Timeshadow 05

"Boomer Lead! This is Two, do you read me?" Captain Doug Simmons cried out. He just seen Boomer Lead disappear – after hitting a huge black "ship" of some sort – at 35,000 feet. "Lead, Two, come in..."

"Three, two. Did he eject? I didn't see any kind of impact?"

"Two, three, no, nothing..."

"Two nine Bravo," Courville said, breaking into the frantic conversation between the remaining F-35s. "SitRep, NOW!"

"Two to Two-nine Bravo. A ship of some sort just came out of that cloud, several blue spheres came out all around it. I had eyes on Lead – when – he appeared to collide with the ship."

"Two niner received. That cloud formation is collapsing, and just where's that ship now? I don't have anything on radar?"

"Two, it's not on low power radar, Bravo. I see it dead ahead, but there's nothing on screen and zero heat signature. Lead appeared to hit the ship, but there's no impact debris, no 'chute, just nothing!"

"Bravo, where is the Japanese strike?"

"Four, Bravo, we're about twenty miles north of the island; I'm about a mile behind them."

"Bravo to Boomer group, see if you can turn 'em back to Pearl, get em on the ground without dropping ordnance. If not, let 'em splash."

"Two received. Form up on me."

"Three received."

"Four received. Uh, Bravo, I'm picking up air-to-air radars now, two incoming tracks still in the cloud, range 1-8-0, flight level 4-5, heading 0-9-0, speed 850 knots."

Sinclair looked at the threat board, the incoming radar frequencies were skipping through random bands, and that could only mean... "Colonel, those radars are frequency agile..."

"Tu-160s?" Courville said, dread behind the question.

"That, or PAK-DAs."

"How many are there?"

"I'll have to go active to see that, Colonel," she said. "We'll be visible."

"No choice. Do it."

Sinclair activated all the B-2s sensors, then flipped on the main, very high powered search radar. The effect was instantaneous: the Russian bombers activated their ECM suites and every radar within five hundred miles filled with clutter. "Okay," Sinclair said, "got 'em."

"Tell 'em," Courville said.

"Two nine Bravo to Boomer Lead," Sinclair transmitted. "Flight one is 15, repeat 1-5 PAK-DAs. Flight two is 30, repeat 3-0 Tu-160s. Flight three is 10, repeat 1-0 Bear Golfs and two Mainstays, but they're falling behind rapidly..."

"Two received. Colonel, what's our play?"

"Kilo Echo doesn't have enough runway to get airborne, so we'll have to tank on the ground..."

"Bravo, by the time we make that evolution those strikes will be halfway to California. They don't have fighter cover, so maybe we can turn 'em back."

'Turn 'em back?' Courville thought. "Why are they attacking," he said out loud, and Sinclair looked at him.

"Maybe they're just as confused as we are...were. They probably don't know where they are, or for that matter, 'when' they are..."

"But that formation?" Courville mused. "That's an attack profile, right down to the Bears and Mainstays. That can only mean..."

"That somehow our histories have changed. That we're at war."

"We could plot their course, let em get halfway to the mainland then airburst a warhead overhead. The EMP alone would..."

"But it's 1941! That's 21st century hardware out there...they have to have been transported here just like we were! If we just changed history by stopping the attack...how could..."

"Sandusky..." Courville said, lost as a thought passed through his mind, just out of reach. "That ship appears, Sandusky hits it, then all hell breaks loose."

"Boomer Two to Bravo. You still there?"

"Bravo, Two. What's that ship doing now?"

"Stand-by one." Boomer two reefed into a tight right turn, but the ship was gone, nowhere to be seen. He rolled to the left, reversed his turn, and...still nothing...but the cloud was different. "Two, bravo, the ship is gone, but the cloud – it's changing..."

"Bravo, Two, I see it. Looks like it's forming a ring, a circle, around the islands..." Courville looked-on in awe as the cloud sculpted itself before his eyes. First it flattened, like ultra high atmospheric pressure was pushing the structure down into the sea; now he could see the outlines of new, smaller clouds as they raced out from the base – forming the circle as they spread. But not only that: the base was receding, yet as it grew in height the cloud was moving inward...

Sinclair was looking too, her face awash in confusion. "It's forming a sphere," she said at last. "At least, half a sphere..."

"That's not a cloud," he said, his voice subdued.

"But..."

"Bravo, Two, get those Japanese aircraft on the ground somewhere, then get your birds back to Hickam as soon as you can, but don't go into those clouds." Courville scanned his horizon: the base of the circle was now almost complete, more clouds were being sucked into the structure – and he could see the form of a sphere taking shape before his eyes...and the color was changing...growing almost pure white as he watched...

"Colonel, we'd better get out of here," Sinclair said, looking back over her right shoulder. "It's getting pretty close back there..."

He craned his head back to the left, then forward, looking up as much as he could, and clouds were forming everywhere but dead ahead, even overhead. He could just make out Diamond Head, even the faintest outline of Pearl Harbor in the distance, but it was getting dark out – fast – and suddenly very noisy. He looked at the mission clock, shook his head. "It's stopped!" he yelled, pointing at the clock. They'd been airborne for less than two hours, the sun was just now warming the air, and yet it was getting as dark as night...and impossible to hear anything but a howling roar. But time had – stopped.

In an instant, Spirit Two-nine Bravo was wrapped in blinding snow and he felt like he was falling. Training kicked in, he went "on instruments" as he pushed the nose over and advanced the throttles. He barely heard the engines spooling up as he fought for control in the suddenly fierce turbulence...

"Overspeed! Retard–retard!" Audible warnings sounded, then something slammed into the aircraft, pushing it down, and Courville looked at the Vertical Rate ribbon: 2500 FPM down, no...3500 down...then he felt his stomach rolling...now 1500 up, 4500 up...

"You're losing it!" Sinclair yelled, watching him struggle to get control...

Courville shook his head, took his hands off the stick. "I have no control, zero thrust authority..." he said as he looked over at Sinclair, ashamed at having failed. She was looking dead ahead, her face locked in a trance-like mask, tears running openly down her face...

He looked ahead, out through the windscreen, and his eyes went wide. The aircraft was tumbling slowly – wing over wing, but ahead, just ahead, he saw a huge white sphere hanging in a night sky – and he saw stars everywhere. As the left wing arced "down" he looked out the cockpit and saw the earth far below...details on the ocean below were hard to make out as the earth tumbled out of view. When the left wing arced "up" again he saw this new moon, only it was very white, and very close, and it felt like they were falling again...falling down...into an impossibly white moon

+++++

"What is it?"

"One of their machines. It was caught by the vortex."

"Crew?"

"Two."

"Weapons?"

"Fusion weapons. At least four."

"Yield? Could they hurt us?"

"Yes."

"Protect them. Bring them close." He wondered where the admiral was...

+++++

His hand on the stick, Courville tried to counter the B-2s odd tumbling motion – but nothing happened. He advanced the throttles – and again, nothing happened. He checked the overhead panel: power to buses one thru three were on, no battery breakers tripped, but all engines were offline. The outside air temperature read 35F, but that just didn't make any sense at all, he thought. There's no air in space.

So, why are we alive? The crew compartment is pressurized, he thought, but not against a hard vacuum. He looked "outside" again, still completely confused – until he looked down into the Pacific, hundreds of miles below.

That cloud formation was now a complete sphere – half a sphere, he corrected himself – and it was huge, bright white and circulating – almost like a hurricane. Clouds outside the sphere were being drawn inward, into the sphere's circulation, then he saw a snaking, tornado like umbilicus form and run up through the atmosphere – into space. Courville undid his harness and floated free of his ejection seat; he pushed his helmeted face up against the windshield, trying to see aft, towards this 'moon'.

"Oh fuck," he whispered, his breath fogging the glass. The writhing umbilicus had joined with the moon...but it wasn't a moon, he saw. Courville was sure of that now.

It was white and looked like a ship. Metal – white metal. Studded with antennae everywhere he looked. And what are those – little clusters of windows? The umbilicus had joined with the – what? this ship? – in a shallow paraboloid indention, and the area around the 'dish' looked smokey gray, worn by heavy use.

"God, how big IS that thing?" he heard Sinclair say.

"It's like a small planet," he said. "I can't...no scale...I just can't tell."

"Are those windows?" He heard her moving around, then she handed him the binoculars. "Colonel," she whispered, "look at the windows...they're...there's something in there – someone's looking at us..."

He took the binoculars and held them to his eyes. Vague shapes – definite movement – there, and over there, by that large, curving window.

"Is the radar still on?"

"Breaker's tripped – all transmitters tripped."

He looked at her as she checked the panel again. "Just the transmitters?"

"Yes."

He looked at the ship again, then he saw a stray reflection of his aircraft hovering in space. He moved his head; the reflection remained. "We're inside a bubble of some kind..." He craned his head again, saw the bubble was connected to the ship by it's own umbilicus. "That's why we're still alive, how we're able to breathe."

"So, what does that mean..."

"Look around, Captain. It means we aren't going to do anything to piss 'em off."

+++++

"Distance?"

"Twenty five fifty."

"Any reaction from their weapons systems?"

"Nothing."

"Intelligent?"

"Yes. So it seems."

"I think we should examine the machine."

"Bring it aboard?"

"Yes. I did not anticipate fusion capability in this shadow."

"Records from the next shadow state they will develop fusion based weapons in ten years – ten years from now."

"Then this machine has been moved. From it's home shadow – to this one."

"That would mean...Should I call the admiral?"

"Yes, at once. Interference again. Shut down the vortex, prepare to leave. Bring in that machine. We must know more. Where is the admiral?"

+++++

"Something's going on," Sinclair said. "There's a doorway, maybe a hatch of some kind opening."

Courville looked at the ship, watched as the umbilicus reaching up from the ocean below collapsed in on itself, then at the sphere below – in all it's banded layers – as it too collapsed. "What did you say?"

"Colonel, there a shuttle coming out...from the ship!"

He moved to her side of the cockpit, looked at the opening when it tumbled into view... "That thing's almost as long as a football field," he groaned. "The main ship must be a thousand meters in diameter."

The shuttle moved slowly, steadily away from the ship, and fifteen minutes later it took up station a hundred meters directly ahead of B-2, then dazzling lights flooded the cockpit, nearly blinding Courville and Sinclair.

He slammed the helmet's visor down while he fixed the oxygen mask back over his mouth. He could just see the shuttle with the visor down, and now it was matching spin with the B-2's tumbling motion, moving closer slowly, several spindly arms extending – apparently to grab his aircraft. Then he saw three "men" emerge from an airlock under the shuttle and moments later they were at the leading edge of the B-2's wing, gluing white appendages all along the top and bottom of the wing's flatter surfaces, and then he received his first real indication of their size.

"They've got to be ten, twelve feet tall," he said, looking at the nearest one.

"The fingers look weird, too. Not human, anyway."

The shuttle was just a few meters from them now, it's lights focused on the three space-walkers, then he saw them heading back into the shuttle. Moments later he felt the B-2's spin slowing, and what little spin-induced "gravity" they had was soon gone – then he felt himself floating free of his seat again. The view outside steadied, the shuttle moved with no visible means of propulsion back towards, he assumed, the ship – but now all he could see was the starscape behind the shuttle. He leaned over and looked out the windscreen, saw the earth far below, saw islands and clouds and he wondered what had just happened to his world.

+++++

He felt like a fly caught in amber.

One second he was ballistic at 700 knots, the next he was suspended in – black tar?

Sandusky scanned his instruments – but nothing made any sense at all.

Engine tapes – zeroed out, like the engine had simply stopped.

Flight instruments – offline. Nothing, not even the standby gyro was operating.

Electrical buses – offline. No power at all.

Weapons – offline, unavailable.

He felt the canopy, if only to get an idea of what the temperature "outside" was like, but he could detect little difference between inside and out. He checked his environment panel: offline, and there was no oxygen coming from his mask. No sounds, even the standby gyro, which should have been whirring away under redundant battery power, was silent. Nothing...

"Well, ain't this just ducky," he sighed. "I don't recall reading anything in the manual about this particular state of affairs..."

Suddenly he felt nauseous, severely disoriented, then what felt like an electric current passed through – everything – his skin, his fingertips...even his eyes registered the current. The black goo outside the aircraft began dissipating, literally, as the current passed through it, and seconds later he saw he was inside some kind of structure. It looked vaguely terrestrial, almost human, but the scale seemed wrong. The shapes of common things like doorways and windows looked – wrong. Elongated, maybe too wide, but the canopy was still coated with a smeary residue, and it was just too dark to see much beyond the cockpit.

A light snapped on, yet it too was dim, but it was close, to his left, and he turned towards the source...

There was a – man – standing there. 'Is he smiling?' Sandusky thought.

Holding a flashlight, and smiling.

Sandusky looked down, saw the man was wearing a uniform, almost like an astronaut's spacesuit, but not quite. It wasn't as bulky, and the man wasn't wearing a helmet.

And his eyes were different, Sandusky saw. Bigger. A huge pupil. Nose very small, the mouth almost vestigial. Skin white, pure white, vaguely translucent around the eyes.

'Are you alright?'

"What? Did you say something?" Sandusky said.

'I asked if you are hurt. Are you damaged?'

He was looking right at 'it', whatever it was, but 'it's' mouth hadn't moved, and the canopy was still closed... So, how could...

'I am speaking to you, nevertheless.'

"What...how...?"

His eyes were adapting to the low light now, and he saw the man's suit better now. On his left shoulder, a NASA patch. Below that, one for the ESA.

And on his left breast, above the pocket, "Project Timeshadow" –

'You may open the canopy now,' it said.

"Why should I do that?"

'Because carbon levels in your enclosure are getting dangerously high.'

"That's a good reason." Sandusky hit the safety and moved the lever to "Open" – and the mechanism slid back an inch then arced back over his head, then – air rushed in. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then opened his eyes and exhaled – slowly. "Smells like mushroom soup and dirty sneakers. Y'all behind on the laundry?"

'Come. We have much to do.'

He crawled out of the cockpit and – pushed off in almost zero gravity, following the 'man' as he flew across what Sandusky saw was some sort of 'hanger deck'. There were shuttles and pods and retractable cargo arms stored in dedicated bays all over the deck, and behind him, a large airlock – large enough for truly huge aircraft – or spacecraft – to pass through.

Then, as he approached one of the doorways, he saw the logic of the larger openings. Motion controlled, the door opened just as the 'man' got within a few meters – and the larger opening allowed him to enter from any number of angles – and at fairly high velocities, too. The tubular passageway beyond the door was smoothly padded, continuous railings quartered the space, and it was lit a peculiar amber-red color at this end, and a soothing blue-green at the other – perhaps twenty yards away – end.

When they exited at the end of the passageway, they emerged into a large cabin almost wild with military-like activity, and Sandusky noted gravity was much stronger in this room: large, translucent plotting boards were 'manned' by similar beings, displays that seemed analogous to radar lined one of the walls, but more troubling to Sandusky, banks of clock-like displays lined an angled portion along the outside 'wall' of the room – just over a line of curved windows that stretched from one side of the room to the other.

'Go. Look,' the this companion 'said', and Sandusky went to the window and looked out into space – and he stepped back, suddenly quite afraid. A huge white sphere, he guessed another ship, was seemingly tethered to the planet below. Another tether extended from the white sphere, but this other, much smaller sphere hung near the ship, and he strained to see what was inside .

His companion was by his side now and pointed at a screen; he adjusted the magnification and Sandusky saw Spirit Two-nine Bravo tumbling inside...

"Can you make contact?" Sandusky asked.

'We must not. We are, what would you say, stealthy, but not invisible. We are too close as it is, but we wanted to see if we could get to the other aircraft before that ship. Before they arrived."

"You're traveling in time? You brought us from one time to another? Can't you just go back...?""

'I'm sorry. We must go now. Come with me.'

"No. You need to tell me what's going on..."

'I'm sorry. That is not allowed.'

"Allowed?"

'Come with me. We must talk to someone before I can say anything else.'

"What do you mean – allowed?"

'We are running out of time. Please. Come with me.'

"Running out of time? Hell, seems to me you got all the time in the world!"

'That would be an incorrect assumption.'

His companion walked to another doorway, then into another – very short – spinning passageway, and Sandusky followed. They walked for minutes, the walkway following the curve of the outer hull, and Sandusky felt like they'd covered several hundred yards when they stopped outside another door. His companion entered a code on a keypad by the door and it slid open silently.

The walls of the room inside were curved and dark gray, and there was a table inside, and several chairs. Sandusky didn't know why he thought the woman sitting in there was the most gorgeous thing he'd ever seen in his life. 'Maybe,' he thought, 'because she is. Or maybe because I'm terrified, and she's another human being, and suddenly human beings are beginning to feel kind of like an endangered species.'

And then he remembered his companion was 'listening' to everything he thought...

+++++

Aronson caught a glimpse of trees dead ahead and pulled up on the collective; the Apache rose and just cleared a stand of live oaks – and another gust of shredding snow tore in from the north... "Shit...this is unreal," she said. "I've never seen weather like this in my life..."