Project Backwards; Chapter Three

Chapter Three:

 

     What was that buzzing? wondered Steve.  He was had just started to realize, he was freezing!    He blinked in confusion and glanced around in a panic.  There was a window above him, and he managed to pull himself up to look out.  He looked down to see brown fields passing by far below.  He looked up and saw white lacy clouds disappearing rapidly behind him.  He was inside of a plane, that much was obvious.  Less obvious was why?  He was sitting amidst bags of something.  He looked inside the closest one; mail.  Waves of dizziness filled his head, and it wasn’t from being air sick, he knew that much.  It was from the damn tranquilizers that damn Doctor Parker has shot him full of, when the damn doctor had been preparing him for a lobotomy; a lobotomy!  He’d gone from being an astronaut who never left the ground, to this.  A dude in an airplane.  The big question now was, what airplane?  His follow-up question was with who?   He managed to crawl forward to the cockpit door.  He just had to see who was piloting the plane.  He slid the door open and was met by shouting, coming from the tall, blonde-haired guy with his hair swept haphazardly across his brow.

 

     “Who the hell are you, and how did you get back there?” the man demanded, loudly!

 

     Charles Lindbergh!   He was just going to tell Lucky Lindbergh the truth, but thought he’d only sound nuts.  “Ah, my name is Steve Weaver, and I ah, must have passed out  in the crate I crawled into to sleep it off.  I guess I overdid a little.”

 

     “Oh,” said a very nervous pilot.  “I’m Charles Lindbergh.”

 

     “I know!” he answered before he could think about it.  Lindbergh wasn’t famous yet.  “I mean,” desperate eyes sought an explanation, “I read it on your plane registration.”  He didn’t even know if this plane had registration, but he sure hoped so.  It must have, at least been written somewhere, because Lindbergh replied,

 

     “Well, I’ve got one more stop to make mail delivery to, then it’s back to the garage where I’m working on the plane I hope will become the first plane to fly trans-Atlantic without refueling.  Yep, New York to Paris in one flight.”

 

     “Don’t worry, you make it,” he blurted without thinking.  “I mean, I don’t know, but if anyone can make it, you look like you will.”

 

    Piercing blue eyes fixed him with a penetrating stare, “Well, anyway, I just finished working on The First to Fly Trans-Atlantic Without Refueling.”

 

     “Wait, that’s what you going to call your plane?”

 

    “Yeah, why?”

 

     “Oh, I don’t know, doesn’t sound worthy of a first; how about, oh, I don’t know, Spirit of St. Louis?”

 

     “Spirit of St. Louis, huh?  It’s got a ring to it; yeah, Spirit of St. Louis; thanks!”

 

     “Sure thing.”

 

 

     Steve was still feeling the effects of Dr. Parker’s shot when the plane bumped to a landing on a muddy runway, and come to a stop beside a red brick, one story hanger. 

 

     “I’ll just drop off some paperwork, then I was thinking of catching some beers, and maybe a steak at this little diner I know; maybe you’d like to join me?”

 

     A beer, with Charles Lindbergh, are you kidding!  “Sure, I love to.”

 

 

     A few months had gone by, and at last it was the night before Lindbergh was due to depart on his historic flight, only he wasn’t aware it would be historic.  Over the last few months, Lindbergh and Steve had become quite close.  As Steve was leaving after Lindbergh had locked up the hanger where the newly-named, thanks to Steve, Spirit of St. Louis waited for a date with immortality.  As Steve started to walk away into the fog--enshrouded darkness, Lindbergh’s voice pierced the black veil,

 

     “Hey Stevo, want to catch a quick beer?”

 

     “Shouldn’t you be resting up?  It could be a long day and night tomorrow.”

 

     “Oh, come on!”

 

     “Well, okay, I am kind of parched, what with all the dust kicked up by this baby!” he replied, patting the hanger door of the Spirit of St. Louis; having spent the day watching Lindbergh practice take offs; not quite sure how the massive fuel tanks would effect them; he wasn’t worried about his landing, as by the time he landed, hopefully, the tanks would be quite empty, although some of the landings were a little hairy, due to the tanks still being full.  It had been a nerve-wracking day, all in all.

 

 

     Lindbergh opened the door to the tavern, which sat near the airfield.  Steve could almost gaze straight into Lindbergh’s baby blues as he walked past, although Lindbergh stood a whisper taller that Steve’s 6-2.  They ambled over to a booth that appeared empty, but as they started to slide in, they heard,

 

     “Hey there, a**-faces; what the hell do you two moron’s think you’re doing?”

 

     A couple of rough-looking characters walked up from the direction of the rest rooms.  “We’re sorry, we thought no one was sitting here,” Steve replied.

 

     “Bulls**t; you bloat-bags didn’t give a s**t.”

 

     Lindbergh glanced around at some ladies sitting nearby, and said, “Hey, pal, watch your mouth; there’s ladies present.”

 

     It was the wrong thing to say.  “You sons of b****s are asking for it aren’t you?”

 

     “Why don’t you bast--” Lindbergh started to reply, but Steve stepped in between them.

 

     “Hey, there’s no need for that, we’re just leaving.” 

 

     “We were?” asked Lindbergh, and Steve pushed him towards the door.

 

     Behind them, one of the rough-looking guys yelled, “That’s right, turn tail and run home to Mommy!”

 

     Steve had to physically restrain a livid Charles Lindbergh, who angrily asked Steve to let go of his arms.  Steve said “Let’s get out of here!” and everything went black.

 

 

    Steve swam through the fog.  When he at last could remember what had happened, he cursed silently.  He would have loved to be there to witness history.  Apparently, when he’d said, “Let’s get out of here!”, whatever or whoever controlled his jumps through time had thought it sounded like “Get me out of here!” and triggered his jump.  Oh well, at least he’d tried to keep Lindbergh from rumbling with the rough guys. At least, he hoped he’d done enough.  Who knew Lucky Lindbergh had quite the temper? Now he had to figure out when and where he was now.  He noticed a man wearing a military uniform.  He said,

 

     “Pardon me,; I’m a little lost; could you please tell me what city this is?” he called out.  The man turned, and Steve was staring at Douglas MacArthur!

 

    

 

    

     

    

 

 

 

 

     

    

 

     

Reviews

[char]

Now it's Charles Lindbergh. And it switches to General MacArthur!

[Michael Stevens]

Yeah, writing this really made me scour the old memory banks!