At the Outpost of Fate

PROLOGUE — AN UNEXPECTED DELAY

It was hard to believe, judging from the perfect blue of the sky and the gentle ripple that stirred the waters of the Great Sound, that one of the deadliest storms in a decade was gathering energy just a few hundred miles to the south. Forecasters had been watching the storm for five days now and the latest reports showed it turning north, skirting the islands of the Caribbean. Puerto Rico would get a drenching, but the remote islands in the Atlantic would escape the full fury of the hurricane force winds. The mainland of the United States was not expected to be so lucky.

The hurricane posed no danger whatsoever to the residents of the British Territory of Bermuda; the tiny island group situated nearly seven hundred miles off the coast of North America was well out of the projected path of destruction. Nevertheless, Captain Elliot Berlitz, pilot of the Pan American Airways Sikorsky S-42, nicknamed "The Tradewinds Clipper", remained wary.

His ship had taken a beating as it skimmed the backside of the storm two days previously on the run up from Sao Paolo, which had led to an extended layover here, at the Darrell's Island Seaplane Port. Now that the mechanics had judged the Clipper fit to fly, he was eager to get her aloft and onto her homeport of New York City ahead of the hurricane, which it now seemed was going to head up the Eastern Seaboard and right across his flight path.

There had been some grumbles from the passengers on learning of the layover, though most were secretly pleased to enjoy the hospitality afforded to guests on the sun-drenched island. But a delay was a delay, even if it was in paradise and everyone was eager to get to their destination. Berlitz and the rest of the flight crew assured each passenger as they made their way into the plane that they would all be in New York very soon; the unexpected delay was over.

"Not to worry, ladies and gentlemen. We'll have you home before sunset."

"Home? And spoil my lovely American holiday? That simply won't do."

Berlitz froze in place; an embarrassed flush tinting his cheeks like a schoolboy. Oh, yes. That one.

"That one" was Jocasta Palmer and she was a knockout. A leggy blond with curves in all the right places, the British bombshell had not yet missed an opportunity to play coy in response to his flirtatious advances. Usually, his snappy blue uniform with gold captain's piping was enough to break down a lady's defenses and when that didn't work he would bring out the big gun: the mostly true tale of the day he almost shot down von Richthofen over the Somme. Thus far, Miss Palmer was proving a tough nut to crack, yet her unpredictably playful banter convinced him that he was making headway. He was pretty sure that, once they reached New York, the lovely socialite would accept his invitation for a night on the town.

"My apologies, Miss Palmer. I must remember that sometimes His Majesty's subjects also find refuge under my wing, so to speak."

She peered from beneath the brim of her broad, floppy sun hat, rolling her eyes up and down his handsome physique, but her only reply before stepping onto the ramp was a terse "Quite."

Jocasta was not the only passenger aboard that hailed from the United Kingdom, but Berlitz would have been hard pressed to pick the others out. There were twenty-four passengers altogether and while he was always courteous to a fault, most of them simply didn't linger in his memory. He had more important things to worry about.

As the last name was checked off the manifest, Berlitz moved to the cockpit and launched into the pre-flight inspection. After battening the hatches, the flight engineer's white-visored cap became visible as he leaned out of the bow hatch and made ready to cast off the mooring line. Satisfied, Berlitz started the number one engine — left outboard — and let her run up, watching the magnetos and oil pressure to make sure that everything was running smooth. He followed this procedure with each engine in turn and only when all four Pratt & Whitney R-1690 Hornet engines were roaring happily, did he give the signal to drop the bow line.

With the four 660 horsepower engines pulling it through the water, the Clipper was never more like her namesake, the China Clippers of old. More a speedboat than an airplane, the Sikorsky plowed through a mile and a quarter of sea water before lining up head-on into the breeze. Even with a boost from Mother Nature pushing across her wings, it could take as much as a mile of full-throttle acceleration to bring the hull up high enough to expose the step — a jog in the hull designed to break the suction caused by surface tension. Only then could it truly reach take-off speed and loft skyward.

It was difficult for the passengers to tell the difference, but the Tradewinds Clipper crew knew every inch of their ship and could detect the subtle change in the vibrations rumbling through the fuselage as the boat became an airplane. Berlitz eased back on the stick and the bird climbed gradually to her cruising altitude of 8,000 feet.

Despite a well-deserved reputation as a bit of a rake, Berlitz never messed around in the cockpit. He was rigidly professional and his idea of a good flight was one that was so mind-numbingly boring that the greatest challenge was staying awake, so when the steward made an unscheduled visit to the cockpit, two hours into the trip, he was understandably dismayed.

"Sir, one of the passengers is requesting to speak with you." Steward Tom Baskins was visibly chagrined at being the bearer of the message.

"For goodness sake, Tom. Tell him I'm not…" He broke off suddenly. One of the passengers…? Miss Palmer perhaps?

"Sir, the man says he's a police inspector. He showed me his badge."

He? Damn. "What on earth could a policeman want, that can't wait until we set down?"

"He says it's most urgent."

Berlitz frowned. "Show him up."

He recognized the man that was escorted forward as one of the passengers that had been added to the manifest in Bermuda, but couldn't attach a name to the face. The fellow quickly addressed that matter.

"How do you do, sir? Inspector Ian Winston at your service."

Berlitz reluctantly took the proffered hand. "Scotland Yard?"

Winston gave a nervous smile. "Hah. It seems you are also a detective, sir. But I'm actually attached to Interpol…er, the International Criminal Police Commission. We're sort of an international police—"

"I'm familiar with it, Inspector. What's this about?"

"Right to the point. Good." Winston glanced around as if expecting to find an eavesdropper. "Captain, I don't know how to tell you this, but I fear that we may all be in grave danger."

Berlitz felt a chill shoot down his spine, but he maintained a stern expression. "Danger? You'll have to do better than that."

"I wish I could. The nature of the threat is very… unspecific. All I know is that one of your passengers is a fiend bent on the most evil sort of adventure."

"Which passenger? You must know who it is, surely."

"I do not. The villain is a master of disguise."

Berlitz wiped a hand across his forehead. "So what do you want me to do? Turn back to Bermuda?"

"I'm not certain. I don't know if his aim is sabotage or some other criminal enterprise. I came to tell you so that you and your crew — rather, the crewmen you know to be above reproach — can be on guard against any sort of… mishap."

The implication that one of his flight crew might be a saboteur stung, but there were indeed two Pan Am employees aboard that he had never worked with — the radio man Robert Charest and the Brazilian second steward Emilio Guzman.

"On guard," he murmured, mulling over just how to follow through on that admonition.

"Christ Almighty; where did that come from?"

Berlitz started involuntarily at the exclamation from the cockpit. The voice belonged to his co-pilot, Lieutenant Stephen Everett, but the tone of incredulity was something the captain had never heard from his long-time second in command. For a split-second, he wondered if the unknown saboteur had struck a blow, but then a violent tremor rocked the entire fuselage and he knew the explanation was far less mysterious.

As soon as he looked through the forward windscreen, Berlitz saw the source of his co-pilot's consternation. The horizon ahead was dark — a shade of gray that devoured the noonday sun…

"Wait a minute." He craned his head to look out the side porthole and located the sun, low in the Eastern sky. "What the devil? Are we off course? And where did this storm come from? We were supposed to be a day ahead of it."

The radio operator, Charest, was already busy transmitting a wireless message for general broadcast. The radio operator's job was arguably the most important on the plane; his constant contact with ground stations and subsequent mathematic computations were essential to navigating the plane to its destination.

"Bermuda Station, this is Pan American Flight 19, we are encountering storm conditions. Please advise."

Berlitz took the column, banking the plane northeast to avoid running headlong into the front. "Where did this come from? We had clear skies a minute ago."

"Bermuda, say again your last." Charest's voice was now quavering with disbelief. He listened to the voice in his headphones, then gazed at Berlitz. "Sir, I think you'd better hear this."

According to radio operator's flight logs and the record kept by the ground station in Bermuda, Flight 19 made a scheduled radio contact at 11:30 a.m. Bermuda local time. The transmission was also picked up by a non-directional control station in Cape Hatteras, North Carolina. When the Pan American Clipper failed to make its next call-in and all subsequent attempts to raise her ended in failure, ground station feared the worst. Search aircraft were dispatched within the hour and proceeded directly to the plane’s last known location, but no trace of wreckage was found. The close proximity of the approaching hurricane curtailed further efforts and prevented surface ships from joining the hunt. In their Key West headquarters, Pan American executives were faced with the grim task of contacting the passengers' next of kin, but communication with Bermuda and New York was spotty at best due to the hurricane parked on their doorstep. The decision was made to hold off on releasing any news until a more comprehensive search could be organized.

Then, to the utter amazement of ground control, Flight 19 called in.

"Where have you guys been?" was the first question asked by the radio operator in Bermuda, momentarily forgetting procedures. The crew of the Clipper didn't understand the question; they were only concerned with the fact that they seemed to be miles off course with hurricane breathing down their necks.

In fact, the Sikorsky S-42 was exactly where she ought to have been; her position was confirmed by measuring the length of the radio navigation signals from Bermuda and the mainland. Yet more than nineteen hours had passed.

No one on the plane was aware of the interval. The ship's chronometer agreed with every wristwatch on the flight, give or take five minutes. The fuel in the Clipper's tanks was consistent with a plane that had only been aloft for two hours and the food stores in the galley were not significantly depleted. The male passengers were clean-shaven, as if they had only just awakened at their hotel and boarded the aircraft a few hours earlier. Nevertheless, between the flight's 11:30 check-in and Charest's request for course verification, nineteen hours and forty-seven minutes had elapsed.

It was as if the Tradewinds Clipper had slipped sideways into the future.

The plane continued on to New York where the passengers and crew were quarantined for two days and interrogated for hours on end, while investigators went over every inch of the aircraft looking for physical clues to explain the discrepancy. No official finding was made, but it was widely believed that the whole affair had been an elaborate hoax. The inquisition might have continued indefinitely, but for the hurricane that had dogged Flight 19 every step of her journey. It arrived in New York City two days after the Clipper and unleashed its full fury on Long Island. The authorities had more important things to worry about, so they cut the detainees loose and wrote the matter off altogether.

However, for the thirty souls that made that bizarre passage from Bermuda to New York, being released from police custody did not signal the end of the ordeal. Their nightmare was just beginning.