The Great Leap
Chapter 1
Sam Beckett had Leaped more than enough times now to recognize the familiar feeling. He was about to bounce someone out and take their place for all intents and purposes. There would be some mission to accomplish, some wrong to put right. But first he would have to figure out just who he'd Leaped into and how to pretend he was that person.
He felt like he was moving at great speed, though one corner of his mind commented that the sensation might be a part of the Leap process. The blue aura receded and, with all of his senses alert, he took stock of his new surroundings. He was seated in a small space with his head and shoulders sticking out in the open air. He could feel a strong but steady vibration through his buttocks and back, and a cold wind blowing past him though he could feel a current of warm air as well. He raised gloved hands to feel the vague form of goggles covering his eyes and protecting them from the wind. He could see the sleeves of a heavy leather jacket, despite which he was already feeling chilled.
The person he'd Leaped into had been looking to the right; Sam could see a long rectangular ribbed structure that appeared to be tightly covered in painted cloth; he could see a large square patch glued to the far end. Beyond that was nothing but blue sky and a few puffy white clouds in the far distance. He began to get a bad feeling about this. Looking overhead he saw that a pair of primitive wings met above his head. Oh, no he thought. Not another airplane again. Then with a touch of panic, I don't know how to fly!
He turned to face the front and realized there was nothing in front of him but a cowling with a big gun mounted atop it and his legs extended under the wooden framework of the plane. There were no controls in this cockpit. He twisted his body around to see behind him, noting that he wasn't wearing any kind of harness or seat belt. He was afraid to move too much, but out of the corner of his eye he could see another goggled figure in a similar seat behind him. He turned back around and sighed with relief. He wasn't flying the plane after all.
Sam settled down to enjoy the ride as there wasn't much else to do at the moment. He was too bundled up to dig in his pockets for identification and, between the thunder of the engine and the singing of the thin wires that kept the wings taught and true, he couldn't hear anything the pilot might say. He looked over the end of the wing, though he doubted he would recognize any landmarks. He estimated they were flying at 80 mph which seemed a little slow, but maybe that was all this old bi-plane could do. It was a bumpy ride.
The land below appeared to be a patchwork of fields. They were green with crops or grass which made him wonder what time of year it was. Surely it wouldn't be so cold in summer, so it must be spring or autumn. The current of warm air must be engine heat. He noticed that condensation was blowing off the trailing edge of the wing and now that he had the leisure to think about it he could feel moisture in the wind blowing past him.
He could smell gasoline and there was something else too, that he couldn't quite place. He felt something wet trickle down his face and reached up to wipe it away; it left a greasy-feeling trail on his cheeks. He sniffed the fingertips of the gloves and after a moment identified the sweet odor of burnt castor oil. Carefully he craned his head out the side of the cockpit and saw dirty streaks along the nose of the plane. Was the engine leaking? Sam supposed that was possible with an old engine, but it made him nervous nonetheless. It wasn't safe; the smallest spark could ignite the fuel, and the wood and cloth plane would go up like a torch.
Another fear crept into his mind – he was afraid of heights. Except it hadn't seemed to bother him to look down at the ground. He looked out again to see if he felt differently now that he'd remembered his phobia but he was so high up that it didn't seem real. Logically he knew that a fall from this height would probably kill him but the occasional farmhouse looked more like a dollhouse and because of the scale his mind couldn't comprehend the distance.
He wondered where he was and what he was doing here. Was the plane participating in an air show, maybe with a group of similar antiques? He looked left and right but didn't see another airplane anywhere in the sky. Was he taking a joyride? Maybe the guy he'd Leaped into had always wanted to fly in an open-cockpit bi-plane. That would be too bad because he'd have appreciated it a lot more than Sam was. Nor did it make much sense for Sam to Leap in at this moment…unless something bad was about to happen. Though what Sam could possibly do if the plane crashed he didn't know.
He twisted in his seat again to look behind him and saw another plane closing in. This must be an air show, he thought. The other airplane had three wings, was painted bright red, and he could clearly see a large Maltese cross on the rudder. But there was something not right about this; they were too high up to be seen easily from the ground and the best he could tell they'd been flying in a straight line instead of circling an airfield.
Suddenly bits of wood and fabric erupted from the left wing beside him, leaving small neat round holes. They were being shot at!
Sam scooted as far to the right as possible in the tiny cockpit and tried to analyze the situation. Was this some kind of re-enactment? Squib hits could've been attached to the underside of the wing and triggered by the pilot at the right time to simulate shots. If so, where was the camera plane? He supposed they could be filming from the ground, but then why bother faking the bullet holes? Had he Leaped into a stuntman again? He vaguely remembered having to do a "little fall" on that Leap, and how terrifying it had been. Surely that couldn't be the case this time because he had no parachute, which was worrying in itself.
At that moment the pilot banked the plane, turning it over to the left. To Sam it felt like the whole plane was pivoting around the tip of its wing and he grabbed the edge of the cockpit so he wouldn't feel like he was going to fall out. The plane behind them had stopped firing and was trying to match their turn. Sam's scientific mind automatically saw what the other pilot apparently didn't; starting from a point behind his prey and aiming at the same destination caused his turn radius to be smaller and he ended up to their left instead of staying behind them as he'd intended.
As Sam watched, the red plane flew by them so close that he could see the pilot's face. It passed them and soared on ahead. He wasn't at all sure what was happening, and turned to see his own pilot. The man was pointing his index finger with his thumb at a right angle in a kid's imitation of a gun. He alternated this gesture with pointing frantically at the gun mounted in front of Sam.
Turning around again Sam now saw a pair of long, deep parallel gashes snaking through the earth below. The ground between them was barren and pitted. It looked like a war zone. Maybe they were making a war movie after all; if so he'd better play his part. He reached up to take hold of the gun, fiddled with it a moment until he understood how the trigger mechanism worked, then fired a continuous line of bullets at the red plane ahead. Every few rounds there was a red tracer to show where the bullets were going. He hoped they weren't real bullets, and wasn't really trying to hit the other plane.
His pilot however seemed to have other ideas, making subtle course corrections so the deadly stream intersected with the 'enemy' plane. Smoke began pouring out of its engine and the plane began to dive. Sam stopped shooting and his pilot banked again, circling to observe the other plane's descent. As they watched the red plane crashed headfirst into the middle of a field. Sam waited, horrified, to see if the pilot got out. He did, running as fast as he could away from the plane. He hadn't gone far when it burst into flames, the force of the blast knocking him down. No emergency vehicles appeared to rescue him or put out the flames.
Sam's pilot flew on toward the northwest, crossing the trenches below. Sam was stunned. Those had been real bullets after all, and he'd just been in a real dogfight. But in a bi-plane? What year had he Leaped into? "Oh, boy!" he yelled into the wind.
They flew on for several minutes while Sam tried to come to grips with the fact that he'd just shot an airplane out of the sky. Knowing the pilot hadn't been killed helped, but that had been sheer luck. He'd killed people before during the course of a Leap, but there had always been a very good reason for doing it. Surely GFTW hadn't Leaped him into the middle of a war to have him shoot blindly at some unknown foe. And if his mission had been to save the pilot he'd have already Leapt out again.
Sam came out of his reverie when he heard the engine shut off. He looked around, surprised to see they were still in the air. The engine fired up again. Ahead of the plane he could see what looked like nothing more than a mowed field with huge tents and a scattering of small buildings around the edges. The plane was losing altitude as they approached.
The engine cut out again for a few seconds and came back on. This seemed to be the only way the pilot had to slow their speed, but it was unnerving to Sam. He braced himself for the landing, reasoning that it wasn't going to be smooth. It wasn't. The plane bounced, hit the ground again and slewed to one side.
The pilot corrected the swerve and the plane bumped along the ground, headed for the tents. When they were close to one of them he swung the plane around so the tent was behind them, then shut off the engine. Several young men ran out of the tent to help them climb out of the plane. Sam was very glad to be on solid ground again.
He and the pilot both pulled off their gloves, goggles and leather flying caps. The pilot peered at Sam's face and said, "I say old man, are you all right? You look a little green." He spoke with a British accent.
"I, uh, I think I'm okay," Sam replied. Then on second thought he added, "I do feel a little sick to my stomach." He took no offense at being called 'old man', knowing that was a common British expression.
"I do hope it wasn't my flying," the pilot said, laughing. "It's likely just the castor oil; you may have to visit the latrine a few times, though I rather doubt you swallowed enough to make you very ill."
"I hope not," Sam told him. "But I think it was shooting down that red plane that's upset me; I hadn't expected to do that." That was an understatement, but maybe it would encourage the pilot to explain the situation so he could begin to figure out what was going on here. Wherever – and whenever – this was.
The pilot grinned and clapped Sam on the shoulder in a gesture of camaraderie. "Good job you did or it would've been us crashing," he said. His face took on a hangdog expression. "It's my fault, really. I'm afraid I wasn't very careful. I should've known the west wind would push us over the line. It's too bad, really, because there wasn't anyone with us to confirm your kill."
"But he wasn't killed!" Sam exclaimed. "Didn't you see him run away just before his plane burst into flames?"
"Indeed I did but it still counts as a kill, old man. It's better to take out the pilot because they're harder to replace, but at least the Huns will have to pay to replace that aeroplane. Which, if you remember, is why you were up there today so we can fix this one instead of scrapping it."
Sam turned to look at the plane only to realize that the ground crew was busily pushing it under the huge tent. There couldn't be too much wrong with it if they'd been flying it, could there? he thought rather uneasily. He remembered that he had some mechanical knowledge of the shade-tree variety, but it was anybody's guess if the Swiss-cheese effect of Leaping would bring it back to him when he needed it. Just then he saw the Imaging Chamber door open and Al step out and look around. He was wearing white shorts and a garish Hawaiian shirt covered with over-sized Hibiscus flowers in shades of peach and oxblood red amidst green palm leaves.
"Oh, wow!" Al said. "That's a 'Harry Tate'!" The lustful look on his face was usually reserved for pretty women.
The pilot said, "You gave me the thumbs up, you did figure out what was wrong didn't you? The reason why the engine cuts out in flight?"
"Uh, well, yeah, I think so Harry" Sam replied uncertainly.
"Sir!" Al barked, eyes still glued to the plane.
"Mr. Tate, Sir," Sam amended.
Al turned to Sam with a disgusted look. "No, Sam, the airplane is an R.E.8. It stands for 'Reconnaissance Experimental', but the pilots nicknamed them 'Harry Tate'." He pulled the handlink from his pocket and pushed a few buttons. "The pilot is Lieutenant Trevor Browne, of the Royal Air Force."
Lt. Browne had cocked his head to one side and was scrutinizing Sam. "Perhaps you should see the medic, old man. You don't seem to be taking this well at all."
"Yes sir, Lieutenant, sir," Sam said, relieved to have an excuse to speak to Al alone. "Right away, sir."
Lt. Browne began walking away, but paused to look back and shout, "But get back here as soon as you're done and get this plane fixed, Beckett!"
Sam stared at the man's retreating back in shock. "B-b-Beckett?" he stammered. He turned to Al in consternation. Memories of another Leap began to come back. "Al, am I…"
Al's smile had turned decidedly mischievous. He clasped his hands behind his back and bounced on the balls of his feet, deliberately dragging out the time before he answered in order to heighten Sam's expectations.
Sam took a couple of steps towards Al and asked, "What's going on here? Where am I? And when am I?"
Al extended an arm in best showmanship fashion, inviting Sam to enter the tent that had recently swallowed up the plane. "Why don't we go in there so we can talk without you looking like you belong in the loony bin." The smile was still in place and he blinked rapidly several times, indicating he wouldn't budge until Sam did as he suggested.
Sam favored him with a glare, drawing his eyebrows down and tightening his lips. But he knew Al was right so, frustrated as he was, he shook his head in resignation and entered the tent. He saw Al appear next to an airplane in the back corner of the tent; Al waved cheerily, the smug look still showing on his face.
There were a few other people in the huge tent so Sam walked behind the bi-plane where he would be less likely to be seen apparently talking to thin air. Al was busily lighting a cigar, puffing out great clouds of blue smoke in the process of getting it to get it to draw.
"Al!" Sam cried. "Don't light that thing in here!" He pointed toward the still-hot engine which was visibly dripping oil. "That engine leaks like a sieve and it's a fire hazard."
Al took a last drag on the cigar to make sure it was burning correctly and turned to look at the plane. "Of course it leaks like a sieve, these old planes used a total-loss oil system. And besides, Sam; I'm a hologram, not a fire hazard. My cigar isn't really here." To demonstrate he held the cigar out in front of himself and deliberately tapped it with his forefinger; a clump of ash fell from the tip but disappeared when it hit the floor.
"Well, you may not be here Al, but I am – and I'd really, really like to know where 'here' is and what's going on," Sam said with a pleading note in his voice. "Lt. Browne called me 'Beckett'," he added as a reminder, though he was sure Al had heard that.
"He also called you 'old man', as I recall," Al smirked. Then he turned serious. "In this case he meant it literally – at 30 years old, you're the oldest man at the aerodrome. The rest of 'em are just kids."
Sam remembered all too well from Leaps to the Civil War and Vietnam War that soldiers were just boys. "I know that," he said. "What I want to know is did I Leap into someone named Beckett?"
Al had no need to consult the handlink. "That's right, Sam. Your name is John Beckett and before you ask we've already taken a blood sample from the guy in the Waiting Room so we'll know pretty soon if he's a relative of yours."
"It's Thursday April 18, 1918," he continued. "You're at the aerodrome near Bertangles, France. You're a mechanic, a Yank working with the British and Canadians here."
Sam stared at Al in disbelief. "I'm in the middle of World War One?" he asked.
"Yeah Sam, that's right," Al agreed. "Well, actually it's near the end of the war. The armistice was – will be – whatever - signed on 11/11/1918 at the 11th hour, aboard a rail car of the Orient Express. Did any of your family fight in that war?"
"I don't remember," Sam said, a perplexed look on his face. "John's a common name in my family, it's entirely possible. Dad never liked to dwell on wars, but I don't know if he never said anything about it or if I just can't remember what he said."
"Well, don't worry about it, Sam. We'll find out soon enough, but Ziggy's pretty sure it's another case of genetic transference. It's really the only explanation since according to your theory you can't Leap outside your own lifetime."
"Like when I Leaped into my great-grandfather during the Civil War," Sam mused. "So what am I here to do exactly?"
"It's déjà vu all over again," Al remarked with a smirk at his borrowed pun. Then he turned serious and his gaze met Sam's as he said, "We don't have the foggiest, Sam. Ziggy's working double-time to compute all the possible variables but that's gonna be hard because of the war." He brought up the handlink and turned his attention to its readout.
"Well you'd think I'd have Leaped out already if I'd been here to save that German pilot," Sam muttered.
Al whipped his head up to stare at Sam. "What German pilot?" he asked succinctly.
"Oh, you know, the one I sort of shot down." Sam winced at the statement.
"Shot down," Al reiterated in a deadpan tone. "As in you were flying around in this airplane…" He used the cigar to point to the R.E. 8 beside them. "…and you shot at a German plane?"
"Only after he shot at us first," Sam said reasonably. "His plane crashed, but Lt. Browne circled to check on him and I saw him run away right before his plane exploded."
Al was industriously poking at the buttons on the handlink. Without looking up he asked, "Over Allied territory or German?"
"Over the German side I guess," Sam said. "We flew over the trenches after I shot him down. The lieutenant said the wind had carried us over the lines, so we must've been on the German side."
Al was busily studying the handlink's readout, occasionally whacking it with the palm of his hand when he considered its performance unsatisfactory.
"He said it counted as a 'kill' because the airplane was destroyed," Sam continued. "It seems like such a shame, it was a beautiful all-red plane with three wings. I thought maybe we were flying antique planes in some air show until he crashed. I never realized…"
Al cut him off sharply with, "An all-red tri-plane? In WWI? Sam, did you shoot down the Red Baron?"