Daniel Wyatt - The Mary Jane Mission

The men fell silent.

“A real atomic bomb!”

“Yes, captain.”

“This isn’t the movies,” the captain said. “This… this is 1990.” He rubbed his face. “You’re talking like some science fiction novelist.”

“No. Not at all. But I am talking time travel.”

“That explains it,” Les exclaimed. “When the bomber refused to land, I told the pilot that I’d blast him from the sky. And he said that I better not do that because there wouldn’t be anything left of the bomber or me.”

“I don’t believe it,” MacDonald scoffed. “General, how could you arrive at such a hypothesis? You’re no scientist.”

“I didn’t say I was. I’m looking at this as level-headed as I can, considering all sides.”

“Time travel is only a theory.”

“No so, captain.” Cameron pulled out a paperback from the pocket of his windbreaker. “On the flight over from Los Angeles, I was reading an interesting book that I purchased at the LA Airport.” He showed the cover to the navy captain.

“The Devil Seas. So?”

“The author,” Cameron said, “has documented evidence of two areas of the world where strange disappearances have occurred over the last forty years or so. One of these areas is the Bermuda Triangle in the Atlantic. The other is in the Pacific, another triangle, directly opposite the Bermuda Triangle, should one drill a hole through the center of the earth.”

The general showed the others the paperback’s second page, a map of the portion of the Pacific that stretched from the Mariana Islands to Japan. A triangle was drawn over a large piece of the map. To the left of the middle of the triangle was Iwo Jima. Just outside the northerly point was Kyoto. Nudging the southern edge was Guam.

“Inside the triangle,” Cameron went on, “hundreds of disappearances have taken place. Ships, subs, people, aircraft. Many of those military aircraft. All have vanished without a trace. The largest vessels were over 200,000 tons. Very few radio signals were recorded, signifying that they vanished too quickly to even reach a transmitter to voice an SOS.”

MacDonald folded his arms. “How does this book prove time travel?”

Cameron held up two fingers. “Two stories. The first, October, 1962. Broad daylight. A DC-8 passenger jet en route from Tokyo to Guam. Just after take-off, several people aboard claimed to have seen a Japanese World War Two Betty Bomber pull up near the port wing, then bank away. One of the passengers was in the US Navy and knew his aircraft.

“The second, 1968, at the height of the Vietnam War. Many of us know that Andersen Air Force Base on the north end of Guam was used as a bomber base for the B-52s during the bombing campaign. This same field deployed Superfortresses during the Second World War. North Field, we called it then. Anyway, in 1968, also in daylight, a B-52 took off on a training run, turned north and flew 300 miles before turning south again. Twenty miles out of Guam, during the descent, the pilot and co-pilot both swore they saw a B-29 Superfortress flying in the opposite direction, a thousand feet below.

“What’s so unusual about these sightings? Well, according to the author, neither aircraft — the Betty bomber or the B-29 — existed in vintage form in those years. There may be a reconditioned Betty somewhere today, although I doubt it. But I know for a fact that there were absolutely no B-29s in flying condition in 1968. Fifi was not resurrected until the seventies, cannibalized from several other B-29s in the Mojave Desert. This Pacific triangle is a time barrier,” Cameron concluded, tapping his finger on the map.

MacDonald smacked his lips. Still unconvinced, he asked. “Tell me something, general. Do you recall anything, any stories at all, about this Pacific Triangle while you were stationed here during the war? Crazy things must have happened then too.”

“Hell! We had enough to worry about fighting the Japs.”

MacDonald smiled. “Well—”

“OK, I do remember one. I knew a pilot from the 40th Bomb Group who were based on Tinian with us, over on West Field. His group were on a mission to Japan in the early part of 1945, I think it was. May or June. Other B-29 groups too. Five hundred bombers or so in all. Over Iwo Jima they picked up a fighter escort, 150 Mustangs. Near the coast of Japan, a storm from sea level to 25,000 feet moved in out of nowhere. The fighters and bombers had no choice but to go right through it. Due to a cross-up in communication, several flights of Mustangs turned back, while other flights pushed on. Fifty P-51s went through the front. Because of their weight and better stability in the air, the B-29s made it to the other side. Twenty-five of the fifty fighters didn’t. No trace was found of any of them. Nothing! No bodies. No planes. No scraps of planes!”

“So… they hit a bad storm front,” MacDonald replied. “Are you trying to say they went through a time barrier?”

“Maybe.”

“I see. OK, getting back to the book you read, I would have to question the validity of what the pilot and co-pilot claimed to have seen. The rate of closure had to be at least 600 knots or thereabouts. That’s pretty damn quick to make a solid identification.”

Cameron shook his head, glancing over at Hulk and Tiger. “Those two were trained individuals. Your own pilots, here, I’m sure can establish a visual under the same circumstances. Don’t you think so? It’s their job.”

“All right, I see what you mean. I’ll give you that. Still, though—”

“Captain, I’m looking at this with a clear and open mind. So should you. I think I’m the only one here who has clearly come to grips with this. The Mary Jane and her crew have traveled through a time barrier, pure and simple. By the way, another incident in the book caught my attention.”

“What?”

“Nobody really knew anything about the Bermuda Triangle either until after the war. It all hit the fan when those five US Navy Avenger torpedo bombers disappeared somewhere between Fort Lauderdale, Florida and the Bahamas on December 5, 1945. Six planes, plus a Martin Mariner search plane vanished! Twenty-seven men! The bombers’ last radio messages were something to the effect that they were flying over several islands that according to their maps did not exist and that something was terribly wrong. The squadron flight leader didn’t even know what direction they were flying. He said the ocean looked different to him. It was suggested by the author that the planes had gone back through time, when more islands had existed in that area. The search plane — the Mariner — was sent out and it never came back, either.

“Whatever is out there,” Cameron went on, “is something beyond human comprehension. Call it a magnetic field, a black hole, or whatever. But it exists.”

MacDonald shook his head. “I still can’t believe this.”

“I can, sir,” Les said. “When I contacted the bomber, they called me Little Friend and wanted to know how many home runs Babe Ruth hit in 1927.”

Cameron nodded, smiling. “Little Friend and Big Friend were terms we used in the war for fighters and bombers, and to tell if someone was American or not, we would ask baseball questions.”

“I went alongside his port wing and he wanted to know what kind of aircraft I was flying.”

“You mean he got a good look at you?” Cameron’s eyes grew wide with surprise.

“He sure did. He wanted to know what I had. I told him an F-18 Hornet and added a smart crack like, ‘Where’ve you been the last ten years?’”

Cameron chuckled. “This is fascinating. I have another crazy story for you. Back around ten years ago, I remember reading a book written by Martin Caiden, the air force writer. It was called Fork-Tailed Devil: The P-38 . The epilogue of it went something like this. A flight of P-38 Lightnings left a North African base during the Second World War to take on some German fighters over the Mediterranean. Over the water, the battle started. When it came time to regroup and turn for home, the P-38 pilots realized that one of their boys was missing, but no one remembered him going down. Anyway, the flight returned to base. Hours later, he was finally reported missing in action, long after it was determined that he had to have run out of gas.