Box Set - The Time Magnet Series

by Russell Moran

  Donovan didn’t speak. He just put his face in his hands. After a few moments, he looked up.

  “Maybe history just keeps reinventing itself,” said Donovan, “no matter where you plug into it.”

  Jack, Buster, and I looked at each other.

  “Bill,” I said, “I’m not sure if you’ve solved the mystery, but you’ve come as close to any rational explanation I can think of. We think we know history, but maybe we don’t. I should add something new that we’ve also learned, some history we knew nothing about. Jack, who never played a musical instrument in his life, is suddenly a world class pianist. And I speak fluent Japanese, although I never spoke a word of it before. ”

  ***

  “Okay folks, brace your stomachs because we’re about to go to see the Empire State Building disaster. You three stick together and brainstorm from your perspective. I will be separated from you. I will have another identity, which is absolutely positively beyond your need to know – at this point.”

  We all understood. Donovan had to remain clandestine because of his position. The three of us were in civilian clothes so it should be easy to blend in and just ask questions. Jack came up with a great idea. We’d pose as journalists, an easy job for Jack.

  “If I may make a suggestion, Bill,” said Jack. “Wear a facemask. We learned after 9/11 that all sorts of nasty stuff floats around after the collapse of a building.”

  Bill reached into his drawer and withdrew four face masks.

  Chapter 60

  Bill Donovan wore his Army uniform and rode in a jeep. Jack, Buster, and I, on the other hand, had a day of exercise to look forward to. We estimated that the Empire State Building was about six miles from the Brooklyn Bridge, and we’d hoof it. According to radio reports, public transportation in Manhattan did not exist until further notice. We had a car take us from the Navy base to the Brooklyn side of the bridge and began our trek.

  Jack suggested that we pose as reporters from the Altoona Gazette, whatever the hell that is. We arranged to meet back at the Manhattan side of the bridge at 1530 (3:30 PM) if we got separated. We knew that we wouldn’t find out a lot on this first visit, but we had to start somewhere.

  We couldn’t get any closer than 27th Street because of barricades. The Empire State Building was on 34th Street, so we didn’t have a good view of ground zero, not that it made a difference. We saw a cop sitting on a box on a sidewalk, taking a well-deserved rest.

  “Pardon me, officer,” said Jack, “but we’re with the Altoona Gazette. Do you mind if we ask you some questions?”

  “Why not? Every other reporter in the world seems to have some questions.”

  “This may sound silly, sir, but have you or anyone you know found any evidence about who may have done this?”

  “No, it isn’t a silly question,” said the cop. “We’ve been collecting these flyers from all over the place.”

  He handed us a flyer.

  “The Jews have done it again” screamed the large point headline. “Join Adolf Hitler and the glory of National Socialism to defeat the Zionist menace once and for all.”

  “Does this surprise you?” asked Jack.

  “Not really. From what I’ve been reading about Hitler, he blames everything on the Jews, including bad weather. No, this didn’t surprise me at all. But this one did.”

  He handed Jack another flyer: “Give up now. You have just seen the beginning of the horror. The Third Reich will conquer you. It is useless to resist. You have just seen the beginning of our assault on America. If you want peace, surrender now.”

  “What confuses me about this one,” said the cop, “is that Germany, or somebody trying to pin it on Germany, is claiming responsibility. With the war in Europe, isn’t it stupid for the Nazis to claim that this job was pulled off by them? Do you think they want us to declare war?”

  “Oh, yeah, here’s another one: “The Emperor sends his regards. Keep your American noses out of our affairs in Asia, or there will be hell to pay from the Japanese Empire.”

  “What do you make of those last two?” asked Buster.

  “Maybe I’m crazy, but it seems like somebody is trying to get us to pick a fight with Germany or Japan.”

  “Oh, take a look at this one. I can’t figure out what the hell it’s all about,” said the cop. “The sword of Allah has struck at the heart of the infidels.”

  Buster, Jack, and I just looked at each other.

  The three of us decided to fan out and ask cops or firemen the same basic things that Jack asked the first guy. Our objective was to get as many flyers as possible.

  At 3:30 PM we met at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge.

  ‘Well guys,” I asked, “did we accomplish anything?” I thought we did, but I wanted to hear it from Jack and Buster.

  “We did,” said Buster. “After a disaster like this you expect to see leaflets from all kinds of fringe nuts claiming that the end is near or stuff like that. But about half of the 20 flyers I picked up were from people claiming responsibility on the part of Germany or Japan. Are we being goaded into a war?”

  “Or are we being deluded into a war?” I asked, hypothetically.

  Chapter 61

  My name is Janice Monahan, a time traveler and a charter member of a crazy wonderful group of people who call ourselves The Thanksgiving Gang. That’s right, I’m a time traveler as are my friends here this afternoon. We’re gathered for a lunch to celebrate the first anniversary of a scary military operation that was called Operation Tango Delta 2. A year ago, my friends and I helped to prevent nuclear suitcase bomb attacks on five American cities, including New York. The attacks were supposed to happen on Thanksgiving Day, hence our name. But we managed to stop the disaster a few days before it was supposed to happen. I know this sounds crazy but it’s true.

  Today’s lunch is supposed to be a festive party, a reunion of a bunch of good friends. We’ve all been looking forward to this celebration. But it isn’t festive, fun, or even pleasant. It sucks.

  I’m here at the Four Seasons Restaurant in Manhattan with my pals, Wally Burton, a reporter with the New York Times, Admiral Frank Thompson, who is also my fiancé, and Dr. Benjamin Weinberg, a psychiatrist from the NYPD, whom we all call Bennie. I used to be a heating and air conditioning engineer. Now I’m an operative with the Central Intelligence Agency. I live a weird life.

  So why did I say that this event sucks? Three of our gang are missing, that’s why. Jack Thurber, the famous author and journalist, was the founder of The Thanksgiving Gang. His wife Admiral Ashley Patterson, although not a formal member of the gang, is our good friend. And Buster, aka CIA Agent Gamal Akhbar, was the official leader of the gang.

  Ashley and Jack took off this morning in a fighter plane piloted by Ashley for a public relations gig organized by the Pentagon to showcase Ashley’s promotion to rear admiral. Her husband Jack, a Naval Reserve officer, was her passenger. They were supposed to land at LaGuardia Airport in New York City a few hours ago, and join us here at the Four Seasons after their press conference. They never got there, and there have been no reports of debris or parachutes. They just, and I know it sounds crazy, disappeared. And Buster’s missing too. Buster, a super spy, has a way of surprising people, a habit of showing up at the craziest times. But he hasn’t showed up for our lunch either. We all agreed, with no evidence to go on, that Buster’s disappearance has something to do with Ashley and Jack.

  Admiral Thompson, who I just call Frankie, is now our unofficial leader. Frank and I met just over a year ago under circumstance that can only be described as strange. I thought he was a terrorist. Turns out he was a deep mole, a spy on loan from the Navy to the CIA. We fell in love and we’ll soon be married. I’m looking forward to being Janice Thompson, no longer Janice Monahan. My former husband was a terrorist plotter who was involved in the nuclear conspiracy. He made a turn around, and became a key to thwarting the plots to bomb the American cities. Did I mention that I lead an interesting life?

  “
I don’t know about you folks,” said Frank, “but I’ve come to a conclusion. Ashley, Jack, and Buster have hit another wormhole. A little over a year ago, I would have had myself committed if I made such a statement, but having traveled through time myself, I can’t come up with another explanation. Ashley, Jack, and Buster are in another time.”

  Is that about the wackiest explanation for three people not showing up for lunch that you’ve ever heard? Time traveling? To another dimension? It may be nuts, but all of us agreed. Time travelers have a way of coming up with explanations that others couldn’t conceive of.

  “This is different,” said Bennie, “this is quite different. If they did hit a wormhole, and I agree with Admiral Frank that they probably did, it was a portal in the sky, something we’ve never heard of. When Jack Thurber discovered that wormhole last year, it was a grate in a vacant lot on 119th Street right here in Manhattan. You could find it, step through it, as all of us did, and even go back through it in the other time direction. The wormhole had a location. It was real. But Ashley’s plane was aloft when it was reported missing. All we know is that it was over the Atlantic off the coast of New Jersey.”

  “I think every one of us has the same thought,” said Wally, “We have to find them, we have to help them. But I don’t have a clue. Any thoughts?”

  “If Buster’s with them, that gives me a little hope,” said Frank. “My guess is that he was secretly tailing their plane and just followed them through the wormhole. Buster is the most amazing spy I’ve ever met. He’s got a way of finding solutions before other people even realize that there’s a problem.”

  “Wait a minute, Frank,” said Bennie, “since when did Buster become a pilot?”

  “Buster’s not only a pilot, he’s a commander in the Naval Reserve. I guess none of you guys knew that. That’s why a good spy is called a spook. He’s like a ghost. Now you see him, now you don’t.”

  “I’m having a hard time buying this bullshit,” I said in my ladylike way. I hate to admit it, but my language turns foul when I’m nervous. And I’m definitely nervous. No shit.

  Frank laughed and squeezed my hand. He’d grown accustomed to my dainty use of the English language.

  “Listen tough lady,” said Frank, “sometimes the evidence is right in front of us and we can’t do a thing about it.”

  “Hey,” I said, a bit too loudly, “last year we broke up a plot to bomb five American ships and then another operation aimed at five American cities. Are you guys saying we can’t find one little fucking airplane?”

  I embarrassed myself, as usual, with my outburst.

  “That’s right,” said Admiral Frank, naval aviator. “Right now we’re powerless. All we can do is something none of us likes. We have to wait.”

  Frank’s right. We can’t do anything.

  We have to wait. But for what?

  Chapter 62

  “Minister von Ribbentrop will meet with you now, sir,” said the assistant to Joachim von Ribbentrop, Reich Minister for Foreign Affairs.

  Leland Morris, American Charge d’Affaires to Germany was led into von Ribbentrop’s large office overlooking the Reichstag.

  Unlike many officials in the Third Reich, von Ribbentrop did not come from a military background. He was a businessman, skilled in the ways of the world through his extensive travels. His office wasn’t the typical perch of a Nazi official. The walls were not adorned with paintings of martial glory, but instead were hung with pastoral scenes.

  “Please have a seat, Mr. Morris. Cigar?”

  “No thank you.”

  They sat next to each other in comfortable leather side chairs. Both men were seasoned diplomats, adroit in the art of skillfully dancing around sensitive matters.

  “Mr. Morris, I wish to speak to you about the horrible atrocity committed against the beautiful Empire State Building. Let us not kid each other, my friend; our countries are not on the best of terms, to say the least.”

  Von Ribbentrop leaned closer to Morris.

  “Leland, I wish to assure you that my government had absolutely nothing to do with this bombing. I speak for Adolf Hitler himself. It was not us, it was not the German government, and it was not the German people. It could have been anarchists, communists, or, of course, the Jews.”

  “Minister von Ribbentrop, (Morris did not respond in kind to von Ribbentrop’s use of his first name) my government has noticed that you people of the Reich blame everything on the Jews, anarchists, or communists. We have launched a massive investigation, as I’m sure you’re aware. Thus far, to be perfectly honest with you, we haven’t uncovered any compelling evidence of who planted the bombs. We found hundreds of flyers, some purporting to be German, Japanese, communist, and, of course, some that indicate the matter had Jewish origins. We’ve even seen some from Arab sources. But leaflets mean nothing. Any calamity is an occasion for insane people to spread announcements, and this is no exception. But do understand this, Mr. Foreign Minister, our investigation continues. More than that, I cannot say.”

  Both men were satisfied that they had politely finessed the subject, and each man was pleased that he had divulged nothing about the intentions of his government.

  “Please stay in touch with me, sir, about any further developments.” said Morris.

  The men shook hands and Morris left.

  Chapter 63

  Time seems to be flying. I know, that’s about the stupidest joke a time traveler can crack, but it’s true. The days and weeks age going by fast, or so it seems to me. Jack agrees.

  Today is Christmas Eve, Tuesday, December 24, 1940. Back in 2016, Jack and I had planned to have a Christmas celebration at Jack’s (whoops, our) big beautiful lake house in South Carolina, along with his parents and mine, as well as other extended family members. But we’re here alone, in our little house on Admiral’s Row at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. Ike and Margie Tanner have invited us over for tomorrow, Christmas Day, and we accepted, of course. Buster will be there too. We spent Thanksgiving Day with the Tanners and their extended family. Ike and Margie are becoming like family, our 1940 family.

  Every morning when I wake up and look at Jack, I love him more than the day before. I know that sounds ridiculously corny and hokey, and maybe soap opera sudsy, but it’s the truth. Jack agrees. We’re becoming closer every day. Is this a time travel phenomenon? Is this because we find ourselves in a strange time, a time not our own? I don’t know.

  We just came back from Midnight Mass at Grace Episcopal Church in the charming neighborhood of Brooklyn Heights. The church was stunning, beautifully decorated for Christmas.

  As we stepped into our house, a light snow fell. Perfect.

  Because we had an afternoon workout, followed by a nap, we were both wide awake, even after Midnight Mass. Time to exchange gifts. We had a good amount of cash, thanks to the provisional jobs that Ike found for us. Jack and I came up with a budget that we’d spend on ourselves. We each bought useful items of clothing as gifts. Jack said that he wanted to buy me some sexy lingerie. Although 1940 sexy and 2016 sexy are two different concepts, Jack managed to find me a perfect little negligee. Not exactly Victoria’s Secret, but Jack liked it. That’s the important thing. after all.

  We sat, sipped wine, and stared at our little Christmas tree.

  “Jack, I know I’ve asked you this before, but how long do you think we’ve been gone in 2016 time?”

  “All I know is that when I’m with you, time stands still.”

  I sat on Jack’s lap and we kissed.

  “Hey, hon,” I said. “I have another present that you haven’t unwrapped yet.”

  Jack looked under the tree. “Where is it?”

  “You’ll find your special gift in the bedroom, handsome, under the covers.”

  “I can’t wait to unwrap it.”

  I was feeling calm, almost peaceful. I think Jack felt the same way.

  But I couldn’t help wondering what new madness the world had in store for us. I’d find out soon.

>   Chapter 64

  On the bone chilling morning of January 30, 1941, a Boeing 307 Stratoliner took off from Washington-Hoover Airport in Arlington, Virginia. The temperature outside the cabin was four degrees Fahrenheit.

  Designed in 1935, the Stratoliner was a large plane for a commercial airliner of its time. Based on the design of a B-17 bomber, the plane could hold 33 passengers and five crew members. Today’s flight would hold 30 passengers. The destination was California, and the plane was loaded with fuel to get it to its refueling stop. With a range of 1,750 miles, the plane carried a lot of aviation gas.

  As the pilot leveled the plane off, six men left their seats and walked to preselected spots along the aisle. Each was armed with a pistol, a knife, and a club. In training, they tried to avoid the use of a firearm, which is not a weapon of choice on an aircraft in flight. Each man was “assigned” four passengers, and two were given the additional task of dispatching two stewardesses. In a well-trained and well-rehearsed choreography of violence, each man stabbed his assigned passengers. One passenger was clubbed to death. The two men in the forward section of the cabin easily kicked in the door to the flight deck, where the pilot, co-pilot, and flight engineer were about their chores. The three were killed within a half-minute. One of the men dragged the dead pilot from his chair and jumped in behind the controls.