Stories of the Confederated Star Systems (7 page)

The senior helmsman wiped his brow and turned to grin at her. “Ma’am, we are in a normal reentry. Atmospheric drive on line, gyrostabilizers at full power. We should make landfall in two hours.”

Captain Reordan returned the helmsman’s grin. “Well done, gentlemen. Very well done.” Thumbing her mic, she spoke to the air. “Mister Williamson, ship status.”

The engineer’s voice held just a touch of exultation as he answered. “The temporary repairs held, Ma’am. No further damage due to reentry.”

“Well done to you and your people, Jarred. Communications, what do we hear from the rest of the ships?” she asked, her own high spirits showing as she grinned at her crew.

“We are still waiting for word from Shuttle 3, but all others report no problems.”

“Very well.” She paused to look around again, then opened the shipwide announcing system again, and tied in the ship-to-ship as well. “To all hands: Well done, people. We will be landing soon, and I want to remind you all that this is our planet, but not our home. We are deep in the past, and
must
be careful of everything that we do. All hands, prepare for landfall.”

Their landing area wasn’t perfect for what they wanted, but it would do. And it had the added benefit of being far out in the wilderness where no human was going to see them.

The
Wells
settled gently to the ground, her thrusters scorching a large circle of earth directly below the ship. The shuttles and landing craft landed in VTOL mode, each making a textbook landing in an arch off to the side of the main ship. As the ship settled, Captain Reordan again addressed her crew.

“This may be redundant, but I want to remind all of you that our presence here is an anomaly. We must avoid any interaction with this time period. Above all, we must avoid any contamination. There is not likely to be anything new here for us, but each and every one of us carries dozens of exotic bacteria and viruses that this era has never seen. Anyone who exits the ship will wear full anti-contamination suits, with helmet respirators. All ship’s air will be filtered and decontaminated before being exhausted to the atmosphere. Mister Williamson, you may take your people out and begin your repairs.”

“Captain,” Commander Frazier’s voice said from the ceiling speaker, “request permission to use the shuttles in atmospheric mode to make a low level survey of the area.”

“Granted, but be careful. Keep it sub-sonic, and minimize your contrails,” the captain answered, her attention on the camera view of the repair crew. They all looked rather bizarre, with the welding and cutting shield attachments on their helmets. Others were setting up a portable test station and powering up the instruments that would tell them what to fix. Nodding to herself, she stood and went to her day room.

She narrated a brief log entry, then slipped off her shoes for a quick nap. Lieutenant Commander Williamson could be counted on to wake her as soon as he was finished. The knock came far too soon.

“Captain?” a voice said from outside of the door. “Ma’am, Mister Williamson reports all repairs complete. The XO has been informed, and is on his way back.”

“What about the COB?”

“Ma’am, she said something about something biting, and she’d be back soon.”

The captain sighed and stood, stretching to relieve her back muscles. She muttered, “What a weird hoby,” then returned to the control room. “Status?”

“All systems are operational. All hands are accounted for. Preflight checks are complete on all craft. We are ready to ascend at your command, Ma’am,” the quartermaster of the watch replied as the senior watch-stander.

“Very well.” The captain opened the ship-to-ship intercom. “All ships, prepare for immediate takeoff. Rendezvous in orbit for recovery, then we will see about visiting the fifteenth century.”

The
Wells
burned her way into the sky, her small ships blazing up after her like ducklings following their mother.

* * *

The old shaman nodded in satisfaction. He had seen the lights in the sky and had returned to the bluff to seek conformation of the spirit’s will. The strange things he saw on the plain heartened him, and the sight of the kachina spirits dancing around the great pillar had been the answer to his wish.

Here was where the people would settle. The place where the great kiva would be dug was marked plainly by a great circle of scorched ground. The place where the people would build their homes was also marked by the arch of smaller circles of charred earth.

The shaman offered the spirits a prayer of thanks. This was an omen that even a child could understand.

“Kachina” © 2002

Old Earth, Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Florida, October 2696, Deep Ocean Mining and Salvage Vessel SS
Kerry Ann
, Captain Davis commanding.

T
HE
KERRY ANN
MADE HER SLOW
, crawling way across the floor of the Atlantic Ocean in search of mineral deposits and the hulks of long sunken ships. Metals once used on the construction of sea-going vessels brought phenomenal prices on resource-starved Earth. The crew dozed at their stations as the
Kerry Ann
followed her programmed route through the deep. Then the alarm klaxon sounded.

“Sir, large metallic object two hundred meters to port,” the sensor operator reported as soon as he focused his eyes on his readouts. “Primarily aluminum, with a large chunk of steel and some copper that is probably wire.”

“Alter course to investigate,” Captain Davis instructed. “It’s probably an airplane from the makeup.”

“Alter course to port, aye,” the helmsman answered. “Hey, Sten, how about a course? There is a whole lot of ocean floor two hundred meters out to port.”

“Sorry. Course 087 true. Range now one hundred eighty seven meters,” Sten answered, remembering his professionalism.

The
Kerry Ann
made her slow way to the mineral deposit as the sensors continued to probe. Sten began refining his estimate of the amount of metal, and was excited by the readings that he was getting. “Captain, this thing is heavy. There’s nearly six thousand kilos of metal. The iron makes up about one thousand kilos, copper only two or three hundred. The rest is aluminum.”

“Noted. Run it through the data banks. See if anything matches the readings and configuration.”

Ten minutes later the
Kerry Ann
reached the deposit. She was just about to take the material onboard when Sten suddenly cursed. “Ah,
crap
! All stop! Captain, all stop! It’s military!”

The captain and crew of the
Kerry Ann
slammed their vessel’s controls, stopping mere meters from the wreckage. Turning anger narrowed eyes on Sten, Captain Davis just glared without asking for an explanation.

Sten wiped at his face before speaking. “Sir, the data banks identify the wreckage as probably being a,” he turned back to his screen and read aloud, “General Motors TBM Avenger. It was a warplane used by United States forces as a torpedo bomber during World War II. There are a few other possible matches, but the computer is seventy-eight percent positive that it’s an Avenger.”

The captain sat back and scrubbed his face with both hands. Under Maritime Salvage Laws warships, including aircraft, remained the property of the nation that they served, even after they were sunk. This was an old, but still honored law, since so many of these wrecks were also mass graves.

“Mark the damned thing for the Maritime Patrol to salvage, and get us back on course,” the captain ordered angrily. “We’ve wasted enough time on this.”

Old Earth, Atlantic Ocean off of the coast of Florida, May, 2670, Earth Maritime Patrol Salvage Vessel
SS Otter
, Lieutenant Commander Haugen commanding.

“Ma’am, we have the beacon that the scavenger left. Our readings match their reported stats. Computer is giving us a ninety percent match on an Avenger type aircraft.”

The captain sighed. The Earth Maritime Patrol had inherited all of the old earth national navies, and with them the graves of the lost. “Very well. Begin recovery operations. Anything else on the sensors?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” the sensor tech answered, surprising his captain. “There are two more deposits with the same configuration within a kilometer of this location.”

The captain sat forward. “Look for any more. I want a detailed analysis of the wreckage as soon as possible. Begin recovery procedures on the other two as well.”

“Aye, Ma’am,” the bridge staff answered, setting up automatic sequences that would take them to the other wrecks.

Seven hours later the captain had her answer. The executive officer knocked at her stateroom door and came in before she could answer. “Ma’am, these airplanes are definitely TBM Avengers. The engine blocks are corroded, but we have been able to recover the serial numbers. The first plane was registered as United States Navy TBM-1C, tail number FT-81, BuNo 46325, lost December 5
^th
, 1945, piloted by Marine 2nd Lieutenant Forrest James Gerber. The second plane was United States Navy TBM-1E, tail number FT-36, BuNo 46094, lost December 5
^th
, 1945, piloted by Marine Captain Edward Joseph Powers, Jr. The third plane was United States Navy TBM-1C, tail number FT-117, BuNo 73209, lost December 5
^th
, 1945, piloted by Marine Captain George William Stivers Jr. And ma’am, the computer spit something else out about these planes. They were all part of a training flight out of United States of America Naval Air Station, Fort Lauderdale, Florida, designated as Flight Nineteen. They’re part of the Bermuda Triangle legend.”

The captain stared at her exec as if he were demented. “The Bermuda Triangle? I thought that kind of superstition died out hundreds of years ago.”

“Yes, Ma’am, it did. But the fate of the five planes in Flight Nineteen was never discovered.”

“Until now. Very well, XO, make a report.”

“Ma’am?”

“Yes?”

“What do you suppose happened to the other two?”

The captain thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Who cares? It’s been over six hundred years. Maybe another scavenger will turn them up.”

Old Earth, Temporal Directorate, June 2670, Temporal Directorate Council Session.

Senior Councilor Danival Javonich of the Temporal Directorate slammed both hands down on the table to silence his companions. “This isn’t about ancient superstitions! It’s about the fate of fourteen men who were lost without a trace in an incident that sparked the imaginations of adventurers and writers for more than a century.”

“And we have an answer. They crashed, and it’s no wonder,” Senior Councilor Garret Caruth said as he glared at the rest. “It’s amazing that they ever got those crates off of the ground. How any of them
avoided
crashing is the mystery.”

First Lady of the Temporal Directorate Leslie Roberts tapped the table with her fingers. The room became instantly silent. Her proper title, if she weren’t such a crotchety old broad, was Lady Princess Leslie Ann Elisabeth Courtney DelRios Roberts, youngest daughter of King Eldon Del Rios of Hector’s World. Her father had been king, as had her brother, and her nephew was the present King. Her first husband had been Prince Rupert of Andersen’s Planet. After she divorced him, she married Lord Admiral Roberts, First Lord of the Admiralty. Her son was Eric Roberts, the current President of the Confederacy. It was joked, in private, that it was safer to get in a spitting contest with a cobra than a pissing contest with Lady Leslie. She was the only one who thought it was funny. Lady Leslie was the eldest member of the directorate, and had been one of its founding members nine years before. She was old, small, wizened, and feared by all. Her word was law, and the councilors were only there as her advisors.

“I wish to know more. Send the
Wells
.”

I wish to know more.
Those simple words, spoken softly by an old woman, ended all discussion. “As you command, Lady Roberts,” the five men intoned together.

First Lord of the Admiralty Devero Kenyon’s office, Confederated Star Systems Space Force Headquarters, the next day.

“Captain Erica Reordan of the Temporal Cruiser CSS
H.G. Wells,
reporting as ordered,” Captain Reordan said to the identiplate as she stood at the door. It opened and she was surprised to find Lord Kenyon standing in front of her.

“Come in, Erica. There is something that I have to tell you before I give you this assignment.”

Captain Reordan blinked several times in rapid succession then nodded. “Of course, Lord Kenyon.”

“There is very little about this assignment that could be referred to as ‘of course.’ Sit here,” he instructed, motioning to his own chair. “Sit back and watch this.” He pressed a button and took a seat to the side as Captain Reordan watched the presentation.

“The Mystery of the Bermuda Triangle, Flight Nineteen,” a well-trained narrator’s voice said as pictures of ancient Earth began flashing. An hour later the presentation ended with the words “…the fate of Flight Nineteen has never been discovered.”

“Until now,” Lord Kenyon said, startling her. “Last year a scavenger found three of the planes from Flight Nineteen. The other two are still missing, in spite of a massive search. Lady Roberts herself is giving you this assignment. Go to Old Earth, December 5
^th
, 1945, and answer this question: What happened to Flight Nineteen?”

Confederated Star Systems Space Dock Three, nine hours later

Captain Reordan walked briskly through the corridors of Space Dock Three, mechanically returning the salutes that she received without conscious thought. Her orders were held in one tightly clenched fist, while the other hand flexed obsessively around nothing.

The Marine sentry at the
Wells
’ airlock snapped to attention as she came into view, but she hardly noticed. “Corporal,” she began as soon as she was within easy range, “all leaves and passes are canceled. Recall the crew immediately. Don’t let anyone else leave.”