Chapter 4: The Discovered
"Mistakes are the portals of discovery." ~James Joyce
West Palm Beach, Florida, December 5, 1945 A.D.
Morrison Army Airfield
Under the darkness of night, a silver P-51D Mustang taxied onto the airstrip at Morrison Army Airfield. Sitting at the controls was Captain Frank Steiner, a dashing young pilot and a proud member of the 361st Fighter Group. While in service over Europe with the Eighth Air Force, he shot down 17 enemy airplanes and acquired more than 1500 hours under his belt. His accomplishments made him a hero among his colleagues, but he harbored one dark secret—his brother was a Nazi.
No, Frank wasn't a Nazi sympathizer, and he hated Hitler as much as any American. But his brother, Felix Steiner, aligned himself with the fists of fascism. In his early memories, Frank could remember him and Felix in their fun war games. Felix taught Frank how to hunt and shoot their father's Pistole Parabellum, a relic from World War I. When the Spanish Civil War broke out, Felix volunteered to join the Nationalists, claiming that it was the only path to salvation for Spain. After the war, he moved to Germany. In his last letter to Frank and his family, he proudly praised Hitler and informed them of his decision to join Kriegsmarine. Then, the war broke out, and Frank never heard from his brother ever again.
"Good evening, men. This is Colonel Cathcart, your flight operations officer, welcoming you to today's mission," a happy voice called over the radio, "You've all been briefed on the evening's run. There's no sense naming names, since the enemy is probably listening to this transmission."
There is no enemy, Frank thought, mentally condemning the corpulent and deluded colonel. Colonel Cathcart deemed Frank a subversive because he wore scarves and used words like panacea and utopia, and because he disapproved of Adolf Hitler, who had done such a great job of combating un-American activities in Germany.
"The weather has improved tremendously over the Gulf. You will have no trouble at all seeing your target. But you mustn't forget, that means that they will have no trouble at all seeing you."
Frank grunted. As if our own men are gonna shoot me down with a flare gun, he thought.
"Furthermore, I want to wish you good luck on today's mission. To those of you who won't be coming back, I'd like to say that we will do our best to take care of your wives or sweethearts. And don't forget: General Dreedle wants to a nice, tight search pattern on those aerial photographs. Everyone reach to go?"
The standard procedure for signaling "yes" was a thumbs-up gesture at the control tower. But instead, Frank gave the Colonel the middle finger. It was too dark to tell the difference anyway.
Frank set the flaps and pushed forward the throttle lever. The Packard V-1650 Merlin engine roared into life. Soon, the P-51 was off the ground and climbing into the starry skies above.
Jensen, Utah, April 3, 140,001,993 B.C.
The Great Valley
"Psst, Littlefoot," a low voice quietly called out, "Littlefoot, wake up."
Littlefoot groggily opened his eyes and lifted his head. He saw the smiling face of Chomper and the still jovial but more concerned face of Ruby.
Littlefoot stood up and yawned. "Hey guys," Littlefoot greeted them, "What brings you two in here at this late hour?"
"We were hoping to spend the rest of the night here," Ruby explained, "The skywater is falling too hard. We feared that our cave would get washed away, and that brings us here."
"Can you please let us stay, Littlefoot, please?" Chomper tried to put on his best puppy-eyes look.
"Sure guys, you'll be safe and dry here," Littlefoot gestured up at the tree shielding them, "Here's some leaves to make yourselves comfortable. Littlefoot stretched out his neck and grabbed a mouthful of treestars.
"Thanks, Littlefoot," Ruby replied.
"We really owe you one," Chomper added.
"Ro roblem…" Littlefoot tried to stay with a mouthful of treestars, "Shat's what frends are fro."
The Florida Strait, December 5, 1945 A.D.
US Navy Torpedo Bomber FT-58, TBM Avenger
It had been several hours since Flight 19's last transmission, and still, no one had the slightest information regarding the whereabouts of the 27 missing airmen. Scores of fighters, bombers, seaplanes, and ships crisscrossed the region, but no one reported even an oil slick.
"Alford, give me a position update," Cleve spoke into his microphone. The three officers—Cleve, Ruffy, and Alford—were all seated inside a single cramped TBM Avenger. Cleve was in the pilot seat, Ruffy sat in the navigator-radioman position, and Alford took the gunner's seat. The plane had just come back from a training mission earlier in the day and was hastily refueled. It was an older TBM-1C Avenger, with somewhat inferior avionics, range, and speed, but it was the best Cleve could find.
"We're just northwest of the island of Bimini. Actually, we're flying right over that place." Ruffy didn't name the place, as the radio was still on, but they all knew the place like the back of their hands.
"It still gives me nightmares," Cleve muttered, remembering Project Rainbow and PT-148, "It's so weird."
"What is?" Ruffy asked, briefly turning off the radio, "The radio is now off. No one else can hear us."
"So far, I've been shelled by Japanese cruisers and jumped by A6M Zeros. I've seen friends injured and our own planes going down in flames. But I've never had nightmares about them. Instead, that whole ordeal haunts me the most. I feel that whatever caused PT-147 to disappear… it's still out there."
Cleve was right about Project Rainbow. Even though none of the three officers knew it at the time, the magnetic field from the experiment was still active. Einstein theorized that even though the generators and coil were obliterated in the explosion, the magnetic field generated was too powerful to be contained. Under normal atmospheric conditions, the magnetic field spread out and aligned itself with Earth's natural magnetic field. Thus, the presence of the field, on good days, was nearly undetectable. However, when exposed to lightning, Lenz's law can suddenly cause the magnetic field to concentrate and reactivate. The result is the creation of a super-magnetic field that can move independently of Earth's space-time continuum. The Navy suppressed all news of the incident, and almost all files relating to the incident were destroyed. Even Ruffy, one of the senior managers of the experiment, was kept in the dark.
"I know what you mean," Ruffy replied, "Things aren't supposed to just vanish into thin air, and certainly not 51-ton gunboats… But come to think of it, do you find it strange that PT-147 and the planes all disappeared in the same general area?"
"And all without a trace," Cleve added, "Not to mention in the same weather conditions. It certainly sounds weird, but it could be all a coincidence."
"Contact!" Alford suddenly yelled through the intercom, "Contact! Four o'clock high. Single plane approaching from the port side."
"Roger that. Turning on the radio," Ruffy answered and flipped the radio power switch into the "on" position.
"Should I turn into him, sir?" Cleve asked.
"Negative. Keep flying straight."
Cleve could hear the static in his headset as the radio came into life. A bored American voice could be heard over the airwaves.
"TBF Avenger, do you read me?"
"Loud and clear," Cleve responded, "Please identify yourself."
"This is Captain Frank 'Raptor' Steiner, Morrison Army Airfield. I'm lookin' for some, uh, downed Avengers and Mariners. Have you seen anything?"
"We're also searching, but no luck here either."
"What's your call sign, Avenger?"
"Just FT-58."
"Where are you headed, FT-58?"
"Towards Sandy Point, a bit east of here."
"Mind if I come along for the ride? I'm headed in the same direction. Have to keep talking to stay awake." It was true. Frank had just gotten back from Europe, and the time differences were causing him severe drowsiness. Even back during the war, P-51 pilots often had trouble staying awake on long flights; the Merlin engines' droning had an infamous narcoleptic effect. Pilots usually tried to counteract the sleep spell by taking amphetamines or flying in close formation, but Frank had neither drugs nor wingmen.
"Not at all, Raptor," Ruffy replied, "You're in for a thrilling flight." Cleve, Alford, and Frank chuckled at the sarcasm.
The P-51 Mustang pulled alongside the Avenger, and the two planes pierced through the darkness.
Jensen, Utah, April 3, 140,001,993 B.C
The Great Valley
The rain had temporarily abated to a drizzle in the valley. Warm, moist air blew in from the north, gently enshrouding the valley in a thin veil of fog. At Littlefoot's nest, the dinosaurs were drifting off into the calm realm of sleep and dreams. It is widely believed in modern science that only mammals are capable of dreaming, but the theory is only partially true. While it is true that no surviving reptiles and amphibians can dream, dinosaurs were a notable exception. Their dreams were filled with vibrant colors and scenes. While different species had different sleep patterns, all were capable of dreaming.
One dinosaur in particular was having a very bad dream. His tail swept hither and yon, and his arms were moving around in rapid, random patterns. He was having a nightmare.
"Pictures come alive with movements free, and rounded teeth like fish swim beneath the sea. Information fly at the blink of an eye, and beasts can talk even when out of sight." An old pterodactyl resembling the Hermit at Black Rock was whispering prophecies into Chomper's ear. He spread his wings, and his eyes began turning blood red. "You can outstrip the flyers in the sky, but metallic flying craft will scour the night. Strange strangers will promise you joy, but they lie, for this world, drenched in blood, shall die." Upon finishing the last line, the pterodactyl kicked Chomper in the stomach. Chomper stumbled backwards and fell off a high cliff into the dark abyss below.
"No, no. Say it not so!" He screamed as he fell. "Ruby! Littlefoot! Help me! Somebody, help me!"
As Chomper fell, he noticed a flying light coming straight at him. As it got closer, Chomper noticed that it was unlike anything he has ever seen. It had wings like a flyer, but it didn't flap his wings. Instead of a beak, it had spinning locks of black vines. It had no eyes and no mouth, but it made a sound like a million bees passing by.
"Help, help!" Chomper screamed. The mysterious flyer got closer. Deep into that darkness peering, Chomper fell—wondering, fearing, doubting. Chomper fell down on the left wing of the flyer with a loud, metallic cling. The skin of the flying beast wasn't soft; it was as hard as rock. He tried digging his claws into the blue skin of the beast to get a grip, but the skin was too hard even for his claw to penetrate. The beast dipped the wing and entered a left turn. The wind swept him off his feet. He fell and began sliding off.
"Help! Help!" Chomper desperately cried out. He claws searched for something to hold onto, but they helplessly ricocheted off the hardened skin of the beast. The last thing he was the pulsating red light at the tip of the wing.
The Florida Strait, December 5, 1945 A.D.
US Navy Torpedo Bomber FT-58, TBM Avenger
"'So what do you plan on calling your book?' I asked this Vonnegut guy. He thought about it and said, "'I tell you what, I'll call it 'The Children's Crusade.''" Frank was retelling his encounter with Private Kurt Vonnegut, a chaplain's assistant who looked like a filthy flamingo. The two met on a train hauling American GIs out of Europe, and Vonnegut was eager to tell Frank his story.
Cleve laughed a little. The conversation was going great, and the laughter helped lighten the mood. "It sounds like an amazing book, but I feel 'Slaughterhouse-Five' sounds more catchy."
"I'd love to meet him in person," Ruffy said, "I'm amazed that he survived the Dresden Bombing. In a slaughterhouse no less. Cleve's right about the title though; it does sound more descriptive and even contains a dash of irony."
"Cool story, bro," Alford replied sincerely, in his usual curt manner.
"I want an autographed copy. I have a feeling that it'll be an instant classic," Cleve added.
"He said that he was going to go back to Ilium, New York to resume his optometry studies," Frank replied, "That's where we're most likely to meet him."
"Eeyup," Alford said. Alford was being campy again. Laughter filled the airwaves.
Cleve shifted his gaze from the P-51 next to him and checked his instruments. All the displays on the center panel were holding steady. That was a good sign. But Cleve frowned as he checked the right panel.
"Uh, Ruffy," Cleve said over the intercom, "We seem to be having a problem with turn-and-bank indicator." Even though the plane was holding steady, the turn-and-bank indicator was swinging back and forth like a pendulum of a clock. The indicator was not a crucial instrument; it was more for precision air show formation flying and bombing than for everyday navigating. Cleve could easily fly without it, but it was still a point of concern.
"Do you want to head back?" Ruffy asked.
"We can still fly safely, but we should still inform the base."
"Roger that. I'll contact Fort Lauderdale." Ruffy tuned the radio onto the airbase frequency. "Naval Station Fort Lauderdale, this is FT-58. We're having problems with one of our instruments. Do you copy, Fort Lauderdale?"
There was only an eerie static. The silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token. And the only words there spoken were the shouted words, "Fort Lauderdale!"
"Fort Lauderdale, do you copy? Fort Lauderdale?! FORT LAUDERDALE!" Ruffy was practically screaming into the microphone, but it was no use. Ruffy then tuned to the emergency frequency at 3000 kilocycles and shouted "Mayday!" into the microphone. No one seemed to hear him. The static only grew louder.
Ruffy tuned the radio back to the P-51's frequency. "Raptor, can you contact Fort Lauderdale at 3000 kilocycles? Tell them we're having instrument troubles."
"Me too," Frank's panicked voice came over the radio, "My altimeter and speed indicator are completely kaput. Both my compasses are spinning in circles! My radio's stuck at this frequency. What the hell is going on?"
"Cleve, this is too dangerous," Ruffy commanded, "We have to turn back."
"Roger that. Turning back to zero-niner…" Cleve tried yanking the control stick, only to freeze in terror.
"Ruffy… Raptor?" Cleve said in an intimidated voice.
"Spit it out, Cleve."
"Our compasses… they've gone cuckoo too!" Both the magnetic and gyroscopic compasses started spinning in circles.
"Don't worry. We can try visual navigation."
"Too late! Look!" Just as Cleve finished the sentence, a stygian grayish-green fog enveloped the airplane. Visibility suddenly dropped from excellent to poor. Even the P-51 just a few yards away became barely visible.
Cleve was truly worried now. Even if he did manage to contact an airbase, he would have no idea how to get there. Without his compasses or any visual cues, he had absolutely way to determine his location.
"FT-58! What the heck is going on?! I can't see!" Frank's voice came over the radio. The static grew louder, and the voice became disjointed.
"I don't know! Our compasses are spinning in circles. We can't see either."
"We're bloody jinxed!" Alford shouted from the back of the airplane. Sudden gusts of wind shook both planes. One large gust almost turned Frank's P-51 on its side. Both pilots recovered, but both lost their sense of bearing.
Ruffy was the only one still thinking clearly. "Cleve, Raptor, climb to 5000 feet. Maybe we can climb out of this fog."
"Alright, Raptor, here we go," Cleve said, gently pulling back the control stick, "Follow my lead."
Both planes climbed to 5000 feet. Then 10000. The old Avenger refused to climb higher. Frank's P-51 managed to climb all the way up to 30,000 feet, but the fog followed the planes wherever they went. To save fuel, both planes went back down to 5,000. The fog around the aircraft dissipated slightly, but it still firmly blocked out the stars and ocean. Cleve still couldn't see any visual cues to guide him. The stubborn instruments still refused to function properly.
In the meantime, Ruffy kept switching frequencies and sending mayday messages. Methodically working his way upwards, Ruffy reached 4805 kilocycles. "Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! This is FT-58. Does anyone read me?"
Much to Ruffy's surprise, someone finally responded to his mayday call. "Aircraft calling mayday, identify yourself," the voice had a familiar ring to it. A very familiar ring.
"Taylor!" Cleve and Ruffy cried out simultaneously, "Taylor! This is FT-58. We've spent hours looking for you. You're still alive! How are the others?"
"We seem to be off course. We seem to be lost. We can't make out where we are."
"Is everyone alright?" Ruffy asked. The three officers all mistakenly believed that Flight 19 had crash-landed on some deserted island and that Taylor was using from a radio salvaged in the wreckage.
"Nobody's compass is working. We're all lost, and we're critically low on fuel."
Cleve, Ruffy, and Alford looked at each other in bewilderment. "How are they still airborne?" Ruffy asked over the intercom, "Their fuel supply was supposed to have run out 3 hours ago."
Cleve checked his wristwatch. It was 23:11. Flight 19 only had enough fuel to last until 20:00. Sure, it was possible for a plane to fly 5 or 10 minutes longer than its fuel supplies allowed, but flying more than 3 hours on empty? That was impossible.
"How are you guys still airborne?" Ruffy asked, "You were supposed to have run out of fuel 3 hours ago."
"Our fuel supply will run out at 20:00. We only have fuel for 20 more minutes. Help us!"
"It's 23:11—more than three hours past 20:00."
There was a slight pause on the other end. Taylor went to synchronize his wristwatch with Devlin and Parpart.
"Our wristwatches all say it's 19:40. We only have fuel for 20 more minutes. Please help! My engine is already sputtering."
"Please help us!" Thompson, a Flight 19 pilot, cried out.
Cleve, Ruffy, and Alford decided to put away their curiosity and get back to the task at hand. Cleve looked around and saw a flight of five TBM Avengers crossing in front of him. "I can see them now," Cleve said, pointing to the planes at one o'clock low. He shook the wings, pulled back the throttle, and pushed the stick forward. The Avenger drifted downwards. Frank's P-51, still stuck on another frequency, followed.
"We're lost too," Ruffy said, "Our instruments are also malfunctioning. We can't find land."
"What about that P-51. Are his instruments working?" Taylor asked.
"No, and his radio is stuck at 4400 kilocycles."
"So no one knows how to get back?"
"No one knows."
The seven planes joined together in one formation. Frank's radio frequency was still stuck, and Ruffy had to constantly switch frequencies to maintain communications.
"Flight 19, when the first man gets down to his last ten gallons of gas, we all ditch in the water together," Taylor explained to his students, "FT - 58, P-51, you two circle us and radio for help. Drop some flares and first-aid kits. We're going to need it."
"Sorry we failed you, Taylor," Ruffy explained apologetically, "We were sent here to rescue you, but we ended up getting lost too."
"It's not your fault," Taylor assured him, "A good leader takes the credit when things are good and the blame when things are bad. I shall—wait a second. What the hell is that in front of us?"
Cleve looked forward. A large cloud of stygian grayish-green fog suddenly formed in front of the flight. It looked like a giant thunderhead cloud, but much larger and slightly green in color. Flashes of blinding lightning reached out from the cloud's core. It seemed to be moving too—rapidly advancing towards the formation.
Without warning, one lightning bolt caught FT-81 in the right wing, igniting the gasoline vapors in the fuel tank. The fuel tank exploded, and the wing snapped in half. The wing tip flew backwards, barely missing another plane, and plummeted into the ocean. Pilot Forrest Gerber tried desperately to bank the plane steady, but it was all in vain. The Avenger rolled onto its right side and entered a spiraling descent. A terrified scream could be heard on the radio. Cleve watched, mortified, as the crippled Avenger hit the water and disintegrated in a plume of water.
"Gerber! Lightfoot! Nooo!" A voice screamed.
"Everyone, break away!" Taylor ordered. Cleve threw the control stick to the left, but it was too late. The cloud quickly enveloped the five remaining Avengers.
Frank, an alert fighter pilot, did a split-s and actually managed to turn his plane around, but even his Merlin engine was no match for the fast winds. Like a tornado, the giant cloud sucked in enormous quantities of air. The plane struggled to escape, but it could not break free of the wind. It flew backwards into the grips of the mysterious cloud.
The clumsy Avengers never had a chance. The fog was blinding. Cleve couldn't even see his own wings. The electronics went completely haywire. Instrument lights flicked on and off. The radio spewed out sparks and obscenely loud static. Cleve covered his ears. The compasses spun like the blades of a helicopter. The turbulent air shook the plane like ragdoll. A crosswind flipped the airplane on its back. Then, the winds changed direction and sent the six-ton aircraft flying backwards. Then, the plane was caught in a violent updraft. The crewmen started to black out from the rapid ascension. The last thing Cleve saw before passing out was a blinding flash of light enveloping his aircraft.