Morningstar/Alignment - Keith Trimm (iphone ebook reader .TXT) 📗

seeing. Looking down into a gigantic pit was the skeletal remains of a Boeing 747, aged and decaying.

"Why the urgency?" Alex asked. "If this thing has been here as long as you say it has, I don’t think it is going anywhere."

"That is true," Jesse replied. "That brings us to the reason why we called you. I will explain later."

The men rode an elevator to the bottom of the excavation. The mesh doors slid open clanging as they separated.

"Dr. Brinkman," Alex said.

"Call me Jesse, I prefer it, less formal you know," Brinkman interrupted.

"Ok then, Jesse," Alex said scanning the massive dig site. "I am curious. You say this plane has been here somewhere around 50,000 years. How can you be so sure of that date?" he asked.

"We can’t be positive Alex. As a man of science I am well aware of your knowledge in the dating process of ancient artifacts. Carbon tests are fallible and we are well aware of that. We had to take in consideration, the biology we found surrounding the plane in the rock and soil layers."

"You did a comparison?" Tony piped up.

"Absolutely, I hear you are quite an expert on this sort of thing," Brinkman said.

"It is my preferred field of study. Is that why you asked me here?" Tony asked.

"Not really. The reason why you and Alex were asked here will be made clear to you very soon. I promise."

Along the sides of the deep walls, were office and workspaces built for the scientist to conduct their study. The dig had been here over fifty years and the plane was taken apart painfully slow over time, in order to allow for proper study. The workspaces were very modern with the best equipment the United States could afford. The men entered into a room with a sign on the door reading "Director."

Jesse sat at his desk and offered the other two a seat and coffee. The work site was plainly visible through the large glass window in the office.

"What are those?" Alex asked pointing to a box of bones on the bottom shelf of a storage cabinet.

"Remains," Brinkman replied.

"There were people on that thing?" Tony asked.

"Of course. 232 to be exact," Brinkman answered.

Alex Parsons picked out one of the short bones from the box and examined it. He squinted and turned it over and over, looking intently at it.

"I am not an expert in biology or archeology, but I think your conclusions on age are inaccurate Mr. Brinkman." Alex said.

"I am an expert Alex, and I assure you the tests brought back the results I spoke of," Brinkman replied.

Alex shuffled in his seat uncomfortably.

"You have had this plane for over fifty years? Were you able to identify the call number, or the owner of it?" Tony asked.

"Yes we did."

"Hold it!" Alex interrupted. "You have not explained how this thing ended up this far underground."

Brinkman leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head looking at the skeptic before him. "I’m sorry. Let me explain," he said as he pointed over to a huge map on his wall. "Somewhere between 50,000 and 100,000 years ago the center of the United States was covered by what is referred to as the Niobrara Sea. It split the North American continent into two separate land masses."

The men looked at the map on the wall and saw the large body of water filling the center basin of the continent. Jesse stood up and walked over to the map, pointing to the central area of the sea and looked back to the men. "We are right about here, in central Kansas. At this time in history, we would be under about fifty to seventy-five feet of salt water."

"I see where this is going," Tony spoke up.

"You think this plane crashed in the Niobrara Sea 50,000 years ago?" Alex asked sarcastically.

"Yes I do," Brinkman replied. "And so do about twenty other scientist’s that have worked on this project for the last fifty years."

"There must be a hundred different reasons why this thing ended up here."

"I agree Alex, probably more. This will become painfully obvious very soon. I guarantee it."

"You still haven’t explained how it ended up under the ground," Tony spoke up.

"I’m sorry, let me get to that," Brinkman said. "We believe the plane made a somewhat controlled landing on the surface of the sea but quickly took on water and sank. When it struck the bottom of the sea it plowed a good twenty feet into the soft mud floor and lodged there. Over time, and I don’t think it took very long from the evidence, it was completely covered."

"Fossilized?" Tony asked.

"In a way," Brinkman answered. "Over time the continent rose and the sea drained off the land leaving the plane trapped in the soil as it solidified. The water leached out over time leaving the plane intact inside."

Alex sat with his arms crossed.

"Jesse, you said you were able to identify the plane," Tony said.

"Oh yes, that is right. This is a Trans Pacific Airlines 747," he stated matter-of-factly.

"Did they ever report one missing?" Tony asked.

"They didn’t have to," Brinkman said. "This plane is currently flying over Denver as we speak."

" That is impossible." Tony said. "Everything I know is wrong."

 

Chapter 2

 

July 1, 1969

 

Two boys walked heel to toe atop the hot steel railroad tracks racing to see who could get to the bridge first. With arms extended, both boys balanced precariously on their own narrow rail, keeping a watchful eye on the other. The older of the two young men outdistanced the younger one with his slightly longer strides, and circus like high wire technique. Turning to see how far he led the other boy, he miss stepped and stubbed his foot on railroad tie, tripping, and falling hard to the ground.

"Damn!" yelled the injured boy, as he turned over holding his knee in pain. He looked at the injury and noticed a large blood soaked tear in the denim of his jeans. Gently, he peeled the cloth back and exposed a sizable bloody cut on his kneecap. The other boy stepped off the track and came to see what he was yelling about.

"Mom’s going to be mad," the younger boy said, staring at the blood soaked wound. "She told us not to go out here and now were in big trouble."

"No were not!" his older brother replied. "She isn’t going to know how this happened. I’ll just tell her it happened while I was riding home on my bike."

"You’re such a liar."

"So? Beats the hell out of being grounded!"

"I don’t like lying to mom,"

"Then don’t!" he barked back. "Let me do the talking."

Matt, the older boy, closed both of his eyes and clenched his teeth together. Wincing from the pain, he leaned back, and waited for the burning to stop. "Give me a minute," he said, wiping the sweat from his brow. He rocked back and forth on his hips leaning his forehead up against his thigh allowing the pain to subside.

"Hurry up!" Robby yelled impatiently. The younger boy paced up and down the tracks like a nervous bird. Matt rolled around on his behind, and with his hands supporting him, struggled to stand. Taking a hop on his good leg, he attempted to put weight on the injured knee and felt a burning pain. He bit down hard, and clenched his jaw again as he maneuvered and balanced along the tracks. His gate was unsteady, but he could walk with the sharp pain limping along as he went.

"Let’s get the hell out of here," Robby said to his brother, and they continued back down the tracks from whence they came. Walking on the railroad ties was difficult at best with his odd gate and limp. The going was slow and tedious, compounded by the hot sun beating down on them, and the thick stagnant humid air surrounding them. The overgrown vegetation alongside the tracks brought forth a wide variety of smells and flying insects, which constantly buzzed about and bothered them.

The two brothers had walked these tracks many times before. The trains passing by could be seen and heard from the boy’s doublewide trailer, located on the outside perimeter of the trailer park. It was the boy’s only escape and adventure to walk the tracks down to the bridge were they could climb down to the creek below, and explore the stream bed. Many times they had come across an Indian arrowhead, or a sample of petrified wood. Many times they just broke bottles and vandalized the bridge. Either way they found a way to get away and have a place of their own.

"You ok?" Robby asked.

"What does it look like!" Matt barked back. "Hurts like a son of a gun!"

"You want to stop?"

"No, I have to get home and change before mom gets home."

Robby looked at his brother’s knee as he tried to keep his footing on the odd spaced ties. He saw the blood soaking into his brother’s pant leg running down the side of his shoe.

"You’re bleeding pretty badly."

"What am I supposed to do about it!" Matt yelled at him. He stopped and turned to his brother. "Wait here till a train comes by and hop a ride?"

"You’re a jerk!" Robby replied. "Do whatever you want," he added and walked back down the tracks without him. Matt hobbled slowly behind, groaning with each step he took. Minutes past by and the boys trudged onward, the tracks seemed to go on forever. Up ahead was a curve in the tracks bordered on both sides by tall trees and weeds for as far as the eye could see. The two boys, fourteen and sixteen years of age, had walked almost three miles to the bridge in relatively short period of time. The return was slow and agonizing.

"What time is it?" Matt asked.

"4:00," Robby replied.

"Crap! We’ll never make it back in time."

"We have an hour."

"It’ll take that long to get to our bikes. I can’t even ride with my knee like this. Plus it’s starting to hurt more." Matt stopped and bent over grasping above his thigh, attempting to stop the pain from traveling to his brain. "I’ve got to sit down," he said and stepped off the tracks to the gravel along side the tracks. Putting his hands down carefully, he leaned over without bending his knee, sat down and cried in pain. His eyes closed and he squeezed his leg tight taking a deep breath. A tear trickled down his face.

"You want me to go get help?" Robby asked. He looked down upon his brothers’ injury and his stomach began to turn.

"Hold on," Matt replied. "Let me think a minute."

"Think about what?"

"I need to figure out what you will tell mom."

"I’ll tell her the truth!"

"Give me a second!" he barked back. "You will not tell her anything, but what I tell you to."

"I am sick of this, and I am sick of your crap. I am leaving and I am getting help whether you like it or not."

A moment passed as Matt looked about at his surroundings and dire straits. "Go ahead," he said. "And hurry."

Robby took one last look at his brother and turned back to the tracks. Walking away he said. "I can go faster without you anyway. If I can get help we still might beat mom home." He picked up the pace and ran down the tracks stepping on every other tie in an awkward sprint home.

Matt sat there in pain with his hands smeared with blood. He wiped the dirt from the cut and let out a yell as the pain shot though his knee. The sun was still high above, and it beat down on him like fire from the sky. He again wiped the sweat from his brow, and smeared blood across his forehead in the process. He needed to get out of the heat.

The two boys had lived in the area since they’re family moved there in sixty-five. Many a time they make this journey,