Chapter 2

"'Berlin, 16th July 2006, ' the newspaper said, 'Fiery crash of German Boeing into the Gulf of Mexico'."

"Fiery?" asked NTSB investigator, Ben Sherman, of his German colleague. The investigator from the German equivalent of the NTSB, Ari Ramcke, shrugged in embarrassment as he continued to translate the Berlin newspaper for Ben's benefit. "There's no evidence of fire!" Ben shook his head.

"I know," the German continued, "'could this be another attack by Al-Qaeda?'"

"Aw shit! I guess I saw that coming," Ben commented.

The German managed a wry grin. "It continues, '6 believed dead in death plunge after aircraft disappeared from radar screens. An unofficial spokesman from the US Government suggested the plane was brought down by a shoulder-launched missile'."

"Really?" said Ben, "that would sure be a lucky shot at 20,000 feet!"

"The 'spokesman, ' no doubt, was based in the newspaper's editorial office," said Ari, "they do that kind of thing all the time."

"Oh, everywhere," agreed Ben, "there's been no official Government statement at present. Of course everything's still on the table, but some theories are less likely than others."

"Can you discount terrorism?" asked the German, rhetorically, "I think not, it seems to me. A bomb may've been smuggled on board at Rotterdam? You know, the Dutch think they have good security at their airports but..."

"We all think we have good security," mused Ben, "but the truth is, nowhere is 100% safe. We need to compare 1070's takeoff weight from Rotterdam with the cargo manifest. Then we must go through each item of cargo to ensure 1070 wasn't carrying anything hazardous. I think that should be the place to start, the nature of 1070's cargo. Would you like to get started with that, sir?"

Ari nodded. "Any progress with the black box?"

"The wreck is down 8 fathoms. It'll take the Navy a couple of days to get their diving team assembled. Helluva job, diving on a wreck like that. They'd probably have to send down an RSV for a couple of hours to do a survey. We should know more by Thursday."

"The crew?"

"Still in the wreck, as far as we know," Ben shrugged, "apart from the second officer of the relief crew. Strange he should be thrown out like that, with little evidence of trauma to the body. You'd think he'd be busted up some."

"You have a preliminary autopsy report?"

"Yeah, now there's another weird thing."

"What?"

"It looks like he died from drowning. Obviously he survived impact, it don't seem possible."

"There must be some mistake. Perhaps your medical examiners missed something?"

"Well, you're welcome to have your own people take a look," Ben told Ari. He was slightly irritated at the German investigator's insinuation that somehow American medical examiners were incompetent.

"We will, of course!" Ari replied.

Ben hoped the investigation would be swift.

Meanwhile, Bobby McClone, Search Co-ordinator, was winding down his part of the operation. From now on, they'd be into the recovery phase and a whole new bunch of specialists would be taking over. Navy divers and ocean floor retrieval people, forensics, aviation structural, electronic and engine technicians and the august investigators from the NTSB will shortly be swamping the place.

He felt some sadness at letting go of 1070. It had been his baby and he felt a strange kind of ownership of the aircraft and its crew. His final responsibility was the security of the crash site. The Coast Guard had provided a number of cutters and he'd organised some of the National Guardsmen to patrol along the coast. He didn't want any of the rubberneckers, who'd turned out, to souvenir any wreckage that might have come ashore.

McClone had learned to fly in the Texas Air National Guard. He'd qualified to the second seat on C-130s before a previously undiagnosed heart murmur grounded him. He couldn't let go of flying, however, he'd well and truly caught the bug. So, upon discharge from the TANG, he applied to the FAA to be an Air Traffic Controller. He felt an affinity with the crew of that German Boeing, maybe a little jealousy? They'd been doing what he'd wanted to do his whole life.

The army had erected a number of tents on the beach opposite the crash site. Some communication gear had been installed and the little camp served as search headquarters. On the morning of the 16th, Bobby arrived at HQ to find a small crowd gathered by the rope barrier.

There were a number of nutcases, sure, and a few more spectators. Most, however, appeared to be good citizens offering to help in some way.

"Hey!" a man, who appeared to be in his 60s or 70s, called out, "hey!" Bobby smiled at him as he hurried from his truck. Just as the guard let McClone through, the old man called out again, "you found them crew yet?"

"Just the one," he answered the man, "we'll get them home, sir, don't you worry."

"Bet you won't," the man answered, "least not Reiner Kurzbach, Arnim Krauss and Jurgen Fuller."

Bobby stopped in his tracks. He understood the names of the crew had not been released to the media yet. The man appeared to be Hispanic, was well dressed, and was clutching a business-type, black, leather briefcase. "Who are you?" McClone called.

"Name's Raul," he said, "Raul Hernandez."

"Let him through," Bobby told the guard, "I want to talk to him."

In late November, 1986, Burleigh Freight Forwarders had extensive operations out of Austin airport, Texas. It's depot building was a giant 'L' with the base line facing the passenger termini nearly a mile away. In front was BFF's tarmac, now with a huge 747 towering over it.

The 747 was so big there was just enough room for one other aircraft, in this case a Lockheed Hercules. Should the Boeing remain there long, it would seriously hamper BFF's operations.

Of more serious importance, however, was the attention it was attracting. 'Well, ' thought Reiner Kurzbach, Captain, 'it was impossible to miss.' From the glass-fronted office area he saw the tall tail tower over the roof of the depot building. It was painted in a garish fashion seldom seen in 1986. It stood out like the only traffic light in some small hick town.

It had taken a year of research and study by a design company to come up with the colour scheme and logo. The fusilage and wings were bright red with ACIS painted in large gold letters towards the forward section. The fin was gold with the company's emblem in black. That emblem was a dove with its wings spread. Between its claws was a globe featuring a map of the European Union in blue. Painted upon the base of the tailfin was the aircraft's registration letters, D-TTBB in black.

A story had gained traction around the airport that this was a brand new prototype from Boeing undergoing route testing and it had been painted up in some bogus company's colours to divert attention. That Boeing should paint this supposedly highly secret prototype like a circus wagon appeared to defy logic. Yet a surprising number of people accepted the story.

Raul Hernandez, BFF's Operations Officer, had organised strict security around the 747 but, ultimately, he knew he had to find somewhere to park it away from the public.

Clear across the other side of the airport, Lomax J Cleeton III also noticed the brightly coloured 747. He was a local freelance photographer, ambulance chaser and airplane enthusiast. Occasionally he sold his work to a local aviation magazine called 'Air Spectator.' The editor of this magazine had heard rumours of a new 747 prototype at Austin and called Lomax to try and get some photos. Through the chain link fence, Lomax snapped off a roll of film using his telephoto lens.

Through the viewfinder he could clearly see the registration code on the tail, D-TTBB. He made a note of it so he could check it out. Later, back at his apartment, he looked it up and found the code had been allocated the year before to a Dornier Skyservant owned by a small commuter airline based in Frankfurt, West Germany. It didn't make sense and his newshound's nose began to twitch.

Meanwhile, the surviving crew of 1070 sat in Raul's office discussing what their plan of action should be. Bob Garland from Seattle sat in, intrigued by the whole situation. Raul, himself, had to attend to business; specifically, the offloading of the company's Hercules.

"We need to get the plane out of here," announced Captain Kurzbach, "soon US authorities will be taking an interest. We do not have any paperwork to show officials in 1986."

"Yes," agreed Armin Krauss, "we cannot prove who we are in a way they will believe us. Then, should we convince them we are from 2006, what will happen then? We have direct knowledge of the next twenty years. I'd imagine we'd be an extremely important resource for the US government."

Kurzbach managed a wry grin. "An understatement!" he agreed.

"Everyone will want a piece of us," Jurgen Fuller also agreed. "Financial institutions, State Department, political parties... everyone will want to know their future. But can we do that? Honestly, can we play God with the lives of people like that? For instance, if we tell someone their time and manner of their death, they will change their future if they could, only natural. This is too much responsibility."

"Should we prevent 9/11?" Armin asked, "would those terrorists then strike somewhere else, somewhere we could not predict? To us, those people are dead. But if we tip off the FBI, we may condemn others to die, others that would otherwise be alive in our time."

"We cannot do this," proclaimed the Captain, "we must go back to our own time. The future... er... past, would be too monsterous!"

"Well!" Bob Garland spoke up, "Boeing could sure use one of you in the Research and Development Department. Your knowledge of future trends in aviation..."

"Again," Kurzbach interjected, "you ask us to change the normal order of things. To be fair, we would have to share our knowledge with your competitors, say Airbus."

"The temptation to use us to gain an edge... surely you must see the dilemma?" Armin said.

"Sure, sure," agreed Bob, "you would cost a few people their jobs... perhaps mine?"

Just then, Raul Hernandez looked in. "We gotta get you folks out of here," he announced, "it's turning into a circus out there. I just had a call from Raytheon wanting to examine your cockpit. Boeing, too, called from Seattle. They want to send a man down. Word's getting around and it won't be long before the Feds show up. I can get you out of the airport, no problem. But that plane, Hell, where do you hide something that big?"

"Have you got a shed at Austin big enough?" Bob asked, "we need to lock it away under guard."

"Hmm, United have a large hangar down near the freeway from when they used to do maintenance here," Raul told them, "it's big, but I'm not sure the tail will go under the beam. They've been looking for a buyer for it for a year, but their asking price has been too high. No-one has any use for a shed that big."

"Cut the beam if we have to?" suggested Garland, "then weld an archway. The tail only needs to get inside the building far enough to close the door. Is the shed empty?"

"Yeah, United stripped everything out of it when they moved to Houston."

"Can you rent it from the airline?"

"Probably," Raul said, "but who's going to pay for it? And the alterations?"

"What's the freight worth?" Bob asked Kurzbach.

"You can't," exclaimed the Captain, "that's theft!"

"It seems to me you were going to hand it over to Burleigh in any case. I doubt they're going to be able to find the recipients. Raul, what would the company do if you cannot deliver the goods? Or, say, you're not paid cartage and storage?"

"We can seize the goods and sell it to cover our costs. But we'd have to put it under bond for three months in case of other legal claims."

"Clearly there'll be no legal contest as the customers have not yet ordered their merchandise. You can do pretty much what you want with it, who's going to argue?"

"Shoot, I can hear our lawyers screaming already. And head office? How the Hell do I explain all this without them thinking we're going to have our asses sued?"

"Just sell one thing at a time, Raul, so nobody grows suspicious. A bit of creative paperwork, perhaps?"

"I'm... I'm, not sure I can do that," Raul explained, "as the Captain said, it's technically theft. I ain't never done anything like that..."

"The alternative is to inform the FBI, or the FAA. You want to try and explain this to them? And if you convince them, what then? What happens to these boys?"

"This is liable to blow up in my face, I can feel it."

"One thing at a time, Raul, let's just focus on getting that ship under wraps."

"I guess," Raul replied, doubtfully.

It was 5pm and BFF's day workers were going off shift. Some of the men stared curiously as three workers wearing company issue green boilersuits joined the queue by the time office. Few had seen these workers before, however, one or two did recognise them. They'd last seen them wearing sky blue jackets and peaked caps. But no-one said anything. The shift was over and they couldn't give a shit.