POINT OPTION: A Time-Travel Military Thriller

by Ian A. O'Connor

  “Sounds good,'' replied Fleming, heading towards his own cabin. He was handed a key.

  “You weren't aboard for the air wing shakedown cruise were you, Sir?”

  “No, why do you ask?”

  “I can give you some help with directions for getting about, that is until you have a better idea where everything is. This is a mighty big ship.”

  “Appreciate the thought,” said Fleming. “Lieutenant Hamilton was aboard for the shakedown, so he’ll have to be my nursemaid for a while. Thanks for the help, and I'll see you in ops.'' As he was about to enter his cabin, he stopped. “Any idea when we get under way?”

  “We’re scheduled to weigh anchor at twelve hundred hours, Sir. That's about forty minutes from now,” the lieutenant replied, glancing at his watch. “The admiral will be moving his flag back onto the LBJ sometime around eleven-thirty, and once that's complete, then we're off.”

  “Thanks again.” Fleming returned the salute and entered his small stateroom. There were two bunks, and he noticed that the lower berth was already made up while the upper had blankets and linens lying on top of the bare mattress. That would be his. He walked to his bed and pressed down on the mattress. It was brand new, made from a firm foam material, and ample in length and width. A small reading lamp was affixed to the headboard which he tested by snapping it on and off a couple of times in rapid succession.

  There were two of everything in the room: lockers, desks, and chairs, except for a single hand basin with hot and cold faucets wedged in a corner. Above it was a mirror with lights and electrical outlets conveniently nearby.

  He turned his attention to the desks. Both were metal with Formica tops, and equipped with bolted-down reading lamps. His eyes drifted toward a framed photograph on the closest one. He studied the picture. The color photo showed a woman and two children standing in front of a church. He shuddered. Without a doubt they were the homeliest threesome he had ever seen.

  “Oh, lordy me!'' he whispered, eyes transfixed to the photograph. He blinked and looked again. It hadn't changed. He walked over to the lockers. One had a paper nameplate: Lt. Commander Joseph E. Caldwell, USN.

  At least he now knew his companion's name. Just as he opened his empty locker there was a sharp knock at the door. A slick-sleeved seaman stood at attention with his two duffel bags.

  The seaman gave a puzzled look as he saw the Air Force uniform. “Your gear, Sir,'' he mumbled while saluting.

  “Thank you, sailor, I’ll take them in.” For the next ten minutes he stowed away his gear and finished by placing Susan’s photograph on his desk. He was debating whether or not to change into a flightsuit when a knock on the door interrupted him.

  Hamilton strolled in and looked around. He stared at the photo of Caldwell's wife and children. “I see you've already met the princess. Cute, huh? And how about the little darlings?”

  “Lovely!” was Fleming's one word whispered reply.

  “You know, I've met her a couple of times, '' Hamilton continued, holding the photograph up for closer scrutiny, “and I've got to admit, this photographer is really good. In real life she's not nearly as pretty.”

  “Say no more,'' commanded Fleming. ''Let's get out of here.”

  * * * * *

  As they entered the main wing ready room, a loudspeaker came to life, and the bosun's mate announced the arrival of the Strike Group Commander, Rear Admiral Stanford Taylor.

  Nobody seemed to pay the slightest attention. Hamilton introduced Fleming to various members of the air arm. They were mostly junior grade officers: ensigns, and lieutenants, all exuding a similar air of superiority. Not an obtrusive in-your-face kind of cockiness, Fleming thought, but rather theirs was an attitude of men who were confident in their unique skills.

  Someone called the room to attention. Everyone froze, and stood silent and erect.

  “Carry on,'' said a silver-haired captain striding into the room followed by another captain.

  “That's the Carrier Air Wing Commander (CAG) and his executive officer,” Hamilton said out of the side of his mouth.

  The captain spotted the Air Force blue uniform and came over to Fleming. “Welcome aboard, Fleming,” he said, glancing at the name tag while offering his hand. “My name's Gowdy, and I'm the CAG. It's good to have you with us. I know it was a last-minute change of air wings for you, but I hope you'll enjoy your tour flying with us.”

  “Thank you, Captain, and I'm sure I will,” Fleming replied. The change that Gowdy referred to was that Fleming's orders had been re-cut, literally at the last minute. The new ones assigned him to the LBJ rather than to the Carrier Air Wing (CVW) that was currently serving aboard the Gerald R. Ford. No explanation had been given. He had received the new set of orders less than a week earlier, thus the reason he had not been aboard for the shakedown cruise with the four strike fighter squadrons in Carrier Air Wing-12* assigned to the LBJ. “I'll want to speak with you later, Fleming, once we're under way.”

  Gowdy turned to face the assembled flyers. “Gentlemen, and … ladies,” he began, nodding his acknowledgment in the direction of two female pilots. “I want a meeting in the wardroom with all of the wing’s flying officers at sixteen hundred hours. Pass the word along to your buddies who aren't here now, even though the info will be piped later to all areas of the ship. My plan is to get to flight quarters as quickly as possible, so we've got a lot of hard work and long days ahead of us. I expect everyone to do his or her part in ironing out any bugs, and I speak for the admiral when I say that this air wing must be in A-one fighting condition in no time.” He paused and looked around. “I want to see the strike squadron commanders and executive officers in Charlie Tate’s ready room in ten minutes.”

  He turned to the group closest, and along with them studied a TV monitor which showed a freeze-frame photo of the LBJ's port side anchor along with a digital clock ticking off the hours, minutes, and seconds.

  “You have a number, Sir?” asked a freckle-faced ensign. He was referring to the age-old Navy tradition of betting among a crew as to the exact moment the ship they were serving aboard would either drop anchor coming into a port, or weigh anchor upon leaving. Among the thousands of sailors on the LBJ, there would have been a hundred various pools, and probably as much as a total of fifty thousand dollars riding on such an insignificant event as to when the ship would weigh anchor. But to all hands on the LBJ, this event was far from insignificant.

  “I do indeed.” No sooner than Gowdy had spoken, the chain began to move, and as the anchor broke the surface, the numbers on the digital clock froze on the screen.

  The loudspeakers in the wardroom came to life.

  “All hands, now hear this. The LBJ is under way having weighed anchor at twelve hundred hours, four minutes, and seventeen seconds.” Throughout the ship some men cursed while others cheered. This officers' wardroom was no exception. There had been four pools among the nine squadrons, and all four were won by lieutenants. Some older hands grumbled that this was a bad omen, but all the junior officers thought it was great, especially the winners!

  * * * * *

  Friday Afternoon

  After lunch, Fleming walked onto the flight deck for some fresh air and a stretch of his legs. He was with his new roommate, Lieutenant Commander Joseph Caldwell, a man nothing like Fleming had imagined. He was tall and muscular, built like the football player he had been in college, yet surprisingly reticent. Anyone would have classified him as good looking, which begged the question: Why had he wooed and married his oh-so-plain wife? He was thirty-six years old, and had just received word earlier in the week that his name was on the promotion list to full commander.

  The sea was smooth as glass, and as the two made their way towards the stern, they could see that the LBJ and the accompanying Nimitz-class carrier Harry S. Truman had already taken up their protected positions as the raison d'être for the strike group’s existence. Within the hour, the Truman would break away and rejoin its
own Carrier Strike Group 8 (CSG) positioned two hundred miles to the north. At the end of June, the Truman was scheduled to return to Norfolk.

  In the immediate vicinity of the LBJ was the Tacoma, one of two surface warfare destroyer escorts, while steaming five hundred yards astern on the carrier’s starboard side was a frigate. Well behind the Tacoma was a guided-missile cruiser in the shadow of the Truman, and ahead of that cruiser was the other destroyer-escort, which itself was accompanied by two anti-submarine frigates. And at the tip of the spear of this very lethal surface force, an Improved Los Angeles Class fast attack submarine was sailing below, ensuring no enemy lurked beneath.

  From where the two officers stood, they could not see all of the other ships in the group, but took comfort knowing that both the carriers were very well protected.

  “Did you get your gear squared away OK?'' Caldwell asked. “I remember how lost I felt on my first carrier tour, so I kinda know how you might be feeling. Especially on this baby. She's beyond incredible.”' He paused to savor all he could see. “It's my not-so-secret ambition to skipper one of these beauties someday. It’s the ultimate command for any Navy flyer.”

  “Well, you just continue what you're doing, son. Finish high school, go to college, and your dream will come true. Got to, it's the American way,” said Fleming, in his best pontifical voice.

  Caldwell laughed. “Good advice, dad.” He glanced at his watch. “I'm off to write a couple of letters, and maybe grab a little shuteye.''

  Twenty minutes later, Fleming rode an elevator up to Vulture’s Row, a balcony area high up on the island with a bird’s-eye view of the flight deck where pilots and non-flyers alike could watch the planes takeoff and land. It was a popular spot with sailors who wanted to snap photos, and a favorite of family and friends when the carrier was in port, and visitors were allowed to come aboard.

  A sailor, standing behind one of several binocular stations anchored to the railing glanced up, saw Fleming beside him, and pointed toward a cruise ship coming abreast on their port side. She was less than a quarter mile away, her safety-glass parapets lined with passengers waving at the American carrier.

  The LBJ’s 1 Main Circuit PA system came to life.

  “All hands, this is the Captain. For those on the flight deck, I direct your attention port side to where we have a visitor wanting to say hello. And for crewmembers below, you can see it on the TV monitors throughout the ship. She is the British liner Princess Royal on her maiden voyage, and her captain, crew, and passengers wish to salute us.”

  “Go ahead, take a look, Sir,” the sailor said, offering his binoculars to Fleming. “She’s really something to see up close!”

  Fleming adjusted the focus and zoomed in on the hundreds of happy passengers who had begun cheering loudly, the sound easily carrying across the water to Vulture’s Row.

  “Hip, hip, hooray,” the crowd cheered three times, then followed up with an enthusiastic round of applause and whistling.

  The LBJ answered with three long blasts of her horn, causing the British audience to break out in a second spontaneous wave of clapping and cheering.

  A few minutes passed while both vessels sailed in concert, then Captain Blizzard again keyed his mike. “On behalf of us all, I have extended your thanks and appreciation to the crew and passengers of the Princess Royal, and to say we wish them the best of luck and a bon voyage. Her captain has informed me that he will slow his ship to allow the rest of our strike group to sail past her unimpeded. That is all.”

  Fleming turned and thanked the sailor and, after one last, appreciative look at the British liner, headed for the elevator thinking, now that’s a ship I won’t soon forget.

  He made his way back to the main wardroom, and still feeling restless, headed off down the companionway. He passed various strike fighter squadrons’ briefing rooms and ready rooms, all part of the air wing’s quarters, then trekked along narrow passageways jampacked with pipes and electrical conduits snaking their way along the ceiling and bulkheads, taking him further into foreign territory as he got closer to the center of the ship. Here were housed most of the ship's shops, the cacophony emanating from within, a testament to the seriousness of the work being done. He heard the screeching of a dozen drills, the rhythmic poundings of presses and the crunching of metal cutters, along with other noises, some barely audible, others ear piercing in their shrillness.

  He descended a ladderwell to another deck, then continued his exploring as he made his way toward the bow. Here the bulkheads were painted a pale beige, and the decks were covered in a non-slip blue material sprinkled with white flecks. He wandered into the pharmacy only to be asked by a sailor if he needed help.

  “No, just getting acquainted with the ship,” he replied with a wave of his hand. He passed clusters of corpsmen entering and exiting various doors, all seemingly preoccupied with the seriousness of their calling.

  “Allow me to show you around.” The voice from behind startled him. Fleming turned to face a full commander. “I'm Father Caffarone. I’d heard we have an Air Force officer assigned to one of the strike squadrons. Welcome aboard, Major.”

  “David Fleming, Father,” Fleming replied, shaking the proffered hand. “I'm just looking.”

  “I know what you mean. I've been in the Navy eighteen years now, most of that time on flat-tops, and I'm still left speechless at their sheer size. I'm just finishing checking the hospital for patients, so let me show you around our medical facilities.” He opened a large set of two-way swinging doors and entered the hospital with Fleming a half-step behind. “My first carrier was the old Enterprise,” he continued, “and I thought at the time her sick bay was the finest; but I must confess, the LBJ makes hers look downright prehistoric. LBJ has a complement of five medical officers, all of them specialists, but that excludes the flight surgeons who are assigned directly to the squadrons. Our Chief Medical Officer, or CMO, as he's called, is Captain Potter. He's a cardiologist by trade, and a darned good one. He’s also a rated naval flight surgeon. Clarence can be cantankerous at times, but those of us who know him well, know that his bite is non-existent, and that he's really all bark. Anyway, the other doctors range through the specialties: surgery, internal medicine, radiology, psychiatry, and EENT. And backing up these doctors are the other professionals: Nurse Practitioners, Physician Assistants, nurses, and about thirty-five corpsmen. Then there's the pharmacy, one of the best you'll find anywhere in the world I might add, and finally, the dental department with two dentists, plus staff.”

  They entered the hospital with beds for forty-one patients. All were empty. “There are enough beds to handle about ninety total cases if we had to surge,” continued Caffarone. “Severe injuries in the rest of the fleet will be choppered over to us or to the Truman from the escorts. The worst are the burn cases, really horrible to see, but the LBJ has a sterile burn center which I fervently hope we won't have to use for a long time.”

  Passing through a series of wards, the priest greeted everyone with a smile and often a pat on the shoulder. It was obvious to Fleming that the man was genuinely liked and respected by officers and enlisted alike.

  “And here are our operating theatres,” Caffarone said, opening a double set of swinging doors and entering the observation room. From this vantage point one could look in on either of the two complete operating theatres that gleamed, all stainless and ceramic. “We can handle anything from a simple tonsillectomy to a heart transplant. It's something to see when those fellows are at work. A theatre ballet troupe couldn’t put on a more riveting performance.”

  You spend much time in the hospital, Father?” Fleming asked, as the tour continued.

  “Yeah, quite a bit. But I do have an office, a cubicle really, next to the officers’ wardroom. I’m fortunate to have two other excellent chaplains assisting me. In addition to taking care of the spiritual needs of the crew, I also run the ship's library, which is the chief chaplain's responsibility. Oftentimes, that
translates simply as seeing that the fellows get checked for VD after each liberty. C’est la vie!”

  “Amen!” replied Fleming, thinking this is a real stand-up guy. By the time he got back to his own quarters, he had a far better understanding of his new home. But along with the understanding came a sudden and indescribable feeling of aloneness, something he had never experienced before. It unsettled him.

  He would later reflect back on the feeling, and after comparing it to Susan’s recurring nightmare, he would come to wish that had been the full extent of his troubles.

  CHAPTER 3

  Saturday morning – June 19th

  First light found Miles Austin Blizzard, USN, Captain of the LBJ, preparing for another busy day at sea. It was six o’clock, midway through the morning watch, and the captain of the world's most lethal fighting ship had already been up for over an hour. He had not slept more than five hours a night since leaving Norfolk two weeks earlier, yet he felt not the least bit tired. This command, coveted by every captain in the Navy was his alone, and he was not ashamed to admit that he was damn proud of himself. He had been the skipper of the Carl Vinson for only eight months when he had received orders to take command of the LBJ. Those officers passed over for the assignment consoled themselves with such thoughts as What else would you expect? Hell, if my daddy-in-law just happened to be the Chief of Naval Operations … well …

  The chimes of the red phone on his desk brought Blizzard out of his reverie.

  “Captain, this is Lieutenant Glasser, Admiral Taylor’s aide,'' a voice announced. “The admiral asks if you could join him for breakfast in ten minutes?” It was a command, no matter how polite the message.

  “My regards to the admiral and, yes, I'll be there. Oh, in his quarters or on the flag bridge?''

  “The flag bridge, Captain.”

  Blizzard rang up the command bridge and asked for his executive officer (XO). Alan Paige was a first-class XO, and like Blizzard, he too was a four striper and fully qualified to command the LBJ in his own right.