Wings of Time (A Time Travel Romance)

Wings of Time

A Time Travel Romance

by

Carol Duncan Perry

WINGS OF TIME

Reviews & Accolades

...an entertaining, well written story that catapults the heroine, and the reader, into the world of Al Capone and Bugs Moran, speakeasies, and 'Yes, Sir, that's my baby'.

~Author Meg Chittenden

...4+ Stars! A top-notch time-travel romance with a delicious 'duel of hearts' between two strong-willed lovers.

~Romantic Times

...enthralling from the first page. Excellent!

~Rendezvous

Published by ePublishing Works!

www.epublishingworks.com

ISBN: 978-1-61417-434-9

By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

Please Note

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

Copyright © 1993, 2000, 2013 by Carol S. Duncan. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

Cover by Kathryn Duncan

eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

Thank You

Chapter 1

There it was—dead ahead. Oshkosh! Not a place, but an experience. A dream waiting to happen.

Elizabeth Carmichael banked her antique biplane into a wide left turn, grateful for the aviation goggles that protected her eyes from the wind whipping through the open cockpit.

Still several miles downwind, she could see dozens of tiny planes buzzing above the airport like so many bees. For the next week this small Wisconsin town, two hours north of Chicago, would be Mecca to the world of aviation. This year, she and her Jenny were part of it—the annual pilgrimage to America's Super Bowl of Air Shows.

Tuesday she would fly her restored Curtiss JN-4 biplane through a carefully choreographed aerobatic demonstration. With each spin and every loop she performed, she would be reliving the experiences of the first aviators, those daring young men who first challenged the sky in fragile wood and cloth flying machines a century ago.

As Libby waited for landing instructions, she listened to the rushing wind, whistling through the vibrating wing wires. Her portable radio suddenly sounded a static squawk that issued an order to break from the holding pattern. She acknowledged and minutes later, was on the ground.

Libby taxied the Jenny into position behind the Follow-Me truck, then paraded after it down the long line of tethered airplanes to the area reserved for antique aircraft. The guide truck driver—obviously familiar with the problems of parking a plane with no brakes—pointed to a space at the end of the line before pulling quickly out of the way. Waving her thanks to the guide, she rolled to a stop, then threw the wheel blocks out of the cockpit and carefully climbed onto the lower wing.

Then she saw it—a deHavilland DH-4—another pre-1920 relic, parked on the next aisle of tied–down planes. Even as she registered the image of the World War I bomber, she felt a familiar fluttering skip in the cadence of her pulse. She recognized the trembling sensation. It happened every time she saw a DH-4. Libby shook off the feeling, reminding herself she didn't see such planes very often. The antique bomber was as rare as her Jenny.

Libby vividly remembered the sepia-tone photograph she'd found two years ago, tucked in a drawer of the antique toolbox she used when working on her Jenny. The photo showed a young couple posed in front of a biplane similar to the deHavilland on the next row.

Although she'd paid little attention to the woman in the faded-to-sepia snapshot, she remembered the man in detail. He was tall, even by today's standards. His mouth curved into a slight smile, as if enjoying a private joke. Instead of a typical leather pilot's jacket, he wore a heavy Irish fisherman's sweater, its distinctive pattern clearly visible. The long fingers of his left hand cradled a pipe.

Libby knew her reaction, both then and now, was ridiculous, but reason didn't seem to have much to do with it. She'd developed an immediate and unrelenting schoolgirl crush.

Never mind she was well past schoolgirl age.

Never mind that the man had probably lived and died long before she was born.

She had no control over her response. Every time she remembered that photo or saw a deHavilland, her pulse raced.

Libby had assumed the couple in the photo were friends of Howard Winters, an old-timer barnstormer and her surrogate grandfather. When she handed the photo to him, he'd stared, his eyes widening as the blood drained from his face.

Where'd you find this? he asked.

It was in a drawer of the JN-4 toolbox. You can't see much of the woman's face, but the image of the man is clear. I thought they might be old flying buddies.

I didn't know every barnstormer flying, Howard told her gruffly, once again looking and sounding like his old self. Nice old bird, though. Designed as a bomber for the Great War. Wouldn't mind having one for the museum. If I can locate one, you can give me a hand putting it back together.

Then you don't know who he is? Libby persisted.

Howard shrugged his shoulders. I once knew a lot of pilots. Most of them didn't make old bones. Why?

I don't know, Libby said. He looks—interesting.

Humph. Probably dead a long time ago. You, young lady, are spending too much time with old men and old airplanes.

Libby laughed. You're probably right, but they don't seem to make either of them like they used to.

She laid the photograph on the edge of the workbench. Then, taking him by the arm, pulled him toward the other side of the hanger. I want you to check the layout of the wing spars before I start gluing.

She never saw the photograph again. When she looked the next day, it had disappeared. For some reason she'd been reluctant to ask Howard if he knew what had happened to it, but she hadn't been able to forget it, either. Every detail of that faded photograph remained clearly etched in her mind. Every time she saw a deHavilland DH-4, she experienced that same strange skipping pulse beat. It was something she'd learned to live with.

Hey, Libby! Elizabeth Carmichael!

At the sound of her name, Libby jerked her eyes from the deHavilland and shook off her feelings of déjà vu. Her lips widened into a welcoming smile as she recognized the woman walking toward her. She'd met Helen Armitage, another antique aircraft pilot, at several air shows during the past two years and didn't try to hide her delight at seeing her again.

Hi, Helen. Am I ever glad to see a familiar face. How did you know it was me?

Helen laughed. Saw your red-and-white Jenny fly in. Told myself, 'that has to be Libby Carmichael.' This is your first time at Oshkosh, isn't it? What do you think? Some party, huh?

Libby nodded, her smile so wide she could feel the skin on her face stretching. Some party, she agreed, unable to put her true excitement into words.

Her friend chuckled softly, as if she knew exactly what Libby was feeling. Well, get your bird tied down and I'll treat you to a drink at the refreshment tent. Introduce you to some of the other antiquers, too. Since we're outnumbered by the Buck Rogers pilots around here, we tend to stick together.

Thanks, Libby said. I thought I knew what to expect, but this is unbelievable. I'll never find my way around. It's so—so big—so many planes and people. I need to register and check in with the air show coordinator, but I don't know where to start. Is it always this crowded?

Helen laughed again. You think this is crowded? Wait until tomorrow when the show really starts. They're expecting over five hundred thousand spectators this year. Now that's a crowd. Don't worry, though. Before you know it, you'll be walking around like an Oshkosh veteran. When are you scheduled to fly?

Tomorrow. Libby bent to secure the Jenny's hold-down lines, then willingly followed her friend across the parking lot. They turned in the direction of a cluster of tents on the edge of the field.

Howard didn't come with you?

No, he wasn't feeling up to the trip. Libby blinked against the sudden moistness in her eyes. She and Howard had planned both the trip and her flight demonstration together. The crusty old pilot had drilled her repeatedly in the flying dogfight maneuvers she'd be performing tomorrow. She'd thought he'd be on the ground watching, but it wasn't to be.

Well, you can tell him all about it when you get back, Helen crisply. He's done more of these shows than me, you, and any other three pilots combined. To hear him tell it, he invented the event. Missing one occasionally is charity—good for his soul to let us lesser lights shine every once in a while.

Libby realized that Helen knew how much she missed Howard. She laughed as her friend had intended, then followed her to a table on the other side of the refreshment tent. Along the way, she acknowledged a dozen introductions and soon felt as if she was among old friends. They were a mixed collection of old and young with a special interest in the oldest antiques, especially the dual wing, fabric and wire machines that started it all.

It wasn't long until the conversation turned to reminiscing, and when the group learned Libby was a protégée of Howard Winters, several had a favorite Howard story to share. Libby leaned forward, listening enthralled. Some of the stories were familiar. Others she'd never heard before.

He still carrying that shamrock around? one old timer asked.

He has a shamrock, Libby confirmed.

The elderly pilot nodded. That'll be the same one. He babied that plant like an infant. Took it with him everywhere. Never could understand it. He isn't even Irish.

Howard's probably the last of the original barnstormers, interjected another old-timer. 'Course he went on to bigger things. He ever tell you he owed his success to Charles Lindbergh?

Libby shook her head. He's mentioned Lindbergh occasionally, but I didn't know they were friends.

The man laughed. Howard never claimed friendship, he said, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial level. He told me once that Howard Winters wasn't his real name either.

Not his real name? I don't understand, Libby began.

Well, the old man confided, "he told me he made a bet with a bunch of Chicago hoods that Lindbergh would be the first man to fly solo across the Atlantic. Guess that was some time in 1926. Leastways, that's what he said. 'Course the bookies were glad to take his bet. That twenty-five-thousand-dollar prize for the first solo flight from New York to Paris had been on the books since 1919, but nobody had claimed it. Back then, nobody but a bunch of barnstormers or mail service pilots had ever heard of Charles A. Lindbergh, either.

Anyway, the man continued before Libby could interrupt, when Lindbergh landed in Paris in '27, Howard collected his bets. He said even if the bookies weren't real happy, they had to pay up because it wouldn't have been good for business if word got around they'd welshed. I guess he figured the climate might be a mite healthier elsewhere though. He took his money, moved to California and changed his name. Told me it was twenty years before he dared come back to Chicago.

Is that a true story? Libby couldn't help asking.

Hell, I don't know, the old-timer said. That's the way he told it to me. 'Course, Howard always could tell a story about as good as he could fly.

Libby joined in the general laughter around the table. It did make a good story, but was it true? She made a mental note to ask Howard as soon as she got home.

After Helen showed Libby the way to the airfield offices, and arranged to meet at the airfield in the morning, they said good-bye. By the time Libby completed registration, picked up her rental car and checked into her motel, it was dark. Libby grabbed a quick supper at a restaurant near the motel, then, unable to resist, drove out to the airfield for one last look at her Jenny.

She couldn't help smiling at the sight of the bright white-and-red biplane tethered in the moonlight. A long time ago, she'd made a promise to herself that one day she'd fly her own plane at Oshkosh. The time had finally come.

Her mother had never approved, never really understood her daughter's interest in flying airplanes. But Mom always approved of working toward goals. It was her most often preached lesson. Yes, Libby decided, if Mom was still alive, she would be proud of me.

Libby wished Howard could be here with her. It had taken her eight long years to get this close to her dream, and Howard had played a big part in her quest. He was her only family now, the grandfather she'd never known, the father she could hardly remember. When Howard's heart started acting up, she'd almost postponed her plans. Howard hadn't wanted her to wait.

She'd admit she hadn't wanted to wait, either. Yes, she missed him but she would see him again soon, she reminded herself. Then they could share her triumph. Together they could relive every loop, roll and spin.

Besides, whether Howard was in Chicago or here at Oshkosh, Libby would still be alone when she was in the air. Hers was a solo-flight dream. Tomorrow that dream would come true. She'd fly her own plane at Oshkosh!

* * *

Monday morning dawned cool and gray. Clouds hung low overhead, and a breeze blowing from the northeast off nearby Lake Winnebago was brisk enough to ruffle whitecaps on the surface. It was not, Libby decided as she surveyed the sky, an auspicious day for flying.

She realized that in the hours before flight time, the cloud cover could drop even lower, or the wind could blow the sky completely clear. Just like the old days, she thought. In spite of today's advanced aviation equipment, flying a small plane still waited on the weather.

She took one more look at the threatening sky, then headed toward the coffee tent.

Libby spotted Helen at the back of the tent even as she selected a cup of coffee at the counter.

You going to fly? her friend asked abruptly as Libby approached.

If I can get off the ground, but unless the ceiling lifts, you can expect an abbreviated program, she said.

Helen seemed to relax. Good. I was afraid you'd insist the show must go on.

Libby laughed. I know I'm stubborn, but I'm not stupid. I'd like to live to fly another day.

Right attitude. We'd have a few more old-timers around here if they followed that adage.

All I can do is wait on the weather, Libby said. Exactly like the original barnstormers.

You certainly look the part, Helen told her, obviously recognizing the Roaring Twenties vintage of Libby's dark riding breeches, knee-high boots and the masculine tailored broadcloth shirt with its narrow knitted tie.

Libby smiled her thanks, draping her brown leather flight jacket and barnstormer's neck scarf across the back of her chair before sitting down. It was an idiosyncrasy on her part, but she always dressed in period, even down to the 1924 twenty-dollar gold piece tucked into her breeches pocket.

Are you completely authentic?

Not down to the skin, she admitted, just everything that shows.

But I thought barnstormer scarves were always white. Yours is blue.

Libby caressed the blue silk with her fingers. Isn't it beautiful? It was a good luck gift from Howard. I thought it was supposed to be white, too, but Howard assured me that the first woman pilot he ever knew wore a scarf like this one. It's supposed to match my eyes.

Well, if Howard says it can be blue, then it can be blue. Helen said lightly. Nobody disputes his version of the barnstorming era. I mean, after all, history books versus a living relic, there's no contest. The relic wins. Right?

Right, Libby agreed, adopting Helen's joking manner.

As performance time neared, they walked toward the flight line parking area. The clouds, pushed southwest by the winds, now hung suspended, dark and churning downwind from the airfield. Libby fingered the lucky gold piece in her pocket and cast a nervous glance at the rolling thunderheads. Pilots called them Anvils of the Gods. The turbulence of those rolling clouds could spell disaster, even to modern aircraft. Caught in the storm, her wood and wire Jenny wouldn't stand a chance.

What do you think? she asked Helen, who had volunteered as prop spinner to start the Jenny's engine.

It looks okay, her friend said, but keep your eyes open. I don't like those clouds to the south. If the wind shifts....

I know, Libby said, trying to shake off a sense of foreboding.

We can check the latest reconnaissance photos if you like.

I did, Libby said. Official reports say conditions are unsettled. That's all the photos show, too.

Skies over the airfield remained clear as takeoff time approached. Libby assured herself that she would be okay if she stayed in her designated airspace and kept a wary watch on cloud movement. Just in case, she studied an aerial map, locating several clear fields as emergency landing spots. If she got in trouble, she wanted a bolt-hole.

She took one last look at the clouds, shivered and once again rubbed her lucky gold piece before slipping into her brown leather jacket and wrapping the blue silk scarf around her neck. As she pulled the close-fitting leather helmet over her short curls, she kept her eyes carefully focused on the destination above her. Then, using the lower wing as a step stool, she climbed into the rear cockpit.

Libby deliberately refused to look at the distant clouds again as she fastened her seat harness, adjusted her goggles and smoothed soft pigskin gloves over her hands. Only then did she signal Helen to spin the propeller.

Helen gave her a thumbs-up sign as the engine caught. Libby began taxiing the Jenny toward the end of the runway. She positioned the little bi-plane at the beginning of the runway and waited for a signal from the tower clearing her for takeoff. For this flight, she'd left her portable radio behind. There was no place in the open cockpit for anything that wasn't securely strapped or bolted down, not when the Jenny would soon be turning cartwheels in the air.

At the green light, she opened throttle. The Jenny lumbered down the runway, moving awkwardly over the ground. To keep the wings level in the crosswinds, her hands worked the control stick as her feet tap-danced on the rudder pedals. The Jenny gathered speed.

The antique biplane had no speed gauge, forcing Libby to rely on the sight of the scenery slipping past her and the feel of the little plane's controls to know when she reached liftoff momentum. Seat-of-the-pants flying, they called it in the old days. It was as accurate a description now as then.

Like a small terrier pulling at a leash, the tiny biplane strained into the wind. Libby pulled back on the stick, lifting the nose. Suddenly, magically, the Jenny was airborne.

Once in the air, the little biplane lost its look of awkwardness. Libby and the Jenny became one with the wind.

The secret of a successful flying show, Howard always told her, is to fly your tricks where your audience can see you. Libby followed his advice, keeping her plane inside the block of sky visible from the airfield. As she crisscrossed the length of the field, gaining altitude with every pass, she kept the crowd entertained with a series of loops and slow rolls. Finally, she was soaring at five thousand feet, about as high as she could fly and still be visible from the ground.

Her laugh of pure joy escaped as she threw the Jenny into a series of aerobatic maneuvers that duplicated the dogfighting tactics of the World War I pilots who invented them. Jennys like hers had been the trainers for those early air warriors and, to Libby's mind, no plane could have done it better.

Nearing the end of her planned program, she put the biplane into a steep climb, deliberately destroying the lift that kept the plane in the air.

As the Jenny stalled, the nose fell forward. Libby kicked right rudder, sending the biplane spinning nose-down toward the earth. She kept her eyes focused on the ground below and despite the disorientation produced by her plane's corkscrewing spiral, allowed the Jenny to continue plummeting earthward.

When she dropped to approximately fifteen hundred feet, she could almost hear the crowd's gasp of anticipation. She kicked the left rudder to halt the spinning motion, shoved the stick all the way forward, then hauled back on it again. The plane leveled off, and once again, the Jenny began to fly.

With a cry of jubilation, Libby reached again for high sky. She looped the small plane once, twice, three times. As she completed the last loop she threw the Jenny into another steep climb, beginning her final stunt, a tight U-turn maneuver called a chandelle.

Concentrating on the air in front of her and orienting herself to the ground during her series of loops, Libby didn't notice the shifting winds that sent the clouds in the southwest chasing after her. As she completed the chandelle, flying back the way she'd come, she was suddenly face-to-face with the menacing tower of the storm.

She dropped one wing, a desperate effort to escape, as a shiver of fear vibrated up her spine, but it was already too late. Still fighting against the pull of the swirling updraft, Libby and her fragile biplane disappeared into the seething caldron of the storm.

* * *

It was cold. So cold. The dark, icy turbulence completely enveloped Libby and her small plane. Penetrating cold numbed her fingers and her senses. Howling wind muffled all other sound. Only the regular vibration of the airframe and the feel of the vibrating stick under her hand told her the engine was still running. She was flying blind, at the mercy of the storm.

She lost all sense of time as hail slashed her exposed skin and attacked the fabric covering of the trembling biplane. The frigid cold burned her lungs. Wind whipped the ends of the blue scarf around her face. Frantically she juggled control stick and rudder pedals, trying to regain some semblance of control.

The altimeter spun wildly, leaving her with no concept of altitude. She knew an updraft could toss her high enough to smother her engine. A sudden downdraft would smash her into the unseen ground somewhere below. The freezing wind pulled her scarf from her neck. She had no time to think, to admit fear.