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.
From the files of the Trevayne Society
Child of Skulls
In the course of my many investigations with Jerusalem Nightjar, I had occasion to encounter many gypsies, mediums, fortunetellers and magicians, all of whom proved unable to demonstrate that their unique abilities amounted to anything more than charlatanism. So you might well imagine my skepticism when I received the summons to meet Nightjar at 358 Harrow Street in Wapping on the night of June 21, 1883. Bracing myself for another night of parlor tricks and chicanery, I hailed a hansom cab and hastened to the assignation.
We rolled down Wapping High Street shortly after Big Ben struck the midnight hour. The streets were wreathed in fog — a vile mist rolling up from the marsh — that I knew too well might conceal dacoits and highwaymen, as well as other horrors such as ought not to be mentioned. I took comfort in the heft of my old service revolver, tucked in the right pocket of my greatcoat. The cabby seemed unusually anxious as he pulled up in front of 358 Harrow Street and helped me exit. I unwisely passed over a shilling for payment before thinking to request that he remain until I concluded my business, but he gave me no further opportunity to make that arrangement. The hansom vanished into the fog as quickly as the bob had gone into his pocket. Gripping my coat tight and the butt of my revolver tighter, I moved up the walk.
The house at 358 Harrow Street was more elegant than its neighbors; run down, but nevertheless as out of place in the squalid slum as a nun in a brothel. The contrast was enough to raise my hackles; I had learned the hard way that such an incongruity often concealed unimaginable evils. So focused was I that I completely missed the figure lurking in the shadows until I was practically on top of it.
"Took your sweet time, Posh Boy."
I nearly jumped out of my skin at the first syllable, though the rest of the message, despite its confrontational tone, prevented me from wildly firing my revolver. "Good heavens, Hawkins." I paused, waiting for my hammering heart to become subdued. "Where is Nightjar?"
Emma Hawkins, the slight young girl whom I had once mistaken for a Chinaman, not because of her build and stature, but rather her extraordinary hand fighting skills, was Jerusalem Nightjar's driver and domestic servant. She regarded me with what I hoped was insincere contempt. "Go inside, Posh Boy. He's waiting for you."
"Are you…? Will you be all right out here? By yourself?" I should have known better than to ask. The lithe young girl concealed more blades within the folds of her loose fitting garments than a cutlery shop. Excusing myself without further inquiry, I made my way up to the front door.