In the end she knew there were deeper reasons she had not stuck to her guns and insisted that a radar beacon be placed on Howland Island. Flying around the world—even in a plane as worthy as the Electra—was not without considerable risk. Without luck they might be lost before they reached Africa! Though she never really believed that... More likely, if they were to disappear, it would be somewhere over the vast waters of the Pacific. And she had been fascinated with the prospect of peace in oblivion.
Of course that was before she’d come to know the inherent sweetness of this natural oasis. Now death seemed far away indeed. Unfortunately, Freddy had not survived to share this new perspective.
Julian was another matter altogether. He seemed to be a different type of man—much less inclined to try to dominate her. Right from the start Amie sensed a comic ineptness about him—not that he was helpless, but he lacked the bravado so characteristic of other men she had known. Admittedly, she found Julian’s naiveté rather endearing, and Amie cautioned herself against affection out of sympathy.
DID I actually receive a message in a bottle from Kong?” Julian wondered aloud. “By what means could such a thing have happened?”
The vessel laid cast aside on the sand, but of course no evidence remained of the cryptic note. Julian slumped on the shore to ponder the anomaly. Gnats gathered round his head, drawn by the sweat pouring off his tomato-ripe face.
Confounded to the point of self-doubt, he got to his feet and tramped over to his shelter. Rifling through his effects, he found the quill Amie had given him and began scrawling a reply to Kong’s warning upon a piece of paper bark.
“
Kamehaloha,
You once said we had mutual business. I thought you were referring to me buying the Scoundrel. Now I’m stranded here. Is this your doing? Don’t get me wrong: the island is nice. But this isn’t fair. I am a simple man. I just wanted a vacation after being fired. If you and your friends possess some sort of weird power, I would rather you play your games with somebody else. This is not my idea of a joke!
Julian
”
He rolled his finished note into a scroll then walked across the sand to collect the errant bottle. Stuffing his reply inside the jar, he flung it as far as he could into the surf. The bottle came down just beyond the reef, and Julian stood watching it. Within minutes the jar washed back on shore. Apparently the conduit on which Kong’s message had arrived was not working in both directions.
“I must be going insane,” Julian muttered as he stared out to sea. “And that would be worse than death. Because now I believe I have received a taunting message in a bottle from half way across the Pacific. If that’s not enough, I’m trying to send a response! I find myself conversing with parrots. I’m eating leaves and grasses. And I’ve found a siren on an otherwise deserted tropical island. Get hold of yourself! This is pure dream stuff. I should pinch myself awake and be done with this foolishness. But there floats the Scoundrel, chained to the reef. The carbs choke at my touch. What am I to do? Amie is incredibly beautiful...”
WITH ILL-CONCEALED ANXIETY, George Putnam paced the floor at coast guard headquarters in San Francisco. Tiny beads of sweat formed on his high forehead, while dark circles outlined sleepless eyes. With the cuffs of his white shirt turned up to mid-forearm, its once stiff collar lay open. Along with pretense and decorum, he'd discarded his tie hours ago. For twenty hours G.P. had stepped off his apprehension in nervous strides, wishing only that the night would be over and the crossing completed. When first news came from Itasca, he could not believe what he was reading:
“EARHART CONTACT 0742 REPORTED ONE HALF HOUR FUEL AND NO LANDFALL. POSITION DOUBTFUL. CONTACT 0646 REPORTED ONE HUNDRED MILES FROM ITASCA BUT NO RELATIVE BEARING. 0843 REPORTED LINE OF POSITION 157 DASH 337 BUT NO REFERENCE POINT PRESUME HOWLAND. ESTIMATE 1200 FOR MAXIMUM TIME ALOFT AND IF NON-ARRIVAL BY THAT TIME WILL COMMENCE SEARCH IN NORTHWEST QUADRANT FROM HOWLAND AS MOST PROBABLE AREA... UNDERSTAND SHE WILL FLOAT FOR LIMITED TIME.”
“Yes, the plane should float,” G.P. told an attentive Herald Tribune reporter who had kept vigil with him all night long. “But of course I cannot estimate for how long. Remember, a Lockheed plane has never been forced down at sea before. The plane’s large wing span and empty fuel tanks will provide sufficient buoyancy, that is, if it comes to rest on the sea without being damaged. And don’t forget that there is a two-man life raft aboard. Also, life belts, flares, a Very pistol, and a large yellow signal kite.”
G.P. could hardly fathom the news he was receiving, sparse though it was. Nor could he believe his baleful prevision. More likely, he expected word to come at any moment of their discovery, either on some obscure island or ditched at sea. He expected to hear that each was safe. Countless times he’d waited on pins and needles for word to come of his wife’s safe landing, and while there had been any number of perilous moments, Amelia had never disappointed—neither him nor her adoring public. Knowing this was to be her last venture flight, G.P. proscribed the irony that catastrophe might befall her now.
A young radio operator informed George that he had personally read a dispatch from Captain Thompson of the Itasca requesting the assistance of a PBY flying boat. Dispatched with a crew of eight from Honolulu, the craft was to aid the search in the vicinity of Howland Island. The prevailing weather between the Hawaiian Islands and the Marshall Islands was questionable, though, and it was unclear if the PBY would be able to take part immediately in the search. G.P. graciously thanked the radio technician for the information then went to find a telephone. He had several calls to make.
The first call he placed was to Amelia’s mother, Amy Otis Earhart. George knew she would be waiting for word of Amelia’s triumph. How could he tell her that her daughter was missing over the Pacific? His voice quivered out of control. Nevertheless, he tried to remain positive as he spoke.
“Mother Earhart, this is George...”
“Where are you, George?” implored Amy Earhart.
“I’m in San Francisco, at coast guard headquarters. Have you heard the news yet?”
“It’s all over the radio, George,” said Amy. Considering the circumstance, she sounded surprisingly calm.
“I don’t want you to worry, Mother Earhart. Everything possible is being done to find Amelia. This is not the time to think the worst.”
“Amelia is not dead, George,” said Amy matter-of-factly. “I’m quite certain of that.”
“Of course not...” He seemed to be reassuring himself as much as giving comfort to his mother-in-law.
Amelia’s mother took charge of the conversation: “Weeks before she left on this flight, Amelia said there were certain things she could not tell me. At the time I thought she was being cryptic for the sake of drama, but now it all makes sense to me. I’m convinced this has something to do with those visits to the White House, George. You must urge Roosevelt to tell us everything he knows!”
“Mother Earhart, he’s the President of the United States! What can I say to him?”
“Whatever is necessary, George... I’m certain he knows what’s happened to her. And I know she’s alive, George. I feel it in my bones.”
The son-in-law promised to call the White House.
G.P.’s next call was to Jackie Cochran, Amelia’s long time friend and psychic consultant. Personally, G.P. doubted her abilities, but he was desperate for any information whatsoever. “Anything you can tell me, Jackie,” he implored, “might save Amelia’s life!”
Of course Jackie Cochran wanted to help Amelia, but her consent held conditions. “I’ll share my impressions, George, but you must promise to keep my name out of the papers. Not one word to the press!”
“You have my word, Jackie.”
The psychic began, “I was aware immediately that Amelia was in peril. She came down quite unexpectedly... On a deserted island south and east of her intended landing site. She’s quite disoriented, but definitely alive! Exact location of the island is uncertain, I’m afraid...”
“Is she hurt?” he wanted to know.
“She has only minor injuries, though Mr. Noonan fractured his skull on a bulkhead. He didn’t make it, I’m afraid. I’m terribly sorry, George.”
“Anything more?” G.P. solicited.
“There is a boat called the Itasca nearby. Also, there is a Japanese fishing vessel in the vicinity. But, search as they may, neither will locate this island.”
“Why not?” G.P. asked.
“This is very, very strange,” Jackie noted. “While they are apparently searching for her in the right place, they seem to be in the wrong time...”
“I don’t understand, Jackie,” said G.P.
“Nor do I,” said the psychic. “And neither will anyone else. This mystery will persist until the nature of time itself is clear to everyone.”
To say the least, G.P. felt spooked by the psychic’s discarnate forecast, though he wasted no time requesting that a search be initiated for an obscure island southeast of Howland in the Phoenix group. Close contacts at navy headquarters accommodated him without delay, and the U.S.S. Colorado made full steam to the locality in question. The ship’s captain sent up all three of his 3U-3 spotter planes, but each pilot reported that he could not even locate the reefs and atolls for which he searched.
Nevertheless, the Colorado continued searching, visiting Enderbury, Phoenix, McKean, Gardner, and Hull Island. Only Hull was inhabited, but the islanders had never even heard of Amelia Earhart.
Besides visual search efforts, radio massages were broadcast repeatedly, a simple hail devised by G.P. himself: “AE—Land or water? North or south?”
Coast guard navigators prepared, at G.P.'s insistence, a chart of the great circle ‘base course’ from Lea, New Guinea to Howland Island. Putnam assumed Noonan would have attempted to calculate a drift angle as soon after take-off as possible. From available weather reports G.P. was able to predict their possible drift to be plus or minus eleven degrees. Projecting this track across the breadth of the south Pacific, he surmised they might have passed as much as one hundred forty miles south of Howland. That course concurred with Jackie Cochran’s vision. And there remained the enigmatic conundrum proposed by the psychic concerning a fundamental discrepancy in time itself! Yet it was also possible that exactly the opposite drift ratio had occurred, putting Amelia and Fred one hundred forty miles north of their target, down somewhere in the outlying islands of the Marshalls. G.P. knew that each atoll would have to be searched.
All the while Putnam never stopped talking to the reporters who gathered at coast guard headquarters in San Francisco. “AE will pull through,” he told a writer from the New York Sunday Mirror. “Of course I’m worried, but she has more courage than anyone I know. And I have confidence in her ability to handle any situation. She’s likely to turn up with hardly a hair out of place. That’s AE!”
While G.P. was talking to the reporters the radio operator who had kept him informed over the course of two days passed him a transcription of a communiqué from the PBY flying boat:
“LAST TWO HOURS IN EXTREMELY BAD WEATHER BETWEEN ALTITUDE 2000 AND 12000 FEET. SNOW, SLEET, RAIN, ELECTRICAL STORMS. IN DAYLIGHT CONDITIONS LOOK EQUALLY BAD. CLOUD TOPS APPEAR TO BE 18000 FEET OR MORE. RETURNING TO PEARL HARBOR.”
By now Vidal had arrived from Washington. Going head to head with G.P., he had his own ideas concerning the parameters of the search. Hardly the best of friends, the two men here had a common cause—Amelia’s rescue and well-being. They found a quiet corner out of earshot where reporters would not disturb them.
“Look!” said Gene. “They’re out there trying to cover three million square miles. Obviously that’s an impossible task. The search must be narrowed.”
“Narrowed to where?” Putnam wanted to know.
“Before the flight,” said Gene, “she told me that if they could not locate Howland she would probably turn back toward the Marshalls. It’s there we must concentrate our effort!”
“Can we get help from high office?” Putnam asked.
“What exactly do you mean, George?”
“I mean from FDR?”
“I don’t have a direct line to the president,” said Vidal.
“What about the DOC? They built the runway!”
“Yes, I’m sure I can count on the secretary,” said Vidal.
Putnam nodded. Acknowledging Vidal's influence, George began to trust that someone in a lofty position would spearhead a concerted search and rescue effort. He implored Vidal to cable the Secretary of Commerce at once.
“...REQUEST YOUR GOOD OFFICES IN OBTAINING COOPERATION OF BRITISH AND JAPANESE IN CONTINUING SEARCH ESPECIALLY REGARDING ELLICE, GILBERT, AND MARSHALL ISLANDS, OCEAN ISLAND AND AREA NORTHEAST OF SAME. ALSO IF POSSIBLE REQUEST SOME EXAMINATION OF ISLAND NORTHERLY AND NORTHWESTERLY OF PAGO PAGO. CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION: EXTRAORDINARY EVIDENCE SEEMS TO EXIST INDICATING CASTAWAY STILL LIVING, THOUGH OF SUCH STRANGE NATURE CANNOT BE OFFICIAL OR PUBLICLY CONFIRMED.”
“If we’re narrowing the search,” George inquired, “why the Gilberts? We’re talking about sixteen coral reefs located six hundred miles west of Howland—a mere two hundred square miles of land scattered haphazardly over more than a million square miles of ocean!”
“Consider the titanic ocean current,” said Vidal. “It swirls westward along the equator in that area. The drift, aided by constant trade winds, could possibly carry a floating object westward for a significant distance.”
So with the impetus of Washington the search continued. Unprecedented, the cost of such an operation mounted steadily, past four million dollars. President Roosevelt took some heat for the expenditure on behalf of a private citizen, but he was able to fend off his detractors, stating that the ships and personnel would have been engaged anyway, and that the search enabled the navy to survey areas which were previously not well-charted and were now under Japanese control. Deeply concerned for the welfare of the young, female flying ace, the president publicly expressed his solicitude. And in her weekly newspaper column Eleanor Roosevelt also voiced her regard for Amelia: “I feel that if she comes through safely she will feel that what she has learned makes it all worthwhile. But her friends will wish that service could be rendered without such risk to a person whom many love...”
By the end of July, the official search was called off. Still, George was unwilling to give up hope. From Washington he told Amy, “Opinion seems unanimous that Amelia is somehow, somewhere, still alive. We are doing everything possible to find her.”