POINT OPTION: A Time-Travel Military Thriller

by Ian A. O'Connor

  Her answer was drowned out by the honking of a car horn.

  “Ohhh, shit, that’s going to piss off the entire block,” Fleming said, jumping up from the table. In three short steps he had the kitchen door opened and began signaling frantically for silence. He turned and hugged his wife. “I’m going to miss you, honey, but I'll be back before you know it. Promise.” They kissed for a long moment, then slowly separated.

  She smiled bravely. “I know you'll have fun even though it'll be a lot of hard work. And I'm so proud of you, Dave, I really am.”

  “Remember, eight weeks at the most. I'll text you as soon as we land in Italy.” He picked up two large duffel bags and went out to the waiting car. She stood in the doorway and waved until it disappeared up the street.

  * * * * *

  David Fleming, Major, United States Air Force, turned to face his friend, Bud Hamilton. Like Fleming, he too was dressed in a flightsuit, but his was Navy issue. He wore the insignia of a full lieutenant on his shoulders.

  “We're finally rolling, old buddy,” said Hamilton. “And I still can't believe my Navy is actually going to allow an Air Force “zoomie” to fly our jets off of our biggest, badass, newest aircraft carrier.” He shook his head in mock disbelief, then with a quick, sideways glance, deadpanned, “Straight skinny, Major, are you really a carrier-qualified pilot?”

  Fleming guffawed, then answered. “Noooo, but I can fake it. Look, if mentally challenged guys like you can do it, then it’s got to be a no-brainer for a hotshot pilot like me. I promise not to let you down, Percy,'' he added, emphasizing his friend’s hated first name.

  Fleming knew he was wholly accepted by the Tiger Sharks, his new squadron, and by the entire carrier air wing. He was proud of his accomplishments. At thirty-two, he was a newly promoted major, but more importantly, one of only three from a pool of ninety Air Force pilot-applicants selected to serve a two-year tour with their sister service. And somewhere out there, three Navy exchange pilots had been selected to fill similar billets in the Air Force for the same two-year period. Traditionally, such assignments meant those chosen to serve in other branches were earmarked for bigger things, and David Fleming certainly saw himself as a man going places. Projecting ahead a few years, he would apply for a command slot within one of the other NATO air forces, but that was still a way off. This gig was going to be great; he could feel it all the way down to his toes.

  They passed through the gates of Oceana Naval Air Station and drove towards the flightline, spotting the huge grey T-tail of the Air Force C-17 Globemaster parked on the ramp beside a cluster of hangers. This giant would fly fifty-eight men and women to Italy to join up with the LBJ, already in the Mediterranean. Most of the five-thousand-man crew, including the air wing was already aboard but, for one reason or another, this last group of stragglers had not been there when the carrier had sailed from Norfolk, Virginia, ten days earlier.

  Hamilton parked the car in the lot next to the operations building, shut off the motor, and placed the keys under the front seat. “One of the wives will drive Marsha here later,'' he said. “No way that girl was getting up in the middle of the night just to see her old man off. She’s been doing this goodbye stuff for far too long now. She’s all too glad to have the house to herself and the kids for a spell.”

  They walked into the building and up to a counter swarming with people. They were checked in, their names confirmed on the manifest, and their bags tagged and placed on a cart. This was an Air Mobility Command (AMC) plane, the Air Force's answer to the scores of civilian airlines. It would be a no-frills flight with uncomfortable seating.

  “No pretty faces and no hot meal this trip,” Hamilton noted as they walked toward the plane. Each carried a box lunch under his arm, a meal for a journey that would last twelve hours, with a stop in the Azores before going on to Italy. Then, after an eight-hour rest stop, it would be down to the port and out to the waiting aircraft carrier.

  They found seats toward the back of the plane. As the loadmaster closed the huge tail ramp, a first lieutenant called for attention.

  “Listen up!” he shouted. Some ignored him completely. “Give me your attention!'' he roared, and instantly there was silence. “That's better! OK, my name is Lieutenant Sirola, and I'm the aircraft commander. What I say goes for as long as you are on this plane. We want to make the flight as pleasant as possible, but there are some words I've got to say about safety.'' He spoke for five minutes, pointing out certain items peculiar to the C-17, explaining how the floatation equipment worked, where the emergency exits were located, and what to do in the event of a ditching at sea or a crash on land.

  “That's it, folks. Also, once we're in the air, if some of you would like to come up to the flight deck and see how we fly this big boy, that'll be fine with me. Just clear it with Sergeant Enwright, the loadmaster. We don’t follow the same strict rules our friends in the airlines do about visiting the cockpit, but just don’t tell anybody, OK?”

  The four large engines were started, and the Globemaster taxied out to the end of the runway. After the runup check and clearance for takeoff was given, the two hundred eighty-thousand pound aircraft raced down the tarmac and lifted gracefully into the morning sky. In no time it was cruising at its assigned altitude for the first leg of the long journey.

  “Ever fly one of these?” Hamilton asked.

  “Never, thank God,” replied Fleming “These guys put in some godawful long hours, and Air Mobility Command flying is about as tough as it gets. But it's a great steppingstone for pilots wanting to build up a lot of heavy-jet time to get hired with the airlines.”

  “So, your whole time has been in fighters?”

  “Yeah. Out of flight school it was right into fast movers. First, as an F16 driver, then into F-15s, and now the Navy’s F/A-18 Super Hornet. I’m still learning how to crash-land a good airplane onto a little piece of metal floating in the big bad sea.”

  “Man, we're going to make a real pilot out of you yet. Any candyass can land on a ten-thousand-foot runway, but only Navy jocks really know how to fly. OK, I'll include a couple of jarheads in that group,'' Hamilton allowed, begrudgingly, “and 1 say a couple, only because so very few of them are trainable.”

  This was a rude reference to Marine pilots who were trained by the Navy to Navy standards. All pilots in the Corps completed a series of carrier landings before earning their wings of gold, but their mission was close air support, and so they were usually not found in a carrier-based squadron.

  “Shall I tell those two Marine pilots up front what you just said?” Fleming asked, a look of pure innocence on his face.

  “You want to see me get whacked?” Hamilton replied, in mock terror. “I'll deny the whole thing, unless of course, you outrank them both and promise to protect me.”

  “Nope. You'd be on your own, pal.” Both men laughed at the thought of tangling with the Marines.

  Hamilton faced his friend, “Let me be serious for a minute, Dave. How does your wife really feel about this whole Navy assignment? Poor gal thought she had married a guy who would live his life on terra firma, but now, she finds her bunkmate has become an anchor clanker.”

  Fleming rearranged himself in the narrow, uncomfortable seat and waited a few seconds before replying. His face showed his concern, and he sighed. “Deep down, Bud, I really don't know. Ever since I checked in to Jax Naval Air for carrier qualifications school, she’s been, well, different.”

  “Different, like how?”

  “Several times since February I've had to waken her from what she said were recurring nightmares, but really it was always the same nightmare. They’ve obviously upset her, and when I ask her to tell me more about them, she talks about seeing my plane being hijacked by some unexplainable force, and I become lost forever at sea. She says the image is as real as can be, but then she gets embarrassed and changes the subject. So, yeah, I sometimes get the feeling she isn’t thrilled about me flying with you guys,
but I write it off to the fact that she doesn’t know much about the Navy way of life. And the only thing she knows about aircraft carriers is what she has seen in old World War II flicks with newsreel footage showing planes crashing right and left onto their decks before skidding off into the ocean.”

  “I hear you,” Hamilton replied, “and we do have our fair share of accidents the public never hears about. I guess a couple of the wives have told her some hair-raising stories. But she's become pretty close with Arlene Fitzpatrick from what I hear, right?” It was more a question than a statement of fact. “Arlene's a no-nonsense gal, so you know at least she'll get the straight skinny at all times from that lady.”

  Arlene Fitzpatrick was the squadron executive officer's wife. She had been a young Navy nurse who had met her husband while they were both stationed together during the early days of the resurgent ISIS War in Iraq. Now, ten years later, Arlene was the mother of three girls, and the wife of a well-respected full commander. All the wives seemed to gravitate toward Arlene for comfort and advice when their men were at sea.

  “My Susan is hiding a strong lady behind that gorgeous face of hers. She'll do fine.'' The tone in Fleming's voice told his friend that subject was now closed.

  * * * * *

  Six hours after takeoff, they touched down in the Azores, where the aircraft commander announced a two-hour layover. Everyone was glad to deplane, walk around, and stretch cramped muscles. It was late afternoon, and all found the weather invigorating with a stiff breeze blowing from the north. An hour and forty-five minutes later, the flight was reboarded for the final leg to Naples.

  Two hours in they encountered severe turbulence, causing many of the passengers to turn green and start reaching for air-sickness bags.

  Even Fleming admitted to feeling a bit ragged, but Hamilton was no worse for the wear. However, he was able to empathize enough with Fleming who wanted no part of eating, so he excused himself and went up to the flight deck, taking his box lunch with him.

  Touchdown came at a few minutes past one o'clock in the morning with most passengers now feeling fine, but tired. They had landed at Naples International Airport, three miles from the center of the city, and as everyone deplaned, they were boarded onto buses and driven to the Naval Support Activity Base located on the same property, which also housed the headquarters of the US Navy 6th Fleet.

  Within forty minutes both pilots were sound asleep, but before drifting off, Fleming had found his thoughts harkening back to his wife’s recurring nightmare of him disappearing forever while flying with the Navy. He shuddered involuntarily at the thought of such a thing ever happening.

  CHAPTER 2

  Friday morning – Friday afternoon June 18th

  Mind if I join you, gentlemen?” The request came from a Navy lieutenant commander.

  “Please, help yourself,” said Fleming, nodding at the vacant chair to his right. He glanced at the man’s nametag. HIRSHBERGER.

  “Morning, Sir.” This from Hamilton between sips of coffee.

  Hirshberger seated himself, and as he arranged his breakfast, surreptitiously studied Fleming. ''You must be the Air Force officer assigned to the LBJ. Allow me to welcome you on behalf of the meteorological department. The name's Joel.”

  “Dave Fleming. And this is Bud Hamilton.”

  Hirshberger was tall, rail-thin, with a neck full of chords and an Adam's apple that danced as he spoke. “You guys notice anything strange about the weather this morning?” he asked, slathering his toast with butter.

  “Heavy fog,” said Hamilton. “Of course, I've been up all of a half hour and it’s already, let me see, oh, almost seven-fifteen. Why do you ask, Sir?”

  “Well, I called base weather to get a rundown, and after what they told me, I’m thinking someone’s flying on uppers over there.”

  “What do you mean?” Fleming asked.

  Hirshberger filled his mouth and swallowed before replying. ''This is my third tour in the Med, and the main reason I keep bouncing back is I speak Spanish and Italian fluently. Anyway, when I spoke with the Italian meteorologist this morning, he tells me that things are totally messed up, and that he can't give me an accurate forecast. So, I ask why? He says his information is all screwy and I wouldn't buy it. I tell him to try me, and boy, does he ever,'' Hirshberger said, and followed up with a loud harrumph. “He then proceeds to give me a weather report that is nothing short of nonsense. It did absolutely nothing to explain the heavy ground-hugging fog we had earlier, you know, stuff such as the basic meteorological correlation between dewpoint and temperature. And the rest of his briefing was worse. But just as I was beginning to think he had a thing against Americans, he apologizes, and says there must be something wrong with his instruments. Then he tells me his readings are totally at odds with what he’s receiving from other weather stations, some as close as fifteen miles away.”

  Hirshberger obviously thought this a good time to finish eating because he hunched over his plate and began scooping up food as if his breakfast companions were about to steal it.

  “This ever happen before?” Fleming asked after a few minutes of silence.

  Hirshberger shook his head. “Nope. The man said it started at five A.M., and without warning. Before that, everything was normal. Then the fog came. It rolled in really fast and totally unexpected, because none of the meteorological conditions at the time were conducive to fog. Then he volunteered this little nugget: All radio communications for the past couple of hours have been spotty and broken at best, that the airport’s radar has become so unreliable that the tower has closed the field to all landings and departures, civilian and military, even though the field is technically not below minimums. They’re diverting all incoming traffic to alternates until further notice. It's one helluva a mess.”

  “So, what do you make of it?” Fleming asked. “You think they're maybe trying to cover for someone’s screwup?”

  “Don't know, but I intend to check it out as soon as I get aboard the LBJ. Those folks are the best anywhere, bar none. Not only does the entire Sixth Fleet look to us for accurate weather reports, but even the Russkies pay attention when we broadcast weather updates in the open. Come visit us when you get squared away, Major, guaranteed you’ll be impressed.”

  “The name's Dave, and, yes, I'll take you up on your offer, Joel. Thanks.”

  * * * * *

  At ten minutes to nine they boarded a waiting bus. The fog had lifted, and all indications pointed towards a beautiful, clear day. The three officers sat on the large bench-seat at the rear, with Fleming in the middle. His face took on a puzzled look, and he turned to Hirshberger.

  “You know, just before breakfast I called my wife on my cell, and the connection was as clear as if she was right next door. We spoke for about twenty seconds, then just as abruptly as that,'' he said, snapping his fingers, “the signal was dropped. I tried redialing her a couple of times, but no luck. I wonder if that had anything to do with the weather anomaly?”

  “My hunch would be yes,'' said Hirshberger. “It makes sense. Most of your international calls from Europe to America are bounced off satellites nowadays, and not routed through undersea cables. But as to the how and the why it happened, well, I can't answer that one, but I'll definitely find out more once we’re aboard. My curiosity’s now up, to say the least.”

  * * * * *

  “Gentlemen, may I draw your attention to the United States Ship, Lyndon Baines Johnson, the greatest fighting machine ever built,” Hamilton said, as if conducting a navy yard tour for a group of civilians. “Technically speaking, she’s a Ford Class carrier, although she is slightly larger than her two sister ships, the Ford and the Kennedy. She measures one thousand two hundred feet from bow to stern and displaces just over one hundred two thousand long tons. But unlike the old Enterprise, which had eight nuclear reactors, the LBJ has only two for her four shafts, and they can propel her at speeds which, although are still classified, are generally beli
eved to be in excess of thirty knots. When she ...”

  “We surrender! We surrender!” Hirshberger said, with hands held high.

  “And I thought I was going to impress you with all my knowledge,'' Hamilton replied.

  Fleming followed his Navy friends off the tender now tied to the Stern Dock and climbed up a metal accommodation ladder. He stole a quick glance back down to the water, and the several launches shuttling back and forth to the pier. He stepped aboard the LBJ via the aft ‘officers brow’ leading to the Quarterdeck, and after saluting the flag, turned to the officer of the deck, and saluted again.

  “Permission to come aboard?” he asked the duty officer, a lieutenant commander.

  His salute was returned with a “Permission granted.” A hand reached out. “Welcome to the LBJ, Major. It's a pleasure to have you aboard. If there's anything we can do to help you in your transition from Air Force to Navy, just ask.”

  “Thank you, I'm sure I’ll feel at home in no time.” He followed Hamilton under cover, where they were met by a lieutenant j.g., in a flightsuit, who introduced himself and volunteered to show them to their quarters.

  The two officers followed the young officer from the hangar deck, up the ladderwell to the deck above. They walked down a well-lit, but cramped and narrow companionway smelling of new paint and deck cleaner. Fleming found it hard to believe he was on a ship. There was no motion at all, and after a few more turns down a maze of other companionways, their guide paused at a door and nodded to Hamilton. Fleming remembered that to all sailors, doors were called hatches, stairs were ladders, and walls were bulkheads, the language of the sea.

  “This will be your quarters, Mr. Hamilton. Major, you will be three down on the right.”

  “Dave, I'll meet you in about fifteen minutes, then we can go check in at operations.”