Infinity's Gateway, page 1
Infinity’s Gateway
A NOVEL
JAMES S. PARKER
NEW YORK
LONDON • NASHVILLE • MELBOURNE • VANCOUVER
INFINITY’S GATEWAY
A Novel
© 2021 James S. Parker
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Publisher’s Note: Th is novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Published in New York, New York, by Morgan James Publishing. Morgan James is a trademark of Morgan James, LLC. www.MorganJamesPublishing.com
ISBN 9781631951107 paperback
ISBN 9781631951114 eBook
Library of Congress Control Number: 2020934684
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For Margaret
The love of my life
CHAPTER 1
Infinity’s Gateway
December 5, 1945
In the blink of an eye, the day morphed from good to terrible. He’d never experienced anything like this before and wasn’t handling it well at all. Even though none of this was his fault, the stress was eating him alive, manifesting across his neck and shoulders. But he hardly noticed that compared to what the acid in his stomach was doing to him. Miller swallowed hard, trying to keep from losing his lunch. He knew he’d be the base laughingstock if he lost it and threw up all over his station.
His shift had not started this way, in fact, quite the opposite. The world was good. The Nazis were gone; he was in sunny Florida; and he had a new girlfriend, Sally, the cutest little blonde he’d ever seen. Everything was as it should be. The amount of civilian air travel was continuing to grow, which meant he’d probably have a job if he ever decided to leave the navy. If it hadn’t been for the dark clouds building up far to the northeast, there wouldn’t have been any clouds in his life. Bad static, however, was another matter, and his ears felt like a dog had chewed them.
Being in the tower put him three stories above the ground. Glancing out the tower windows, he could see the expected weather growing like the tower of Babel in midsky. Although it was moving in fast, it was still a long way away. But it wasn’t the approaching storm that had his nerves on fire. For the third time in the last few minutes he checked his watch, then grabbed the duty log and started to skim through it.
About ten or fifteen minutes ago he’d picked up some garbled messages on his radio but couldn’t be sure exactly who he’d been listening to. Due to the crazy static, the voices had been so badly broken up that it had been hard to follow. He’d only been able to catch snippets of their conversation, but it was bad, potentially very bad.
The storm didn’t look quite like other storms. The static had some undertone harmonics he’d never heard, or maybe just some primal human instinct was connecting with something antihuman. Time suddenly became the enemy. He needed to determine who it was asking for help, but they kept fading in and out. It was frustrating as could be. Fighting the urge to move too quickly, he gently adjusted the dials on his radio, desperately trying to pick up the pilot in trouble.
“Everything all right, Miller?” A simple question, but the pressure of the situation immediately escalated tenfold.
Miller looked up to find the scowling Nordic face of Lieutenant Larsen hovering over his shoulder. Larsen wasn’t easy to be around on a good day but would turn into an absolute idiot whenever the smallest of things went wrong. Miller always thought Larsen looked like a Nazi poster child. Unfortunately for Miller, what he’d picked up was not a small thing.
“I don’t think so, Lieutenant. Everything had been going just fine, but I think I’ve picked up someone asking for a compass reading.”
“You don’t think so?” snapped Lieutenant Larsen. “They either asked for a compass reading or they didn’t, which is it?”
“There was a lot of static, sir, and his voice was pretty broken up. The problem, if I heard him correctly, is that it sounded like he said something about possibly having gotten lost after their last turn. I have no idea what that means. At this point I don’t even know if it’s one of ours, or if I’m picking up civilian noise.”
The lieutenant snatched the duty log off his desk, frowning at the pages in front of him. “We’ve got quite a few planes in the air right now. Could it possibly be …?”
“Sir, I’ve got them,” said Miller, interrupting the lieutenant.
“Don’t just sit there, Miller, put it on the speakers so we can all hear it,” said Lieutenant Larsen.
Miller flipped off his headphones and flicked a switch, instantly filling the control tower with bursts of extreme static. That undertone, too smooth for static, was there. Maybe someone else would notice it. Although the voice on the radio didn’t sound as if he was panicked, it was clear that things had gotten serious. “This is FT-28. Both of my compasses are out and I’m trying to find Fort Lauderdale, Florida. I am over land, but it’s broken. I am sure I’m in the Keys, but I don’t know how far down, and I don’t know how to get to Fort Lauderdale.”
“FT-28,” murmured Larsen, “that’s Lieutenant Taylor.”
At that moment the radio burst to life again. “Lauderdale, this is FT-74, Lieutenant Cox. We have some aircraft out here that are lost. Am requesting immediate assistance.”
Lieutenant Larsen picked up the microphone, “FT-28, this is Naval Air Station, Fort Lauderdale. Is your plane equipped with an IFF transmitter?” The only sound in the tower was the constant growling of the almost musical static. All of them waited anxiously for a response. Miller found himself holding his breath, which made him feel even worse.
The lost plane was being flown by Lieutenant Taylor, flight leader of Flight 19, which consisted of five aircraft. Flight 19 was a routine training mission, and according to the duty log, they’d been in the air about two hours. That meant one experienced pilot and four newbies.
“FT-28, I repeat. This is Naval Air Station, Fort Lauderdale. Does your plane have an IFF transmitter on board?” said Lieutenant Larsen. Again, they waited. “Come on, answer the question.”
“Sir, I’m not sure I know what an IFF transmitter is,” said Miller.
“Friend or Foe, we got them from the Brits. It’s the same as a standard YG. If he’s got one, and I pray he does, it’ll enable us to triangulate his position and we’ll be able to bring him home,” said Lieutenant Larsen. “Now is not the time, Miller. I’ll tell you about it later. Can’t believe you don’t know that.”
Larsen’s question to FT-28 went unanswered. They had a lost flight on their hands and for some reason they were having trouble communicating with them. Larsen briefly turned his eyes away from the radio, barking out orders to the other men in the tower, “I want an alert out immediately to all air bases, all aircraft, and all ships, merchant and military. I want to know if anyone out there can see them or reach them by radio. Let them know that the call sign is Flight 19; its team leader is Lieutenant Taylor. His aircraft number is FT-28. Also, send out an emergency alert to Port Everglades alerting them to the situation.”
Lieutenant Charles Taylor kept a sharp eye off his port wing, making sure the four other Avengers that made up his team were still in line. “Both my compasses have stopped working. Bossi, are you able to give us our heading?”
Joe Bossi was one of the other four pilots being trained. “Sorry sir, I don’t get it, but my compasses have gone nuts. They’re jumping all over the place. I can’t get a fix.” The other three pilots, Powers, Strivers, and Gerber, all chimed in, letting Taylor know that they too were having the same problem.
“They can’t all fail at the same time,” muttered Taylor, almost to himself.
“Lieutenant, look behind us, hard off the port wing. What in the world is that?” shouted Airman Henson, one of the two crewman onboard Taylor’s plane.
Taylor twisted around and looked over his shoulder in the direction the airman had indicated. His stomach turned over as he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It was impossible! A giant wave, or at the very least, an extremely dense wall of clouds, had come out of nowhere and appeared to be racing towards them. Taylor quickly checked his radar, but it too was acting up and he couldn’t get a clear reading on anything.
Looking back at the wave again, he experienced a Bible school flashback. And the Lord went before them by day in a pillar of a cloud, to lead the way, and by night in a pillar of fire, to give them light, to go by day or night. Perhaps he was witnessing divine intervention.
“Sir, what is happening? Look at the sky. Whatever that thing is it’s starting to surround us,” said Powers. Powers, youngest of the trainees in tow, couldn’t hide the fear in his voice.
“Steady,” commanded Taylor. “Stay in formation. We’ve talked about this before; the weather in this part of the world can change on a dime. We’ll maintain our current heading. That s
Taylor couldn’t take his eyes off the threatening wave of darkness that was forming all around them. He’d never seen anything like this. Whatever was happening, it sure wasn’t any kind of storm he’d ever been through. Both compasses were on the fritz, his radar was giving him an electrical light show, and he had no idea which direction they were headed. For the first time in his many years of flying, he had no idea what to do next.
Ensign Breen joined them in the tower and handed a file to Larsen. “Here’s the information on the other pilots. Just to give us a better idea of what we’re dealing with, I checked, and before takeoff each plane had been fully fueled.”
“I guess that’s a little good news,” said Larsen. “At least we have that going for us. I just don’t get it. Flight 19’s just conducting a standard navigation and combat training exercise. We’ve had three other similar missions run earlier today. Did any of them report issues with their radar or their radios?”
“None that I’m aware of, Lieutenant,” answered Breen, “and if there had been, I’d know about it. Do you know much about Lieutenant Taylor?”
“He and I have talked a few times. He’s not like the hotshot pilots we have strutting around here. He seems like a pretty squared-away sailor, just recently transferred up here from NAS Miami. It’s my understanding he’d been a VTB instructor there as well. I’ve read his file. I’ll say this, he’s got one impressive record.”
“Good to know that we’re dealing with an experienced man,” said Breen.
“Oh, he’s experienced, alright. Taylor completed a combat tour in the Pacific theatre as a torpedo bomber pilot on the aircraft carrier USS Hancock. He scored quite a few kills. Anyone who can consistently take off and land a plane on what is, at best, a moving target floating in the middle of the ocean, qualifies as a good pilot.”
“Sir, I don’t know what to do,” interjected Miller. “I’ve tried to reach the other pilots that are with Lieutenant Taylor, but I can’t get through to any of them. This isn’t making any sense. Based on the bits and pieces I’m being able to pick up, they’re all having the same equipment failures with their radar and compasses.”
Larsen turned to Breen and asked, “How green are the other pilots with Taylor?”
Breen quickly leafed through the file he’d been holding and said, “Looks like they’re all reasonably experienced. They’ve each got close to 300 flying hours, 60 of those hours in the Avenger.”
“Then there’s no excuse for not being familiar with the equipment on the planes they’re flying,” said Larsen.
“In fact,” added Breen, “that team recently completed three other training missions in this area.”
“Are we hearing back from anybody?” shouted Lieutenant Larsen. His frustration with the situation was on full display. He did not want the loss of an entire training flight going down on his record. Miller knew that Larsen was already figuring out who he could blame. A chorus of “no sir” echoed all around him. In Miller’s head, the song “Gremlins from the Kremlin” from Russian Rhapsody was playing. He was so nervous he almost began humming it.
The minutes continued to drag by with still no word from Flight 19. Finally, Miller looked at the lieutenant and said, “Sir, just picked up a message from Taylor. It’s hard to hear him clearly, but he indicated that his IFF transmitter has been activated.”
“Finally,” said Lieutenant Larsen, breathing a sigh of relief. “Breen, track that signal down. I want to know where those planes are.”
Breen sat down in front of one of the consoles and immediately went to work. He tried every trick he knew but could not locate the IFF signal. Breen shouted over to Miller, “Are you sure that’s what you heard?”
“Yes sir,” replied Miller. “He said it again just a few moments ago.”
Breen met Larsen’s iron glare. “Sir, I don’t know what’s going on out there, but we are not getting any IFF signals from anyone. I’ll keep monitoring, but if Taylor did turn it on, then we should be picking it up and we’re not.”
“Does anyone in this tower know what they’re doing?” Larsen shouted at the men. “You do know how to triangulate a signal on that thing, don’t you, Ensign?”
Breen’s eyes turned cold. He gripped the desk with his left hand as hard as he could, fighting the nearly overwhelming urge to throw the young lieutenant down the tower stairs. “Yes sir, I most certainly do. If the lieutenant will remember, I trained you on this equipment.”
Larsen ignored Breen’s remark, staring out at the ocean. The situation had quickly accelerated from being a frustrating incident to a growing fear that they were going to lose all those men. All the other planes they had in the air had been accounted for. They’d also been able to talk to them. That being the case, he couldn’t understand why they couldn’t talk to Flight 19. Intermittently, they kept picking up bits and pieces of what the planes that made up Flight 19 were saying to each other, but when they tried to contact them, they couldn’t hold on to the signal.
Miller grabbed the lieutenant’s arm and flipped off his headphones, turning on the speakers. “We have Taylor, sir!”
The voice they’d come to identify as Lieutenant Taylor said, “We are heading 030 degrees for forty-five minutes, then we will fly north to make sure we are not over the Gulf of Mexico.”
Larsen immediately turned to Breen. “Ensign, are you able to get a bearing on them now?”
Breen did all he could with the equipment in front of him, but turned back to Larsen and shook his head. “We are still not picking up their IFF signals, sir. I’m not sure what else we can do.”
“Well, I’m not ready to write those men off, Ensign.” Larsen moved to Miller’s station and picked up the microphone. “FT-28, this is NAS Lauderdale. Turn your radio to broadcast on 4805 kilocycles. Repeat, turn your radio to broadcast on 4805 kilocycles.”
Everyone in the tower waited, but the order was not acknowledged. Larsen looked down at Miller, “Stay on 4805 kilocycles. Are we getting anything at all?”
“No sir, just empty air.”
Larsen refused to waste more time. While the planes may have taken off fully fueled, the clock was running out on them. “FT-28, switch your radio to Yellow Band, 3000 kilocycles. Repeat, switch your radio to Yellow Band, 3000 kilocycles.” Yellow Band was the search and rescue frequency, so Larsen reasoned that there shouldn’t be anyone else on that frequency to interfere with them.
This time Taylor responded. “I cannot switch frequencies. I must keep my planes intact.”
Had there been room in the tower, Larsen would have been pacing the floor. It was now just before 5:00 p.m. Again he radioed Lieutenant Taylor to turn on his transmitter for YG if he had one. This too was not acknowledged so Larsen had no way of knowing if Taylor had even gotten the message.
Miller had his headphones on, listening closely. “Sir, it’s too broken up to put on speaker, but they seem to be changing course.”
“Changing course to what?” snapped Larsen. “Are we supposed to guess, Miller?”
“It sounded like they’re going to head to 090 degrees due east for at least ten minutes,” replied Miller.
Miller thanked God for the tenth time since his enlistment that he wasn’t an officer. There were fourteen men in those five TBM torpedo bombers. Logically, based on where they’d supposedly been, going east should take them over Florida. Doing some quick math, Miller guessed that they should have enough fuel to last until 8:00 p.m. That gave them just three hours to find a place to land.
For Miller it had become a contest between his pounding head and the sickness that filled his stomach as to which one was making him feel worse. Before all this started, he’d been hoping to be sharing a couple of beers with Sally at about 8:00 p.m. He knew now that that was not going to happen.
Larsen looked back at Breen, a questioning look on his face. Again, Breen merely shook his head. They still were not able to pick up on the IFF signals, or anything else from the missing planes.
“Lieutenant, what are we going to do?” asked Bossi. Of the four pilots Taylor was training, Bossi was holding it together the best. “Lauderdale keeps asking us to head west, not east, but we can’t even tell which direction west is.”
