POINT OPTION: A Time-Travel Military Thriller

by Ian A. O'Connor

  “Al, I’m joining the admiral for breakfast on his bridge. I imagine he wants to go over some last-minute details before we go to flight quarters. I don't expect to be there for long, but if I'm not back on my bridge by oh seven hundred, bail me out, OK?”

  “Roger that, enjoy your prune juice!”

  “Up yours, Al.''

  Stepping onto the flag bridge, one level below his command bridge, Blizzard paused to survey his kingdom. He took note of the activity far below. A crew was hosing down a section of the fight deck, and from sixty feet above, he could hear the petty officer in charge of the work detail telling the men “to get the lead out.” His gaze turned skyward to the maze of antennae and radar dishes that seemed to sprout everywhere. The radio and navigational aids on board were cutting edge, giving Blizzard the ability to talk to anyone, anytime, anywhere. The navigational aids were state of the art, equal to those found in any control tower in any international airport. The major difference was that his airport could roam the seven seas for the next two decades without having to stop to refuel.

  The bridge Blizzard was standing upon was an integral part of the whole, and the whole was technically known as the ship’s island. It is the operations center for all carriers, the place where the captain and his staff call home. The island on the LBJ was situated on the starboard side, smaller, and more than one-hundred forty-feet further astern than those found on previous classes of carriers.

  Blizzard glanced once more at the deck party then turned back under cover. The flag bridge was the one area where he exercised no functional control whatsoever. It housed the Fleet Combat Control Center and the admiral's quarters, from where Taylor ran the day-to-day operations of the entire strike group. True, he had a staff of forty to help him, but the admiral was known at times to be a hands-on perfectionist.

  The marine guard came to attention and saluted smartly. He opened the door after knocking once and beckoned Blizzard to enter.

  “Good morning, Miles, hope you’re hungry.” The greeting came from a table set up in the middle of the room. Seated next to the admiral was his chief-of-staff, Manfred Eisenhauer, an unflappable captain known to his friends as Manny.

  Blizzard saluted the admiral, nodded to the chief-of-staff, and pulled out the only vacant chair and spread a pristine napkin on his lap. A steward stood ready to take his order.

  “Two eggs, over easy, bacon, toast, coffee. And, oh yes, orange juice,” he added quickly, warily eyeing the beaker of prune juice in the middle of the table.

  “Don't know why you insist on eating that garbage, Miles, or you too for that matter, Manny,” the Admiral said. “All that cholesterol and fat will clog your pipes and screw up your pumps. It’s only a matter of when.”

  “You're being redundant, Sir,'' said Manny, deliberately smearing a slice of toast with enough butter to feed an army.

  “What’s redundant?”

  “Cholesterol and fat. They’re one and the same,” Eisenhauer replied, then immediately popped a huge pieces of toast into his mouth. “Mmmm, but that’s good,'' he managed with a full mouth, knowing he was aggravating the admiral to no end. Any lesser mortal would have been banished to Wake Island, or some other godforsaken backwater hellhole for such impudence.

  The admiral glowered at Eisenhauer for a second, then turned to Blizzard. “How soon are you planning on going to flight quarters?'' The admiral was asking when Blizzard would start launching aircraft from the four strike fighter (VFA) squadrons assigned to the LBJ, knowing that once a carrier goes to flight quarters, all essential services on board begin operating on a twenty-four-hour schedule, and the tempo of life increases accordingly. Planes will be launched and recovered day and night for as long as the carrier is at fight quarters, a condition that can last for as long as a week during peacetime.

  “Sean Gowdy and I planned for seven o’clock, an hour from now,'' replied Blizzard. “The squadrons were briefed yesterday afternoon, and the flight crews are itching to go. Same holds for the air wing on the Truman. Unless you have any other plans for us, Admiral?”

  “Nope. Told you yesterday that I would be flexible. The damn Russians will try to screw with us with their phony fishing fleet trawlers cutting in and out of our formation, but I want them to see that the LBJ is fully capable of knocking them out of the water at a moment's notice. I'll string the strike group out to make the Russians work for their pay, but I want you and the Truman to remain farther apart for the next few days. But I’m willing to change my plans to suit your needs.”

  Blizzard knew this was a significant departure from the admiral's usual dictatorial stance. He found himself pleasantly surprised. “Thanks, George, I appreciate that.” It was not often that he addressed the admiral by his first name, but there were few flag officers who awed him. He had personally known many for years because his wife, Anita, was the eldest daughter of Admiral Wayne Turnbull Christensen, the four-star Chief of Naval Operations.

  For the next twenty minutes, they spoke of other things until Eisenhauer reminded the admiral that he had a string of meetings starting at seven o’clock. Blizzard took the hint, excused himself, and returned to the command bridge. He glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes until the carrier would go to flight quarters.

  * * * * *

  Alan Paige sneezed for the third time in as many seconds and silently cursed his sinuses. He was in the Combat Direction Center (CDC) running through a checklist with his department chiefs. The ship’s navigation officer, Lieutenant Commander Reece Birdwell was present, along with Joel Hirshberger, the meteorological officer. All were aware of the pending order for the two carriers and the strike group to go to flight quarters.

  “Keeping an eye on the Russians?” Paige asked the navigation officer. Birdwell was an Annapolis graduate who also held a Ph.D. in engineering from Purdue. He had helped design the new generation of inertial navigation systems now found on most surface ships, submarines, and larger planes.

  This constellation of satellites was built around an IBM supercomputer platform that continuously updated any ship's position relative to a given spot on earth at any given time. The forty-five satellites were in orbits twelve thousand plus miles above the earth, and even America’s submarines could use the system while submerged to a still-classified depth, enabling them to plot their true positions to within ten meters.

  “We’re tracking all Russian surface vessels in a large area relative to our position, Sir. We also have fixes on two bogey submarines within fifty nautical mile radius.

  “And no problems reported from the rest of the strike group?”

  “None, Sir. Everyone has the track that's been plotted.”

  Paige nodded his approval and turned to Hirshberger. “How about weather, Joel? What's the outlook for the next week?”

  “For the sake of your sinuses, Sir, I wish I could say rain to clean up the air, but unfortunately it looks like a continued dry spell with unlimited visibility for at least the next seventy-two hours. Sorry about that, '' added Hirshberger, his Adam's apple bouncing vigorously.

  “So am I, Joel. I'm going to have to see if anyone in Doc Potter's gang can prescribe something for me.” No sooner were the words spoken than he began to sneeze. With a silent wave, he stepped out of the CDC for a tour through the LBJ to listen to and solve problems.

  Hirshberger returned to the weather department. He had almost stopped the XO to mention the weather anomaly that had occurred in port yesterday morning, but at the last moment decided to say nothing. What are the facts? he thought. There are none. However, he made a silent vow that if something similar occurred in the future, he would inform the XO immediately.

  “Heads up, here comes Sick Sally,'' a sailor called out as Hirshberger entered the room.

  “So, that's what I'm known as behind my back,” said Hirshberger.

  “Oh no, Sir!” answered the red-faced culprit. “I meant the mail plane.” He pointed to a television monitor showing a view
of the flight deck and an approaching plane flying low off the LBJ’s stern, now only moments from touchdown.

  Everyone watched. It was the MV-22 Osprey used to transport men and mail out to the fleet from the headquarters back in Naples. The beauty of this plane lay not in its physical appearance, but rather in its ability to land on a carrier no matter whether or not the ship was sailing into the wind. The same held true for take-offs, in that it could raise and lower itself like a helicopter.

  The pilot flew the tilt-wing plane gracefully onto the deck, and as Hirshberger watched, he silently prayed the plane was bringing a letter from his daughter, his only living relative.

  CHAPTER 4

  Saturday morning – later -June 19th

  All squadron ready rooms of Carrier Air Wing-12 were electric with tension. The ship had gone to flight quarters at seven hundred hours, starting the initial day and night cyclic flight operations schedule. The deck was spotted for the first launch.

  There had been outward grumbling when CAG informed the junior members of the squadrons that they would have the duty of spotting the deck for launches, as well as taxiing planes back to the elevators for removal down to the hangar deck. This calls for a pilot being in each cockpit when a plane is moved about on the flight deck. Sometimes the planes are pulled by tugs, but just as often they are positioned operating under their own power. Once a plane is spotted, it is then securely tied down to the deck with heavy cables and is freed only when time comes to move it to the catapults. On many carriers the deck crew has the authority to spot the planes, but Blizzard and Gowdy had co-signed a directive that until further notice the job would be done by pilots.

  “There will be a roster typed up giving you your assignments,” Gowdy said, “and all ensigns and JGs will pull the duty.”

  “For how long, CAG?” asked a lieutenant, junior grade. “It's been years since I've heard of something like this.” He double-popped a wad of gum to show his displeasure.

  “Stand up when talking to me!”

  The lieutenant jumped to his feet and stood at attention, a look of total fear spreading like wildfire across his face.

  Everyone in the room could see the CAG was furious. “Let me answer your question by making a statement that goes for you, mister, and everyone else in the air wing. I've never been in the habit of giving reasons for my orders, and I sure as hell don't plan to start now. Junior pilots will spot the deck, and that's final. Now, for this next item, and I'm only going to say it once. God help any man who talks to me with gum in his mouth, unless he happens to be an admiral. This is a disciplined US Navy fighting air wing, and if any of you think the operation is going to be run like a country club, you're mistaken. When you address either me or the Deputy CAG, you'll get off your asses and onto your feet. If anyone feels he should be the exception, well, he can come to my office and explain his position.”

  A dozen hands reached into mouths and extracted wads of gum which they secreted somewhere in their flightsuits.

  ‘Now let's get down to the business of flying,”' Gowdy said, and with a nod, turned the meeting over to his deputy, Captain Thomas Dowling.

  Dowling positioned his six-foot-four frame behind the podium and studied his audience. He was a force to be reckoned with in his own right. His flightsuit did little to hide his physique, but the focal point of attention was his head. It was completely bald. That fact was further accentuated by a scar running from one ear all the way across the top of the scalp to end less than an inch from the ear on the other side. Eyebrows too were non-existent, and his eyes were the closest thing to being colorless that Fleming had ever seen. The man was an absolutely fearless pilot, and those who had flown with him during the Iraq and Afghanistan War years spoke in awe of his exploits. He had been shot down twice, both times being rescued mere minutes before being captured. His injuries the second time were so severe it took a year for him to heal and return to flight status.

  Dowling now ran down the order of launch for the three strike squadrons which would be participating and, after he finished, fielded questions. Within minutes the room was again silent. “OK. I show the time to be exactly eight ten, so everyone hack on me.” As he spoke, all the pilots readjusted their watches to the time the deputy CAG had called out. He wrapped with a final comment.

  “CAG will fly in the first launch with Alpha-Romeo flight, and I'll be flying with Bravo-Foxtrot on the second launch. Let's make this look professional so the skipper and the Admiral will know they have the best pilots in the world assigned to the best damn ship in the world! I don't need to remind you, that as great as the LBJ is, she’s only as good as her air arm. Let's not let anyone down, and now I'll turn you over to your individual squadron commanders.”

  The men rose and stood at attention as CAG and the deputy left the room.

  Fleming walked towards his ready room with his roommate. Caldwell had been restless and had talked until well after midnight. When Fleming finally said “goodnight,” Caldwell, still unable to sleep, read until almost three. When he finally snapped off his light, it was not because he was tired, but because he knew he should rest.

  They were soon joined by Hamilton. Their flight was Bravo-Foxtrot, and the schedule called for them to be launched at ten.

  “CAG sure let us all know where we stand,” said Hamilton, stirring his coffee. “You know, he was also spring-loaded during the shakedown cruise. I remember when we were about two hundred miles north of Oceana, and I was down in the hangar deck with a couple of the guys. We were standing about three yards away from CAG, the deputy, and a technical rep from Northrup Grumman. The three of them were working on a problem with one of the F-18 Super Hornets when suddenly, Gowdy gets all pissed-off, yells at the tech-rep, and shoves the man. I mean, he really shoved the guy hard! Well, within a microsecond that tech rep had CAG pinned to the side of the Hornet with a death-grip on his throat. Then the dude says, ‘If you ever touch me again, I’ll frigging punch your lights out and heave your ass over the damn side. I’m a civilian, pal, not one of your blue-suited weenies you can piss all over at will.’ Well, we all shagged our asses out of there lickety-split before the old man could see us. CAG went storming off in the other direction, but I can tell you, I thought there was going to be some really bad shit there for a moment.”

  “That same tech rep still aboard?'' Fleming asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” Hamilton replied. “I've seen him several times since. I’ve even spotted him with CAG. They're super polite to each other now but stay out of the other's way unless it’s for business reasons.”

  “I bet most folks have no idea there are a couple of hundred civilians on board an aircraft carrier,” said Fleming. “I know I sure didn’t. I always thought that when a ship left port it was one hundred percent Navy aboard.”

  “And now you know,” said Caldwell. “The civilian technical representative, or tech-rep as he's called, has been an integral part of the seagoing Navy since World War II.”

  “But don't the civilian tech reps in the air wing come under Gowdy's control?”

  “Yes, technically speaking, they sure do, Dave, no pun intended,” Caldwell replied, “but these guys are highly paid specialists, and a bunch of them are drawing much fatter salaries than even the admiral. They're prima-donnas, and most don't take shit from anyone. However, in all fairness, I must admit that they are a hard-working group, and ninety-nine percent are the average Joe if you treat them right.”

  At the moment Caldwell finished, the announcement they had all been waiting to hear came over the 1MC loudspeaker system.

  'Now, hear this. Now, hear this. Stand by to bring the carrier into the wind for launch operations, and the smoking lamp is out.” The message was repeated by the bosun's mate.

  Everyone in the ready room was silent as they watched the TV monitors relay a closed-circuit picture from the flight deck. For the next few minutes, they saw the huge fighter jets being placed on all four Electromagnetic Aircraft
Launch Systems (EMALS) catapults, two on the angle deck and two on straight deck. They sat spellbound as the planes spooled up to full military power. The “Go” hand-signal was given by the catapult officer, and the first Hornet roared off its catapult, but without the signature cloud of steam seen in all prior generations of US carriers.

  * * * * *

  Saturday mid-morning

  Fleming sat in the cockpit of his two-seat F/A-18F Super Hornet making last minute adjustments to his shoulder harness. He had started his engines fifteen minutes earlier and was now number two in line to be launched off the port side catapult on the straight deck. He smiled, remembering the first time he had heard the voice of “Bitchin’ Betty” in his earphones admonishing him, flight controls, flight controls, her authoritative, digitalized voice and Tennessee twang grabbing his full attention.

  F-18 Pilots all over the world are familiar with “Bitchin’ Betty” and listen when she speaks. Glancing in his mirror he could see that his backseater, Lieutenant J.G. Charles Lafayette was adjusting his oxygen mask, trying to make it fit more snugly.

  “Everything OK back there, Chuck?”

  Lafayette keyed his mike. “Everything’s green. Should be a good mission: we've sure got the weather for it.”

  “You can say that again,” said Fleming, looking around. Not a cloud in the sky, barely any swells on the water. He glanced down at the clipboard strapped to his thigh and quickly reviewed the notes he’d jotted down.

  The squadron commander, the weather officer, the intelligence officer, and the navigation officer had each taken turns briefing the squadron flyers prior to launch, and all had written the pertinent information on their mission data clipboards, including the codename for the carrier, Bigfoot, the codename for the operation, Thunderball, and the codename for the squadron, Sundancer. Also included were radio frequencies, bearings, and distance to the nearest land bases should it become necessary for any or all of the planes to divert away from the strike group.