said Jack. “So far we know we're looking at a city before 1964 and after 1930.”

  “Not so fast,” I said. “There's the George Washington Bridge. I remember that it was built in 1927. So we're looking at Manhattan between 1927 and 1964.”

  “Your Circle Line tour guide training is coming back to you, I see,” said Jack.

  I flew up the Hudson to take a look at the Tappan Zee Bridge, which I knew was built in 1955. It wasn't there.

  “Change our later date to 1955, hon. We're between 1955, at least, and 1927.”

  I wanted to have a look at some Queens landmarks, so I turned the plane around.

  “The Throgs Neck Bridge isn't there, of course, because it was built in 1961. But there's the Whitestone Bridge, built in April 1939.”

  “Now let's look at the UN Building. It was built between 1948 and 1952.”

  I flew up the East River. No UN Building in view, n
ot even a construction site.

  “Unless you can think of some landmarks I've missed, Jack, I place us as somewhere between 1939 and 1948, a long time before you or I were born.”

  “Well, we've narrowed it down to about nine years,” said Jack, trying to be positive.

  “Hey,” I said, “let's take a look at Flushing Meadows, the site of the 1939 and 1964 World's Fairs.”

  I banked the plane toward Queens and descended to 1,000 feet.

  “Oh my God, Jack. Look at that.”

  “If I'm not mistaken,” said Jack, “we're looking at the Trylon and Perisphere from the 1939 World's Fair. I remember that the Fair opened in the spring of 1939 and closed in the fall of 1940. So it looks like we've narrowed our time trip to sometime between 1939 and 1940.

  “It's time to land at LaGuardia,” I said, “which should prove interesting because we have no way to communicate with the tower. For some reason our radio can’t communicate with theirs. We're going to have to watch out for air traffic and make a quick landing. I don't think the authorities will be too pleased. Do you have any cash on you?”

  “Why?”

  “We may need to hire a lawyer to defend us against a trespassing suit.”

  Chapter 6

  “This is Matt Clark reporting from station WOV in New York,” said the radio announcer. “We have been receiving reports all morning of numerous sightings of an Unidentified Flying Object or UFO over New York City. Descriptions of the object vary, but most agree that it’s an aircraft shaped like an artillery shell. It has, according to eyewitness reports, back-swept wings in the form of a triangle. According to some observers the object emits a sound that is a combination of a whine and a thunderous roar. The object did not appear to travel fast, until at one point it climbed in altitude at an incredible speed and set off a deafening sound that rattled windows for miles. We’ve contacted the Army Air Corps and the Navy Department but have received no opinions or comments. The object was last seen in the vicinity of LaGuardia Airport. We have also received unconfirmed reports that there were two objects. Please stay tuned to WOV for updates throughout the day.”

  Chapter 7

  I had begun my descent into LaGuardia after checking to see if there was any air traffic near us.

  “We have company,” said Jack.

  Flying a couple of hundred feet off my right wing was a World War II vintage propeller aircraft. It appeared to be a Lockheed P-38 Lightening. I was flying slowly, so it was able to keep up with us. The pilot made a pantomime gesture with his microphone indicating that I should pick up my radio.

  No shit, Bozo, I thought. Don't you think I'd call you if I could?

  The pilot then pointed vigorously toward LaGuardia. I guess it wasn’t clear to him that LaGuardia was where I was headed.

  “This guy has a finely honed sense of the obvious,” I said. “Let's give him the okay. Thumbs up.”

  Both Jack and I gave a clear thumbs up sign to the pilot, who nodded his head in apparent understanding.

  I approached the field at 200 MPH. There were no cross winds, which never seem to bother a Hornet anyway. The airport is known among some pilots as the USS LaGuardia, because its short runways and surrounding water reminds them of an aircraft carrier. That was fine by me. We touched down and I engaged the reverse thrusters to slow us to a stop. About a dozen military vehicles drove out onto the runway to greet us, four jeeps and eight trucks. I could not figure out what the trucks were for. Maybe they thought my plane was occupied by an army of little green men and they needed to transport them somewhere.

  I released the cockpit cover, tossed over the short ladder and climbed out. Jack followed.

  A brief look at LaGuardia airport confirmed our calculations. We were definitely in the 1930s or maybe 1940s. The whimsical air traffic control tower that looked like an ice cream cone was erected around the time of the 1964 World's Fair. It hadn’t been built yet. A simple but functional tower stood watch over the skies instead.

  It occurred to me that I didn't know what to say. “Hi, Ashley and Jack here from the 21st Century. Did the Yankees make the series this year?” Or maybe, “Take me to your leader.”

  I figured I'd let our welcoming committee open the conversation.

  “Good morning,” said a short, somewhat chubby officer standing in front of one of the trucks. “I'm Lieutenant Michael Ferguson of the United States Army. May I ask who you are?”

  “Certainly, Lieutenant,” I said, (uh-oh, this should be fun) “I'm Admiral Ashley Patterson and this is Lieutenant Jack Thurber of the United States Navy. Please put us in touch with the commander of the nearest naval base. I believe that would be the Brooklyn Navy Yard.”

  I could have given the little squirt a direct order, but the circumstances seemed to require diplomacy.

  “Well, ma'am, I'm not sure I have the authority to do that.”

  “Lieutenant,” said Jack in a loud, clear voice. “I'm the admiral's aide, and I strongly recommend that you comply with her order.” Jack can assume a military bearing when he wants to. Aide? I never thought of him as my aide before. This would make for wonderful jokes between Jack and me in the future. What future would that be? I wondered.

  “Please step into my jeep and I'll bring you to my commander. I'm sure he'll be able to take the necessary steps to put you in touch with the Navy.”

  “Before we leave, lieutenant,” I said, “I want this aircraft towed to a hangar and protected by at least two armed guards.”

  The poor guy didn't know what to make of me. Apparently he'd never met a female admiral before. Well, if I made it through the beginning of the Civil War (long story), I'm sure I can handle this.

  As we drove across the tarmac, I noticed a newspaper on the floor. I picked it up and showed it to Jack. It was dated October 20, 1940.

  “Our guess was pretty close, Jack. We've traveled 76 years into the past.”

  Young Lieutenant Ferguson stared at me in the rear view mirror. He had the look of someone who just heard something he wished he hadn't.

  Our nervous young Army lieutenant drove us to a small building with a sign in front that read, “United States Army.”

  Chapter 8

  Lieutenant Ferguson dropped us in front of the building, which seemed to be a modest Army headquarters. Although the structure was old, from our 2016 point of view it lacked any kind of charm. The building was plain military functional. He opened a door and we entered the office of Major Timothy Johnston.

  Major Johnston was tall and thin, almost gaunt. Although his position as US Army commandant at a small post like LaGuardia wasn't an ideal career job, he held himself with a strict military bearing and his crisp uniform highlighted it.

  He looked at my flight fatigue uniform, with the name “Patterson” prominently stitched over my right front pocket, my aviator's wings and my admiral's star on the left. I don't think he knew what to make of me any more than did Lieutenant Ferguson.

  “Ma’am,” said Major Johnston, “I must admit that I'm confused. You landed your strange aircraft at this airport without any communication with the control tower, and now you're telling me that you're an admiral, a woman admiral.”

  Most people don’t recognize that I’m African American. My mother was black and my father white. My paternal grandfather was also white. To really complicate things, my great grandfather on my father’s side was Japanese. I happen to be quite light skinned, although I proudly announce that I’m African American should anyone ask, but usually they don’t.

  And I haven't even introduced Jack as my husband yet.

  Chapter 9

  I looked out the window and saw a black car with flags flapping on the bumper. I could see that the flag was that of a rear admiral. An aide walked around the car and opened the rear door. Out stepped a man in a service blue dress uniform with the stripes of a rear admiral. Ferguson led the man into Major Johnston's office. Johnston and Jack snapped to attention.

  Because it's not protocol in t
he Navy to salute if you're uncovered (not wearing a hat), I stood, smiled and offered my hand.

  “Good morning, admiral, Admiral Ashley Patterson here.”

  He gave me the confused look that I was getting used to, and offered his hand as well.

  “Admiral Dwight Tanner, ma'am. Pleasure to meet you.”

  He smiled and offered his hand to Jack. “Good morning, lieutenant.”

  I’ve always hated confused and awkward situations, so I figured I'd try to clear things up for these guys.

  “Lieutenant Thurber and I have a lot to tell you, obviously. May I suggest that we drive to the hangar where my plane has been taken? That will help us to explain everything to you gentlemen.”

  “I need to make a phone call first,” said Tanner. “Charles Edison, the Secretary of the Navy, is in New York today for a meeting. I want him to join us at the hangar.”

  ***

  The four of us piled into Admiral Tanner's car and headed to the hangar. When we got there I was pleased to see that my order of security had been obeyed. There were two armed Marines in front of the aircraft. Navy Secretary Edison's car pulled up a half-hour after we got there.

  “In the interest of security,” said Tanner, “I'm going to ask everyone to clear the hangar except for Secretary Edison, Major Johnston, myself, and you two folks.”

  He ordered the two Marines to bring chairs for us and to put them next to the F-18.

  Tanner introduced Jack and me to the Navy Secretary Edison, a pleasant looking guy around 50. I seemed to recall that he would become Governor of New Jersey after his stint as Secretary of the Navy.

  “At the risk of appearing too obvious,” said Edison, “I'm going to ask you a simple question. Where are you from, and what brings you to us?”