The Twilight Zone: Complete Stories (40 page)

Purcell checked his instruments. “29,435 pounds,” was the answer.

Farver shook his head, scratched his jaw. “With that Loran out I don’t know what our ground speed is. But I’ve got a hunch we’ve left that tail wind. I don’t have that feeling of speed any more. Do you, Craig?

Craig shook his head.

Farver looked over his shoulder. “How about the heading to Idlewild, Magellan?”

Hatch scribbled furiously on a clipboard, adding, subtracting, estimating and guessing. “Part of this is scientific,” he announced finally “Part of it’s Kentucky windage. Try two-six-two. That’s as close as I can make it,”

Again the silent faces stared toward the Captain. The whistling of the jet engines sounded normal and natural and yet strangely foreboding. Farver took a long, deep breath, like a man heading into an icy shower.

“All right, gentlemen,’’ he announced, keeping his eyes straight ahead. “You know what we’re up against. We have no radios. We’re apparently out of touch with all ground radar points. We don’t know where we are. We don’t even know if we’re on airways. This beast gulps fuel—you know that only too well. We’ve got one chance—go down through this overcast and look for something familiar. It’s very possible, not to say probable...we may hit something on the way down, but we’ve got to take that chance.” He paused.

“I just want you to know where we stand. Everyone keep a sharp look out for other traffic and keep your fingers crossed.” He reached over and flicked on the seat-belt sign. His fingers tightened on the wheel in front of him and he said quietly, “I don’t think a few prayers would be out of order either.” Then his voice was a clipped command. “All right, Craig...we’re going down!”

The 707 raised its right wing and, like a monstrous yet beautiful bird, nosed down through the clouds and headed toward the earth. Inside the cockpit no one spoke a word. Eyes stared through the small windows—eyes that strained like overworked optical machines, desperately trying to x-ray through the billowing clouds. It was as if, by some miracle of concentration and effort, they hoped to see another airplane in time to avoid the blinding hell of a midair collision. But there were no other aircraft. There was nothing—only clouds that gradually became thinner and more transparent. Suddenly they had broken through, and below there was land.

Purcell spoke first. He shook his big, curly head, looked sardonically over toward Hatch and said, “Hatch, you dumb, silly bastard! Who the hell taught you to navigate?”

Wyatt kept shaking his head as he stared out of the window. “I don’t under—”

Purcell cut him off. ‘Two-six-two,” Purcell mimicked ferociously, “and that’s supposed to take us over New York. Why this dumb bastard couldn’t navigate a kite across a living room!”

Hatch was stunned. Before he could answer Farver called the shot. The captain was staring out toward his left wing and the land mass that loomed beneath it.

“Hold it a minute,” he said quietly. Then to Craig, “Level her off.’’

It was incredible. It was really a monstrous practical joke. It was a bad dream that followed a late lobster snack and an extra quart of beer. But there it was down beneath them, stretched out in sharp and clear relief.

“I don’t get it,” Farver said, shaking his head. “
But that’s Manhattan Island!
”

“Manhattan Island,” Purcell whispered, standing up to look over Craig’s shoulder. “How can it be Manhattan Island? Where the hell’s the skyline? Where are the buildings?”

“I don’t know where they are,” Farver said. “But we’re over New York City There’s only one small item amiss here.”

Jane Braden entered from the galley “The passengers are—” she began.

“I don’t blame them,” Purcell interrupted.

“We’re over land,” Jane persisted, “but I don’t see any—”

Farver turned and stared directly at her. “Any what, Janie? Any city?”

He shook his head. “We don’t either.” He jerked his thumb toward the windshield. “That’s Manhattan Island down there. There’s the East River and the Hudson River. There’s Montauk Point and every other topographical clue we need.” He paused. “The problem is...the real estate’s there. It’s just that the city and eight million people seem to be missing. In short...there isn’t any New York. It’s
disappeared!
”

Craig grabbed Farver’s arm. “Skipper, verify something for me, would you? And in a hurry?
Look!
”

Purcell and Hatch left their seats to look over the shoulders of the pilot and copilot.

“It’s not possible,” Hatch announced.

“What in the name of God is going on?” Purcell asked.

Down below, under the left wing of the 707, was a wild, tangled jungle, but something else was clearly visible, even from three thousand feet, through the window of the speeding airplane. It was a dinosaur nibbling some leaves off the top branch of a giant tree. That’s what it was. A dinosaur. And, when Flight 33 banked around to make another pass over the area, it looked up with huge, blinking eyes, perhaps thinking in its tiny mind that this was some big, strange bird. But it continued to feed.

In the first-class passenger cabin, the RAF pilot started at what he thought he saw sweep by underneath him. The fat lady asked him what was the matter, but he did not answer her. A tourist passenger in the rear of the plane, a zoology professor coming back from a sabbatical, gulped and marred the bridge of his nose, as he thrust his face against the glass to stare down at what appeared to be an extinct animal he had lectured about a thousand times. But a 707 is a rapid piece of machinery. Within moments it had left Manhattan Island far behind and was headed north toward Albany. But Albany, like New York, did not exist. It was jungle and swamp and a maze of low-slung mountains. The plane headed inland toward what should have been Buffalo, then Lake Erie and Detroit. None of it was there. No cities. No buildings. No people. Just a vast expanse of prehistoric land.

Captain William Farver announced to nobody in particular, “We’ve gone back in time. Somehow, someway, when we went through the speed of sound...we went back in time!”

Silence from the crew.

Silence from Jane Braden who, in this crazy, illogical moment, wanted to cry.

Silence from Farver, though his mind worked and probed and sifted and tried to formulate a plan.

Any eventuality. That, in a sense, was the Hippocratic oath of the airline pilot. Be prepared for any eventuality and be ready to meet it in a fraction of an instant without panic or indecision. But “any eventuality” did not include this. It meant a flameout of an engine. It meant a runaway prop. It meant a hydraulic system gone awry But the nightmare that was moving underneath the aircraft in the form of the eastern section of the North American continent, five million years earlier—this was an eventuality not planned for in any manual.

It was Craig who finally spoke. “What do we do about it, Skipper?”

Purcell looked at the fuel indicator “Skipper, we’re down to 19,000 pounds,” he said.

Farver scanned his instruments. “Here’s what we do about it. We rev this baby up until she’s going as fast as she can. We’ll climb upstairs until we hit that jet stream. And then...” He looked at the faces of the men and the girl. “Then we try to go back where we came from.” He turned to Craig. “All right, First Officer,” he said in a voice just loud enough to be heard, “
Let’s do it!
”

The 707 pointed its nose toward the high layer of cumulus clouds and in a moment was immersed in them, pulling away from the earth that mocked them with its familiarity and with its strangeness.

Hatch suddenly noticed that his Loran was working again and he screamed out the airspeed as the ship climbed. “700 knots,” he announced. “780 knots. 800 knots. 900 knots.” He looked up excitedly. “Skipper... we’re doing it, I think. Honest to God, I think we’re doing it—”

The plane screamed through the sky like a projectile from some massive gun. In thirty-eight seconds it was up to 4,000 knots. Farver suddenly looked up, the sweat pouring down his face.

“We’re picking it up again. Feel it? We’re picking it up again.”

They all felt it now. A sensation of such incredible speed...a feeling of propulsion beyond any experience they’d ever had before. And then the white light flashed in front of their faces. Once again the cockpit bucked and lurched and then the light was dissipated and the plane was level, its jet engines sucking in the air and roaring with unfettered power. But the blinding speed had gone. The plane intercom buzzed furiously and when Craig picked it up, he heard the frightened voice of one of the two stewardesses in the tourists’ section at the rear of the plane. The girl was trying to keep the hysteria out of her voice and it took Craig a moment to calm her down long enough for him to tell her that they were all right. It was the jet stream again.

Paula Temple came through the flight-deck door, her face white. “Look, I know you’ve got your hands full...but somebody get on that pipe and in a hurry! I’ve got at least three people back there who are close to hysteria and—” She stopped abruptly, staring toward the front of the cockpit through the glass. Before she could say anything, Craig was half out of his seat, pointing.

“Look,” he shouted. “Skipper, look. We made it! We’re back! Look!”

Through a break in the heavy overcast they all saw it then. It was the skyline of New York, its tall spires shooting up toward the sky. Hatch closed his eyes and mumbled a prayer. Farver felt the sweat clammy on his forehead and for the first time noticed that his hands were shaking. He reached for the loudspeaker microphone, grinned around the cockpit, then pushed the button.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Farver. We had some momentary difficulty back there, but as you can see we’re now over New York and we should be landing in just a few minutes. Thank you.”

Paula leaned against the bulkhead, tears in her eyes, her lips trembling. Jane held her tightly for a moment, kissed her on the cheek.

Jane said, “Come on, partner, let’s go back and make believe nothing happened.”

The two girls left and the captain of Flight 33 breathed deeply. He was conscious of a tightness in the chest suddenly unraveling itself. He checked the instruments, made a few adjustments, then spoke to Wyatt.

“How about Idlewild?”

Wyatt was already fiddling with the radio. “Nothing doing.” He shook his head. “Our VHF is still out.”

“Maybe Idlewild’s it too,” Farver suggested. “Try using high frequency.”

“I did already, Skipper. Nothing from Idlewild.”

“How about LaGuardia? Keep using high frequency. Somebody should hear us.”

Wyatt spoke into the mike. “LaGuardia, this is Trans-Ocean 33. LaGuardia, Trans-Ocean 33.”

There was some static and then a metallic voice that came from the other end. “This is LaGuardia,” the voice said. “Who’s calling please?”

There was a whoop of unbridled delight from Purcell. Craig pounded the captain on the back, and Hatch kept applauding as if some unseen dance band had just finished a concert on the wing.

Wyatt held up his hand for silence and went back on the mike. “This is Trans-Ocean 33, LaGuardia,” he said. “We’re on the northeast leg of the LaGuardia range. Both our ILS and VOR appear inoperative. Request radar vector to Idlewild ILS.”

There was a pause at the other end and then the voice came back, impatient and belligerent “What are you, a wise guy? You’d like
what?
”

Wyatt’s face sobered. “A radar vector to Idlewild ILS,” he repeated.

“What flight did you say this was?” the LaGuardia tower asked.

Wyatt’s voice took on a tenseness. “Trans-Ocean 33. Come on, LaGuardia, quit fooling around. We’re low on fuel.”

The other four men in the cockpit leaned forward toward Wyatt, a tiny, errant fear building in each mind as to what new devilment...what new incredible and wild deviation from the norm they were moving against now.

Then the LaGuardia tower voice came back on. “Trans-Ocean Airlines? It asked. “What kind of aircraft is this?

“This is Trans-Ocean 33.” What said into the mike. “A Boeing 707 and we—”

The voice interrupted him. “Did you say a Boeing 247?”

Farver bit his lip, feeling anger and impatience surge through him. He plugged in his own mike. “Let me handle it,” he said tersely to Wyatt. Then he held the mike close to his mouth. “LaGuardia, this is a Boeing 707, and every five-second period you keep this aircraft up in the air, you’re shortening the odds on its ever getting back on the ground. Now don’t give us this two-four-seven jazz. You’re only about twenty years behind the times. This is a 707, LaGuardia. A jet. Four big, lovely Pratt & Whitney turbines, only they’re getting hungry. We’re low on fuel and all we want is a radar vector to Idlewild. Now Goddamn it, do you have us in radar contact or don’t you?”

There was a pause and then the LaGuardia voice came back on, still sullen, but with just a shade of concern. “I don’t know who you guys are,” the tower said, “and we don’t know anything at all about radar, jets, or anything else. We’ve never heard of a 707 aircraft. But if you’re really low on fuel, we’ll clear you to land.”

Craig, who’d been consulting an approach chart during this exchange, leaned over to Farver and pointed to it. “Captain,” he said, “Their longest runway is less than five thousand feet. Can we take a chance?”

The LaGuardia voice came back on. “Trans-Ocean 33, you’re cleared to land on runway 22. Altimeter two nine eight eight, wind south 10 miles per hour. The Captain is to report to the CAA office immediately after landing.”

“Roger,” Farver said tersely into the mike. “We’ll stay in touch.” He removed the microphone plug, then suddenly frowned. “CAA?” he asked aloud. “Why, they haven’t called the Federal Aviation CAA—”

It was part of a pattern, he thought to himself. Part of a routine they had been going through for the past hour. A jigsaw puzzle perfect in every detail except every now and then a round peg appeared and didn’t fit the square hole. Then he shook his head and pushed it out of his mind as he turned to Craig.

“We’ll bring her down, Craig,” he said. “It’ll be like landing in a phone booth, but—”