TS01 Time Station London by David Evans Read Free Book Online Page A

the Portsmouth area, beginning at fifteen hours.’ The mission is on after all, Ferdy,” he exclaimed to his executive officer. “Gott sei Dank! I will be getting out of this French mud hole after all.”

    Time: 0915, GMT, June 14, 1940
    Place: Hamphill Aerodrome RAF Base,
    Warwickshire, England

    “Two-three-one aircraft, you are pulling ahead in line. Maintain two thousand revolutions if you please.”
    Sergeant Wendall Foxworth winced at the sound of his squadron leader’s voice in his earphones, made even harsher by the sneer of contempt. Hell of a way to start a routine morning patrol. Sgt. Foxworth applied a touch of toe-brake.
    “Righto, Captain Marsh,” Wendell said to himself.
    Damn it all, there was something definitely wrong with his Hurricane this morning. Could it have something to do with this bleedin’ light rain? He couldn’t help it if the engine surged from time to time. He had tried to explain to the maintenance sergeant. The sod wouldn’t hear a word of it. Now it got him in the shorts with his squadron leader.
    Sod them all! To Foxworth, anyone who didn’t fly one of these delicate birds hadn’t any right making decisions regarding airworthiness. Gritting his teeth, he keyed his mike.
    “Righto, Able Leader. The old mill is running a bit rough this morning.”
    “Sure it’s not its driver?” the voice came back, the question full of menace. “You clocked, in a quarter hour past curfew.”
    Keerist! Did he have to let the whole squadron know? “Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again, sir.”
    “Very well. Line up for takeoff. Vees of three.”
    Foxworth winced at that. Bloody childish. Especially when everyone knew the proper term was Vics, with no mention of the number. With the assistant squadron leader in the first Vic, Wendall Foxworth on the starboard wing, Kip Fallon on port, the first three Hurricanes turned off the taxi strip and took proper station on the Hamphill Aerodrome active runway. A quick instrument check, set the brakes, then full throttle. Run up and back down, check magneto, oil pressure, engine rpms. Now full throttle. Watch for the roll. Here we go!
    The trio of Hawker Hurricanes streaked down the Hamphill runway, striving for that first lift of true flight, the point of rotation. Wendall felt the wings strain to break free and hauled back on the stick. The wheels cleared the ground. Gear up, flaps up, nose to the sky. The Hawker pounded and thundered. Wendall Foxworth felt a surge of elation. True to habit, Sgt. Foxworth looked off his right wing as his climb-out continued toward turnout. Below on the ground, he saw a solitary figure. One who stood with arms and legs akimbo, eyes turned to the sky, outside the barrier fence, astride a bicycle. Foxworth blinked. For a moment she appeared to have familiar curly, dark brown hair and a memorable figure. Then at the moment Foxworth dropped his starboard wing to turn out of the pattern he saw the Home Guard helmet dangling from a handlebar and he knew for certain it was Sandy Hammond. Well, he thought. Things were certainly looking up!

Time: 0940, GMT, June 14, 1940
    Place: Time Station London

    Brian Moore returned to 1940 London twenty minutes after he left. He went straight to the operator’s station where Vito sat relaxed, yet alert.
    “Anything come in while I was gone?”
    “Nope. All is calm on the battlefield,” Vito quipped.
    Brian grimaced. “It won’t be for long. We’ve been assigned to round up an unknown number of rogue travelers. They’re profiteering on valuables ‘destroyed’ during the war.”
    “Oh, how jolly, what?” Vito mimicked the locals of the time. “Any idea where to start?” Brian studied Vito idly. A master Temporal Technician, he was also an expert archivist and researcher. Definitely suited for a Warden’s job. He had also learned that, as a boy in his late teens, Vito had been recovered from a car that had exploded in early 1950’s New York City. The result, so Vito said, of an