J.M. Surra - T.I.T.O.R.: In early July of 1947, something crashed in Roswell, New Mexico

J.M. Surra

Copyright 2013 by J.M. Surra

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the publisher.

J.M. Surra

Visit his website at:

http://www.jmsurra.com

First Print Edition : March 21, 2013

First eBook Edition: January 31, 2013

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Published or pending publication under the following ISBN numbers and formats:

Paperback format:

978-0-9834647-5-4

Kindle eBook format:

978-0-9834647-6-1

Audio book format:

978-0-9834647-7-8

Multiple formats:

978-0-9834647-9-2

Print and eBook formatting by Quixotry Books.

The main characters in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to any real persons, living or dead, is either unintentional or coincidental, and not intended by the author. Actions, statements, or opinions made by any characters named after real persons are fictitious, and some are historical events documented elsewhere. All are blended together as historical fiction and alternate history. When in doubt, consider any phrase or passage to be pure fiction.

This is not a non-fiction book. No footnotes or citations of any actions, events, or occurrences herein will be given. Though there are informative and educational items of interest in this book, this book is not intended to be an educational book of reference.

Flights of fancy like T.I.T.O.R. dont just happen. The elements needed to create it included two real, controversial legends, each with legions of obsessive, fanatic, and some might say addicted followers. Passion-driven or not, a story being real doesnt make all of the elements true. But what if that story contains compellingyet unprovenelements that have the power to draw in and challenge the imaginations of an ever-growing audience? In that case, the story will move up the food chain, and every once in a while, one will go a step beyond, and achieve the elusive status of Legend.

The first legend of choice was that of the mysterious and elusive Internet chat room persona John Titor, whose purported time-traveling exploits and predictions fueled the fires of controversy, to the point where chat room attendees fought amongst themselves, taking sides, throwing insults, alternately protecting and attacking Titor, at times to the near-exclusion of Titor himself. Though pushed to the side during the ruckus, he managed to post now and again. And then, at the precise departure date hed given at the start, he disappeared without a trace, leaving us to speculate.

Was the John Titor we chatted with actually John Titor? Perhaps not, but even if he wasnt, it wouldnt preclude him from being a time traveler.

My second choice of legends was far better known. The legend of the Roswell crash, which occurred around the first of July in 1947, still sparks the imaginations of people around the world, though more than 65 years have passed. In blogs and forums everywhere, it remains the focal point; arguably the origin of our UFO awareness, the Mecca of UFOs.

That gave me an idea.

Few people ever paid attention to what happened immediately after the date something crashed in Roswell. In the summer of 1947, the American military abruptly experienced spasms of growth, separating the branches and adding a new branch with greater funding and (not incidentally, I think) ultimate control over all things UFO, a branch which today we all know as the Air Force. Pandemonium ensued. Thrown into upheaval, military bases, their contents and personnel were moved whimsically around the country. Years passed before the dust settled on the whole deal.

Was it intentional? Would the American military purposely create so much disorder and confusion, just to obscure our view? Sure, they would. It would have allowed them to operate with virtual impunity, right under our noses. Maybe Im the only one to see it. I grant you, it wouldnt be the first time my hyperactive imagination saw what others dont, or more than theyre willing to see. Of a certainty, it will not be the last time. Either way, its within the realm of possibility.

With two great legends tucked away neatly in my bag of tricks, and an interesting side story thrown in for good measure, it was time to go to work.

Weaving vital, new fabric from the separate legends of John Titor and the Roswell crash was a formidable task. But with a little magic, and a healthy dose of imagination to fill in the gaps, an amazing new legend took shape.

That legend is T.I.T.O.R.

Enjoy, my friends.

J.M. Surra

Great Northeastern Fortress
Former Loring Air Force Base, Limestone, Maine
Late October, 2098

Hop Ops, the operations command center, easily spanned seventy-five feet in width, and every inch of that, floor to ceiling, was occupied by the main view screen, displaying the Earths northern hemisphere. From the lower right, a glowing white line swept in a perfect arc up and into the black of space, pausing at the last recorded position before the communications blackout.

Technicians remained focused on their monitors, tracking Hop 206 through the so-far routine mission. Meanwhile, the others who comprised the quiet machinery of Hop Ops remained in motion, moving about the command center, carrying files and clipboards, whispering, and watching the mission progress up on the main screen.

Colonel Marcus Clayton sat in the command chair, center rear, overseeing the bustling command center. Signing an order presented to him, he handed the clipboard back, then turned his attention back to the mission. Mr. Waldron, report. Are they in re-entry?

Everything was fine when Waldron checked his readings and said, Sir, outgoing telemetry showed them on-time and on-track, with re-entry in one minute mark. Still relaxed, his eyes remained on his screen, waiting for the end of the minute to report Hop 206 in re-entry.

When an unexpected object appeared on the screen only a few seconds later, he tensed, typing furiously and checking his readings. Mixed telemetry coming through, sir. Its them, but theyre too early. Their approach is too steep. His calm voice belied the increasing tension in the room when he reported, Were losing telemetry, sir. The windows closing.

Clayton watched the big screen in alarm, as the smooth, perfect arc made an abrupt turn from orbit and swept earthward in a straight line toward North America. He barked, All Op stations, condition red. Record everything. Keep trying, Jeff. If we lose them, well need all we can get.

Waldron said, Im on it, sir. People, you heard the colonel.

Ear-splitting klaxon alarms sounded, reinforcing his words.

Running and shouting, people bounced off each other, sprinting for their stations in the mad dash to initiate emergency protocols.

Clayton yelled, Damn it. Shut that noise off!

Raising his voice to be heard over the cacophony of noise and alarms, Waldron yelled, Sir, no luck re-establishing a full stream. Were getting no new telemetryIm losing them He searched anxiously for any further readings. Hop 206, people. Ive got nothing. Listen up; I want all recorded telemetry forwarded to my station now.

When nothing new appeared, he looked up, visually polling the technicians, station to station, hoping for something. Anything. But he already knew. There was no new telemetry to forward. With each shake of their heads, his heart fell.

The klaxons ceased.

Where just seconds before, chaos had consumed every aspect of the command center, now even the familiar quiet banter and buzz of background activity were gone. The all-consuming silence that replaced it was far more unnerving than any klaxon.