Chapter 8

Santisima Trinidada had once been a small fishing village ecking a meagre living out of the Gulf of California. Commercial fisheries had stripped much of the useful species out of the accessible waters during the fifties and sixties. As a consequence, the village had fallen on hard times and many of its inhabitants had left.

BeN Sherman faintly remembered the village when, as a young man fresh out of High School, he and some friends had passed through it in an old Dodge van. He recalled a dusty road, the poor red soil, and a long extinct volcano cone. The beach was cluttered with old, disused boat sheds and rotting hulls. The houses, clinging haphazardly in a semi circle around the waterline, had the look of decay. They had seen a few elderly people and that's all. He and his friends gassed up the Dodge from the only service station, then moved on.

By way of contrast, the air conditioned bus slid easily along a tar-sealed 4 lane highway into Trinidada's flash, new depot. Instead of the abandoned fishermen's houses, a string of low rise hotels graced the waterfront. Inland, across the flanks of the volcano, a new town had sprung up around the tourist industry. The bay itself was full of pleasure craft and Ben could see water skiers and Jetskis competing with bathers for sea room. He thought there ought to be more traffic control out there.

A small fleet of white Jeeps provided the taxi service. They revved impatiently waiting for rides outside the bus depot. Ben jumped in the first on the rank and it took off at break-neck speed.

His destination was the highest house in Santisima Trinidada. It was well up the winding road sitting on an ancient, eroded ridgeline. It featured splendid views well out into the Gulf.

The house was a huge, rambling, walled, Spanish-style hacienda. The road lead up to an ornate wrought-iron gate. The taxi dropped him off before squealing back towards town, and another fare.

Ben stood for a while. The gate was at least 12 foot high and firmly barred. The wall was equally forbidding and unscaleble without a long ladder or rope. After about 5 minutes, however, a girl in her late teens walked down the marble path and stood, facing him, on the other side.

She was tall, blond, and impossibly pretty, wearing a bikini top and tight shorts. Around her hips, however, was a black leather belt, from which hung a holstered machine pistol.

"Si?" she asked. Her eyes appraised him, blue and penetrating. They reminded him of a cat's noticing a mouse's flicking tail.

"Er," Ben answered, "istas... ah... hacienda del Raul..."

"You wanna speak English?" she asked, breaking out into a wide grin. Her accent was pure West Coast American. "Your Spanish is crap!"

"Ah," Ben grinned, relieved, "I've come to see Raul Hernandez," he said, "is this the right house?"

"Sure!" she replied, breezily, "he's my uncle... sorta. What's ya name?" When Ben told her, she took a small walkie-talkie from her belt and rattled away in, what Ben thought, was an Eastern European language. "C'mon in," she told him, sliding back the bolt on the gate, "he's expecting you."

"He is?" Ben said, confused.

"Sure!"

He followed her back up the path to another gate that lead into a courtyard. In the courtyard was an ornamental fountain and lush gardens. The girl lead him through still another gate into more gardens and a swimming pool. Ben could see several young people lounging around. They looked up when he appeared.

"This is Ben Sherman, "the girl announced to the others, "I'm Emilie, but call me 'Em, ' everyone does," she explained. She unhitched the leather belt and placed it, and the holstered weapon, on one of the pool tables.

"Your Uncle?" Ben asked.

"Well, he's kinda like my Uncle... known me since so high," she indicated, "my family and Raul's have been close friends since, like, forever."

Emilie introduced him to the others. The first was a boy of 15, dark haired and, like Emilie, tall. His name was Kurt and Emilie said he was Raul's Grandson. A 20 year old woman followed next and, again like Emilie, statuesque and blond. Her name was Peta and Kurt's big sister. Faced with so many introductions, Bobby forgot the names of the rest of the young people.

"Uncle Raul's waiting for you inside," Emilie announced, "and Mom. You must meet my Mom, she's cool!"

"Your Father?" he asked.

"He's working," she replied, "he'll show up in a day or two."

"What does he do?"

"He's, like, in the travel industry," she laughed, "travels all the time!"

Ben Sherman wasn't sure what he was doing down here in Mexico. He'd lost the best job he'd ever had, his wife had walked out on him, and his house had to be put up for sale. Without a decent job there was no way he could keep up the mortgage. His wife had insisted on half of the proceeds of the sale and what little else he had left. In some ways he felt a sense of relief that it was all over and he wasn't responsible for anyone or anything but himself.

Ari Ramcke, the German investigator with whom he'd worked on the 1070 investigation, had turned on him with a fury once he'd got back to Germany. He claimed that he, Ben, had sabotaged the investigation from the start, that he'd concealed evidence, and he was being paid by Boeing to blame the pilots. Ramcke claimed that the Americans had recovered the cockpit section and concealed it from the investigation. That cockpit would reveal, he claimed, that the problem had been with the O2 system all along. Faulty American design had been the problem, he'd stated.

Amid the flurry of denials, claims and counter-claims, Ben had been the ritual sacrifice. There was no-way he was going to be employed in the aviation industry again; his career was down the toilet. All Ben had left was the unresolved 1070 disaster. He was determined to find the answers for his own peace of mind, if for nothing else.

Raul Hernandez wasn't alone. Sitting with him was a woman, whom Emilie introduced as her Mother. She was a blond of around 50 and spoke English with an Eastern European accent. Ben concluded it was she to whom Emilie was talking to through her walkie-talkie.

"I'm Marina," she said, sweetly. She stood and put out her hand. "Are you staying, Ben, for a few days, perhaps?" she asked. "My husband is in the US on business but should be home in a few days. He'd be sorry to miss you."

"Ok," Ben replied, "if it's all right with Raul, I'd be glad to stay."

"I'm sorry to hear about your misfortune," Raul told him, "and the separation from your wife."

"Thank you," he replied, "but how did you know?"

"Oh, we have our ways of finding out things. Tell me?" he continued, "what do you intend to do now?"

"Well, sir? I don't really know. See, this 1070 thing, well, it kinda burns me up that we didn't find any answers. Not that I could put in a report, anyway. I was hoping that you folks could fill in the blanks?"

"And what blanks would that be?" Marina asked.

"That bit with the cockpit being in Austin for twenty years... the whole time travel thing..."

"You want to put that in the report?" she asked, surprised.

"No, ma'am, I sure don't. But I don't like leaving things without finding answers. Even if I don't inform the NTSB, I'd like to know for myself."

"What in particular?" asked Raul, "what do you need to know?"

"Well, sir? If those pilots travelled back in time with their ship, then where are they now? I'm pretty sure you know."

"Yes, I know," he shrugged, "but they must reveal themselves to you. I cannot breach trust."

"Yeah, I understand, but..."

"Maybe, if you stay for a few days you might find some of the answers you seek?" Marina explained.

"And the time machine? Is it man made? And where the Hell is it? Some other century?"

"All will be revealed... in time," Raul grinned.

Meanwhile, in Hamburg, Germany, Ari Ramcke hurried through the swing doors of the Federal Bureau of Aircraft Investigations, the BFU. Conspiracy theorists had ensured there was a swelling knot of journalists and film crews waiting outside.

Ari was regarded by his colleagues as talented, but stubborn. That stubborness could, on rare occasions, turn to obsessiveness. His colleagues weren't surprised when he turned on the NTSB investigation of flight 1070. But they were surprised by the vehemence of his accusations.

According to Ramcke, he'd been isolated and ignored by the senior American investigator, Ben Shepherd. The Americans had concealed evidence from him; all for the purpose, he claimed, of exonerating the manufacturers, Boeing. Both right and left wing newspapers had a field day. The story appealed to German Nationalists as well as those prepared to believe the US was the font of all evil. Already some demonstrations had occurred outside the US Embassy, demanding the Americans admit the 'truth.'

Outside the building, the pavement was crowded with jostling journalists and security trying to open a route to Ari's waiting car. They were shouting out their agencies in the desperate hope Ari would grant and interview.

"I've nothing to say, nothing to say," he repeated as he pushed his way through.

"Ari?" a woman called, pushing against a guards arm, "CNN?"

He looked into her face. The woman was beautiful, impeccably made up, with a low cut top that revealed a pretty cleavage. On impulse he nodded, indicating his car. Woman and cameraman ducked under the security guard and piled into the back of the Mercedes.

"Hi!" the woman said, "I'm Ella and this is Fernando, my cameraman."

"American?" he asked.

"Yes. Where're we going? Is there a park nearby or somewhere where we can get a nice back shot? Maybe the cathedral?"

"Sure," he nodded, "the catheral," he told the driver.

The car travelled a short distance before turning off into the grounds of the cathedral. The Americans consulted briefly before agreeing on a location. Ella fixed a microphone to Ari's lapel. As she moved in close he could smell her heady scent, his eyes were drawn to her cleavage as if by magnetism.

Her smile, her eyes, disarmed him. Media savvy, his instincts told him to be on his guard, that this woman knew her job and could use her allure to tease information from him unwillingly. With growing uncertainty, he found his eyes locked to hers.

"This is Ella Hernandez reporting from..." she began into the camera. Ari scarcely heard her, overwhelmed by her sexuality. "Mr Ramcke?" he jolted back at the sound of his name, "what evidence to you have of a cover up?"

"There will be an enquiry," he replied, "I cannot say anything until then."

"An enquiry? When, Where?"

"Yet to be determined."

"The families of the dead crew deserve answers, Mr Ramcke. This must be very upsetting for them?"

"Of course!"

"Are you accusing Boeing of bribing the NTSB?"

"All will come out at the proper time!"

"You've heard that the NTSB has fired Investigator Ben Shepherd? Have you any comment to make?"

"None!"

"Thank you, Investigator Ari Ramcke. This is Ella Hernandez in Hamburg for CNN."

Ari wandered back to his car while the crew packed up. "That was softball," Fernando told Ella.

"I know. I need to get under his guard. If I went hard I'll never get close to him."

"How close to you want to get?" Fernando smirked.

"Close enough. Hey, wait up?" she called, "you got half an hour? How about going for a drink?"

Ari turned, startled. He looked back at the pretty woman for a few moments before making his mind up. "I have some time," he told her, "maybe a quick one?"

"Sure," she replied, "a quickie!" She turned to her cameraman and suggested he catch a taxi back to their car. He grinned at her knowingly. "Now cut that out!" she grinned back, before speeding after Ari.

Ella Hernandez had been something of a rarity; a television journalist who'd kept her name out of the gossip columns. Try as she might, though, her recent separation from her long time partner had become a talking point in some newsrooms. He'd been kind of reclusive and very few of Ella's acquaintances had ever met him. Rumours circulated and it wasn't long before male colleagues began to hit on her. People thought she was remarkably well composed and professional about it all.

Ari chose a nearby basement bar. It was down a side street, small and discrete. He watched her negotiate the high steps and her short, tight skirt from below. Ella noticed with amusement his eyes, all too predictably, trying to catch a glimpse of her panties. They chose a table to the rear and well out of sight from the door.

"Are you based in Hamburg?" he asked her.

"I go where the stories are," she smiled, seductively.

"And you believe there's a story here?"

"Of course! Corporate corruption, government conspiracies..."

"I never said any of that was true," he hastened to say, "I only stated my suspicians. You people misquote me."

"Sure you did," she agreed, breezily, "but you also must have known what effect such allegations were likely to have. So what's your point, Ari, what're you trying to achieve?"

"The truth," he smiled.

"Who's?"

He lifted his drink in a toast before bolting it, grinning. "So what kind of stories are your speciality? Scandals? Or maybe European/American relations?"

"Science," she replied.

"Ah, you have a science background? You make a hypothesis, perhaps, then set out to prove it?"

"You've defined investigative journalism."

"Yes, I have!" he chuckled, "and you have a particular field of science?"

"I'm interested in Temporal Physics!" Ella watched a shocked expression momentarily flash over his face.

He recovering instantly. "That's a very specialised field?" he told her, "and what has an air crash investigation to do with temporal physics?"

"I guess I'm slumming," she laughed, "I need to make a living."

"Ah, of course. I guess there'd not be much call for such a speciality."

"Not a lot. I wonder?" she eyed him, "if I gave you my card..."

"Oh, I see. If I have anything I might want to feed you, 'off the record.' I know how the press works. I'm afraid you may be disappointed?"