Chapter 3

"A plane wanting to land? What airline?" asked the woman, as Frank and Joe exchanged a startled look.

"American! Actu...bit...oblem. Mig...co..."

Anything else the man might have said was cut off by a loud burst of static; Thompson, who had the radio to her ear, grimaced and jerked away from it quickly. "Follow me, boys, we're gonna go up to the tower, see what this is all about."

Joe and Frank followed, both of them bewildered and uneased by the whole thing. Though Joe was more apt to believe in the supernatural than Frank, neither boy as a rule tended to credit most "spooky" tales they had ever heard that was supposed to be true. This, however, was certainly a spooky tale, and neither one was sure how to deal with it.

"For now let's just listen," said Joe, shaking his head in bewilderment. "Listen and watch."

"I think that's a good idea, brother," said Frank. "Because as of now I am officially confused as hell."

The lights began to flicker as they walked, and the captain stopped for a moment, looking up as the lights began to stabilize, finally shining steadily as they had before the storm had struck. She clenched her fist briefly in a "Yes!" gesture before hurrying along.

"I guess the generators kicked in," said Frank quietly. "I wonder if the planes are working now, too."

"Well there's obviously one plane working," said Joe.

Captain Thompson led the two of them to a door marked "No Admittance: Authorized Personnel Only", and produced her key ring once more, unlocking the door. A set of steps led upwards to what turned out to be the control tower of the airport. Two airport security people were, along with it seemed half the employees of the entire building. One of the guards frowned and stepped forward at the sight of Frank and Joe, and they both recognized their old "friend" Jason from downstairs, but Captain THompson said laconically, "They're with me."

Jason looked surprised, but backed off willingly enough as Thompson strode in.

"Morning, Captain," said a man in an identical uniform. He was standing near one of the large windows in the control tower, shaking his head bemusedly. The lights were on in here, also, and even the radio communications seemed to be clearing up.

"Morning, Captain Porter," said Thompson. "What's going on?"

"Well, it seems as though we have one of our own planes coming in to land." His expression was strange as he spoke, his face oddly pale. "They're cruising around at 1,000 feet."

"Is it 845, from Dallas?"

Porter shook his head, that same, strange look on his face. "No...no, it's none of the flights that were scheduled to come in today...or tomorrow...or yesterday..." He twitched his hands upwards in a sort of 'I have no clue what's going on' gesture and finished, "It's flight 133, in from Chicago. It's a Boeing 720, Captain Thompson."

Thompson blinked, her face blank a moment with disbelief. "It can't be a 720; American Airlines hasn't used those in decades!"

"Yes...I know. I tried looking it up by its ID number, but our computers haven't been able to connect since the lights went out. They're working just fine now with the generators...we just can't connect to any place outside."

No one said a word for quite a few minutes. Not even Joe could think of anything to say about this very strange phenomenon. The two pilots (there were only two American Airlines planes at Eppley when the storm had hit) stared at each other with blank bewilderment. Frank looked much the same, and Joe figured that he did, too.

"Well, we're gonna let 'em land," said a burly man standing nearby. It seemed he was in charge of the control tower crew. "Can't just have 'em circling up there like an overgrown buzzard. Once the pilot's in here, maybe we can answer some questions."

As the tower crew went about getting flight 402 down onto the runway, the burly man came over and frowned at Frank and Joe. "Who are these boys, and why are they here?" he asked Captain Thompson, his gruff voice not quite over the line of rudeness, but almost.

And so Captain Thompson introduced them and explained that they were willing to give any assistance that might be needed. The boys braced themselves mentally for the disbelief, the scoffing, the sneer-down-the-nose contempt most adults sent their way on being told they were detectives and wanted to help them. To their surprise, it did not come. The man only nodded, shook their hands, and briefly introduced himself as Caleb Brown.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Brown," said Frank, shaking the big man's hand. "I don't guess you've any idea what's happening?"

The man quirked an eyebrow. "Son, no one here knows what's happening. For now we're just trying to get information. And that bird comin' in now might just hold some answers for us."

"The pilot will come up here?" Joe asked.

"No, actually. I'm going to have captains Thompson and Porter go down and meet them. They're with American, just as this incoming flight is. Go with 'em, if you want to." He looked up at the two pilots as he said this, shaking his head again. "Like I say, find out what you can from the pilot...see if this is someone's idea of ridiculous joke, or what."

"Will do," said Thompson. "Lemme know if you need us again." Brown raised a hand briefly in acknowledgement, then walked back over to one of the nearby computer consoles.

On the way back down to the gates, Joe decided he didn't like Captain Porter a whole lot. While Mr. Brown hadn't looked down on them, Porter seemed like he was far more apt to do so. He said nothing to the boys, speaking only with Thompson as they walked, and only gave a rather uninterested grunt and nod when she introduced them. Joe scowled in irritation, but kept his mouth shut. For now the important thing was to get this mystery solved. Joe and Frank had a rather high stake in this mystery. Getting home seemed more and more dependant on getting it figured out.

Gate 4 was one of two currently not full of people, as no flights had been expected there when the storm had hit. The Boeing 720 would be coming in at that gate, and the only ones standing there were the two American Airlines pilots, and the Hardy brothers. A small knot of curious passengers had congregated behind them, but one of the security staff was keeping them well back.

Joe watched the plane's lights grow bigger and bigger as it taxied up to the terminal, finally stopping right outside the window. Joe watched the boarding ramp...the accordion walkway thing that connects from the terminal to the plane...extend out and seal itself to the door. In a whisper he asked Frank what that was called.

"Jetway," answered Frank distractedly. Well, that made sense, Joe supposed.

There was a space of perhaps five minutes during which nothing at all happened, and Joe caught himself shifting from foot to foot like a little boy needing to use the urinal. He didn't bother stilling himself, though; fidgeting was just in his nature, and it helped when he was nervous.

When the door to the terminal was opened, Joe blinked, absolutely sure he was on some weird movie set, or having a dream of some kind. The first people to exit the airplane were three women, all looking nervous and uncertain, wearing long dresses and hats...one of them one of those pillbox hats that J. F. K.'s wife always wore.

The women stopped short on seeing the crowd of people that waited at the gate, but were ushered gently ahead by a woman in an archaic looking flight attendant's uniform. The flight attendant holding open the door was dressed in a blue dress straight out of a history film from school. She had one of those weird, almost-military style hats on her head, with blue and white stripes. The woman passengers wandered over to a row of seats, and sat down in them, looking over the crowd in wonder.

A man stepped out, then, wearing a mostly normal-looking suit, but what shocked Joe was that he held a pipe between his teeth, and it was lit! And, once he'd noticed that, Joe began to notice the acrid odor of other smoke wafting from the jetway, smoke from the plane itself, and as difficult as it was, Joe realized that people were smoking in there. And it was being allowed!

Until then, Joe could have seen the whole thing as some kind of joke or hoax...but smoking on airplanes was not permitted in this day and age. Period. Not in America, anyway! That, more than anything...more than the old-fashioned clothing, the strange hairdos, boys dressed in overalls and striped shirts, teenagers in bell bottoms and short dresses. More than the Jackie Kennedy hats and even the outdated jet which had taxied up to the gate, it was the cigarette smoke that told Joe that this was really happening.

He finally turned to stare at Frank, and knew he felt the same way. This was real. Whatever it was, it was real. "Well," said Frank weakly. "This is interesting, at any rate."

That was one word for it! Joe actually laughed, amazed at this remnant from another time passed before his eyes, resisting an insane urge to start talking to people, asking to look in their luggage and see what people forty years ago generally brought on vacation. And the people from the plane were doing their share of staring, too, and Joe realized they looked longest at some of the girls' clothing, a teenaged boy with a purple Mohawk... (Joe didn't blame them, really...Mohawks weren't as common as they had been in the '80's, but to someone from 1965 or so, it would be downright bizarre) and some of the gadgets people held. Must look like something from Star Trek...or whatever show it was they watched back then.

The last to disembark was the flight crew, a group of four flight attendants...though Joe supposed at that time they were stewardesses...and the cockpit crew, all men. The pilot went straight up to Captain Porter and shook his hand, not even looking at Thompson just yet. He introduced himself as Captain Young, and that the flight he'd brought in was 133, in from O'Hare in Chicago.

"Good to meet you. I'm Henry Porter, and this is Jennifer Thompson. We're the only two pilots here at the moment from American Airlines. These young men, here, are here to help, also. They are Frank and Joe Hardy."

Young blinked, staring for a moment at Thompson, who was dressed in a pants uniform nearly identical to Porter's. "A woman piloting for American?" he asked, his tone that of great surprise. Joe winced slightly and looked to Thompson, whose expression was mild. He had to admire her restraint, and had to admit if he'd been female and questioned like that, he'd probably be pretty steamed. Like when people looked at him and said, "A detective? But you're just a kid."

"I imagine, Captain, Young, that it's strange for you," said Thompson quietly. "There's a good deal we have to discuss."

"Perhaps," said Porter, "if you could leave your flight attendants to sort of look after your passengers, we could go up to the control tower and talk."

To Young's credit, he asked no further questions, he only nodded briskly and left them for a moment to talk to the women in the old-fashioned uniforms. He spoke for a few moments, gestures to his co-pilot and navigator, and returned to the group.

As Porter began to lead them away from the gate, Thompson turned to the boy and asked, "You coming?"

With sudden intuition, Joe turned to Frank and said, "You go ahead. I'm gonna stay here and see what I can find out. You're the flyboy, anyway, I'll probably get hopelessly lost listening to half a dozen pilots talking about planes and flights."

Frank was surprised into a laugh, and he nodded. "Okay. Ask to use one of the guards' radios if you need me, okay?"

"Will do." Joe smiled at Captain Thompson as she and Frank turned to catch up with the others, and he heard her say, "You're a pilot, Frank?"

"Well I have my license," said Frank modestly, "but it's not my job or anything..."

Joe chuckled as they walked off, then turned his attention to the passengers of flight 133 and the attendants who had been left to tend to them. Several of the people had cigarettes in their hands, but no one was telling them extinguish them...Joe guessed that security probably were a little too weirded out by the whole thing.

"So...where are we, anyway?"

Joe turned at the sound of the voice, having come from a young man in camouflaged clothing. The uniform was wrinkled and unkempt, making Joe doubt he was military, and remembered that it was somewhat of a fad to wear old fatigues in the sixties...especially during Vietnam. He was about to answer, when he realized the kid wasn't talking to him, but the stewardesses.

"Omaha," said one, though she wasn't looking so sure of herself. "Supposedly."

"Sure doesn't look like any Omaha I knew," grunted a fat man, one of those who had been smoking.

"But it is," said the stewardess, taking her hat off and running a hand through her short hair. "It's just...something's happened." Joe had an idea she suspected what had happened, but was reluctant to say...and who could blame her? She probably felt as if she'd gone mad! Joe wasn't sure exactly what to say...he wanted to tell them that they were in the year 2006, but had an idea that wouldn't be the greatest idea to just announce it...he decided to do some talking and see what happened.

He began by approaching the kid who'd spoken, who looked maybe a year older than Joe himself. "Hi," he finally said, extending a hand. "I'm Joe Hardy."

The kid shook his hand willingly enough, though the uneasy, bewildered look gleamed still in his eyes. "Hey. I'm Jerry Hanson. You...I heard them say you were here to help out with things...I mean do you know what happened?"

Joe sighed quietly, running his hand through his own hair, much as the flight attendant had done. "Well...actually, no," he said. "Not exactly. I know some things...but it's pretty hard to swallow. Er, tell me, what year is it?"

The kid blinked and gave Joe a very strange look. "You serious?" On seeing that Joe was very serious indeed, the kid's strange look grew more uneasy. "It's 1966, fella..." He searched Joe's face, and his frown deepened. "Isn't it? Isn't it?"

Joe held up his hands in a calming gesture. "Easy, just take it easy." He was aware that at least half of flight 133 had their eyes on him, and resisted the urge to squirm uncomfortably. He never was so great at performing in front of strangers, even when the performance was just talk. "Look, er, some weird crap's been happening, I know, but we're trying to figure it out. Once we do, that's one step closer to fixing it...whatever it is."

A young voice spoke, his tone trembling. "Are we in outer space?" Joe turned to look at a boy of about eight, wearing jeans with the legs rolled up at the bottom, and a checkered, button-down shirt. He was grinning, his eyes wide and bright, and Joe understood that the shake in his voice had been excitement, not fear. His mother, standing with her hand on his shoulder, however, looked afraid of the answer.

Joe couldn't help but chuckle. "Not quite, kiddo. You're on Earth, still, in Omaha, Nebraska."

"Look." The fat man who'd spoken earlier had now stood from his seat, his expression mildly contemptuous. "This ain't Omaha. I've been in Omaha several times, and it looks nothing like this. If you're gonna tell tales, son, at least make sure no one can refute 'em."

Joe bristled at the condescending tone in the man's voice, but forced himself to be calm; going off like the Fourth of July wasn't going to help matters.

"Come on,' came a woman's voice. "Just...just tell us. I mean we've been affected by this...whatever it is. We've a right to know."

Several voices of agreement rose from the small crowd, and Joe sighed. Looked like he wasn't going to get any information without giving some, first. "Okay," he said, as if to say 'you asked for it'. "But I warn you, it's gonna be weird, and you probably won't believe me anyway." He looked pointedly at the fat man, who crossed muscular looking arms above his impressive belly.

"Well, lay it on us then, man," said the teenager in the army fatigues.

Joe had no idea what kind of a reaction he was going to get from this; he shot a quick glance at the security officers, who were still keeping the main crown from the terminal back away from the people from flight 133, and they looked a little uneasy. Joe shrugged mentally, scanning the faces of the crowd, then shrugged his shoulders, as well. "You're in Omaha, Nebraska," he said. "But this is not 1966. It's 2006."

The fat man snorted, making it quite clear what he thought, and several people chuckled. A young voice exclaimed, "Boss!" in an awed voice, and his parent shushed him quickly. But there was surprisingly little else in the way of vocal reaction; most of the people didn't seem to know how to react. It was such an outrageous claim, but Joe thought that things might just be a little too weird for everyone to disbelieve it.

"How can that be?" asked one of the flight attendants, shaking her head slightly and frowning. "It just isn't possible, I mean this isn't exactly a Star Trek episode." There were some uneasy chuckles at her comment, but most of the people looked either worried or skeptical.

"Well," said Joe, "I have no idea, really. That's what the pilots are trying to figure out. All I know is what year it is...and I'm sure I can come up with a few pieces of technology that might convince some of you of the truth. But the most important thing is this...we have to stay calm. Like I said, this is a weird situation, but we can figure it out...maybe if I could find out what happened with you guys, it'll help things along."

The first stewardess spoke up then, having replaced her hat on her head. "Not much to tell, really," she said. "We left from Chicago at about three in the afternoon. There was a storm on the way into Omaha, but the captain was able to climb above it easily enough, avoiding most of it."

"The instruments went wacky for a while," said one of the other attendants, "but they settled down after about five minutes. We figured it was some kind of radio tower interference, or something like that. But when we climbed below the cloud cover, approaching Eppley, well, things just didn't look right. The captain wondered if he'd gotten turned around somehow in mid flight, but no...no, it was Eppley. They identified us to the tower, and we landed."

The other attendants were nodding in agreement to this, and Joe sighed in frustration. There really was nothing to tell. Whatever happened had done so when the instruments went wacky, but that was about all that could be gleaned from the tale. Unless the Bermuda Triangle had somehow shifted to include the Omaha and Council Bluffs area, it seemed the cause was a complete mystery. 'We gotta go outside,' he thought. 'Gotta see what the hell, and if anyone's outside yet...' This flight had somehow made it from Chicago to Omaha, passing through forty years as they did so, perhaps other people were around now, also from the same era. Had some kind of weird time wormhole appeared over Omaha? Had there been some weird nuclear accident? He tried to remember how close the nearest nuclear plant was, but had no idea.

"Well," he said. "Well, that doesn't tell us much, huh? We had that same storm here." He glanced at his watch, which read 7:23AM, and frowned, looking out the window. It was still dark outside, but he thought he might see the first gray of dawn on the horizon...but the sun should have risen long ago. It was mid-summer for crying out loud. But if time had been screwed up... A disquieting thought came to him. Was it still 2006? "It's about 7:30AM, or, at least, it should be. But it's only now dawn. The storm raged for hours...it was weird. Then it ended with a huge clap of thunder."

There was tense silence for about a minute, before the fat man snorted again, and Joe found himself wanting to punch they guy in the nose. "Sorry, son," he said, chuckling and shaking his head, taking his nearly-burned-down cigarette out of his mouth and looking around him. "Sounds like a large pile of horse puckey to me—where's the damned ashtrays around here?"

Joe looked at him cooly. "Well normally there's no smoking allowed in here, not in here or on the airplanes. So there's no need for ashtrays."

The man looked at him as if he'd gone mad. "What're you talking about, boy? Of course smoking's allowed, why wouldn't it be?"

"Maybe because most people don't like sucking in someone's else's cigarette smoke into their lungs,' said Joe, losing patience. He gestured pointedly to a No Smoking sign, then looked around and spied a trash can with several disposable metal trays from supper in it. He strode over to snag one, and tossed at the man, who caught it deftly with his free hand. He was looking at Joe with a good deal of dislike, but there was uneasiness there, too. "Use that if you must,' said Joe. "And pass it around, wilya? Other people've got cigarettes."

Everyone was watching this little confrontation. And Joe frowned, feeling again as if he were on display, and turned abruptly towards the crowd from the other gates. "I'll be back,' he said to one of the guards, who nodded and let him through. Joe wove through the spectators, gaining the relative isolation of the corner he and Frank had staked out before things got really weird. He took a deep breath, grimacing as he smelled smoke on his clothing, and his lip curled in disgust. He really hated cigarettes, and hated how you couldn't get the smell off of you, even when you weren't around it long.

He closed his eyes, letting his temper cool, then began rummaging through his and Frank's carryon bags. He wished Frank had his laptop with him, but he supposed he had enough here to wow the folks from 1966. He grabbed Frank's cell phone, his own digital camera, and MP3 player, then headed back.

Once the guards let him through to the gate, Joe saw every eye swivel back towards him. The fat man had extinguished his cigarette butt and was once again standing with his arms crossed, a hostile expression on his face. He was the worst in terms of hostility, but there were others with similar expressions. 'They don't wanna believe,' Joe thought. 'Even with Eppley airfield being totally alien to them, not even with the strange clothes, and female pilots, they don't want to believe.' But they had to. If anyone was going to get anything done, they had to believe.

Wondering briefly how Frank and the others were doing, Joe first held up his digital camera. "Anyone here have a camera?" he asked. The passengers murmured, many blinking at the seemingly strange question.

"I've got one," said a woman finally.

"Me too," said a girl of about twelve, and a few others said that they did as well.

Joe nodded. "All right. Anyone have the kind that prints out the pictures right away? A Polaroid?" Of the half-dozen or so who'd spoken up, two said their cameras were Polaroids. "Cool...could you bring them out, maybe?"

The two Polaroid owners exchanged a glance and then one of them shrugged, and they went for their luggage. The two men, about twenty and forty-five years old, returned a moment later with large, bulky cases with straps to carry it over the shoulder. The younger man took his out, and Joe blinked; the thing had a telescoping lens, the kind that looked like an accordion. For just a moment it looked like a miniature jetway, and he had to stifle a crazy laugh. 'Oh boy, Hardy, you're losing it,' he thought.

"It's brand-new," said the boy proudly. He held it up, smiling proudly. "Can I take a picture? It's even color."

Joe laughed and figured, why not? "All right, go ahead. Then I have something to show you." He smirked as the boy raised the camera, turning it on the extending the lens and taking a moment to get Joe centered in the viewer. The flash nearly blinded Joe when it went off, and he spent the next few seconds blinking back little dots.

He was bemused for a moment at the actions the boy was making at the back of the camera, and realized that old Polaroids certainly did involve a lot of effort. The kid finally yanked a lever or something to one side, and pulled a flat thing from the side of the camera. Joe realized a moment later that it was the photograph, with a big flap on one side to grasp it with, and a plastic cover on the front. He approached curiously as the boy removed the plastic cover, revealing the slowly developing photograph.

It was a pretty good picture, considering how ancient the camera was, though Joe thought it wasn't one of his better pictures. His grin looked slightly maniacal. "Pretty cool," he said softly. "And you say this is brand new, right?"

"Yeah! Just got it a month before, in fact. My dad gave it to me for my birthday."

"Well, I got a camera for my birthday too, actually. Would you care to see it?"

The boy blinked, then shrugged. "Um, sure, is it with your luggage?"

"No, no, it's right here." Joe held the camera up so that everyone could see, a top of the line digital camera he had indeed gotten for his birthday the previous year. It was small enough to fit in his hand, and undoubtedly looked like a kid's building block or something to them. The kid laughed, a genuine sound of amusement, and sorta punched Joe on the shoulder. "Right, buddy, that's real boss – bet it cost a lot of money too, huh?" He chuckled, honestly believing that Joe was playing a prank on him.

"Sure," Joe said. "It's top of the line, itself. Can I take your picture this time?"

Still chuckling, the kid retracted his Polaroid's lens and put it away in his case, setting it at his feet and striking a comical pose. "Sure, how's this?"

"Just perfect." A smile was on Joe's face, but he was beginning to feel pretty irritated. The kid meant to harm, with no contempt of condescension in his voice, but the whole thing was still getting pretty old. He switched on the camera, noting the astonished looks of the people close enough to him to hear the slight beep it made when it turned on, and to see the LCD screen on the back light up. He held the camera up and pressed the button. He almost laughed at the look of astonishment on the camera kid's face when the flash went off.

"Whoa, that thing's got a light on it!" someone exclaimed.

"A prop," scoffed the fat man, but he looked uneasy.

"Yeah, a prop, that's it," Joe said sarcastically. He turned the camera around, pushing the button on the left that would call the image onto the screen, then walked over to the camera kid. "Have a look," he said quietly. The kid did, and his shocked expression melted slowly to that of uneasy dismay. There he was, right on the screen, striking his jester's pose. Joe felt sorry for the kid, who looked as if he might faint. Worried he just might, he put a hand on his arm and guided him to a seat, where he sat wordlessly.

In the end, Joe went all around the group, showing them the photo and taking a few more to prove it was no trick or illusion. He showed them the memory card it used instead of film, and explained he had to wait until he got home to his brother's computer before he was able to print the pictures out. Yes, his brother's computer...half the people in the country (or more he estimated) had computers, and they weren't the huge, bulky things from the 60's. (He again wished they had Frank's laptop. That'd really shock them!)

He almost didn't need to display the cell phone or the MP3 player, but he did, and when he was finished, there wasn't a one person who did not believe him. A small group of them claimed they didn't...said firmly that it was all a prank, or a hoax...but they didn't really think that was true. Joe saw it in their eyes, which were wide and scared.

"It's true," Joe said quietly to them. "Now we just have to figure out what exactly happened, and why."