POINT OPTION: A Time-Travel Military Thriller

by Ian A. O'Connor

  * * * * *

  “That should hold you, Major,'' came the barber’s voice from behind Fleming, snapping him out of his reverie and back to the present. “By the way, Sir, you never answered the commander in the chair beside you.”

  “Huh? What was that?” Fleming asked, looking quizzically at the chair beside him. It was empty, the last occupant long gone.

  “He asked you if you knew the backseater from the accident yesterday? You know, Sir, the one from the plane that got all tore up on landing.” There were very few secrets on a carrier.

  “No, no, I didn't know him,” said Fleming. He paid and returned to the Tiger Sharks squadron ready room. He was scheduled to fly in three hours and had a lot to do to prepare.

  CHAPTER 7

  Sunday morning – early - June 20th

  Dr. Potter stood before Admiral Taylor, Manny Eisenhauer, Captain Blizzard, and CAG, the autopsy report down by his side. His face told the story. He was not bringing good news.

  “Rather than read it, Doctor, why don’t you just give us a summary. We can read it later.”

  “Yes, Admiral.” Potter let loose a small sigh. “How do you explain that a healthy, twenty-six-year-old man has just died of old age?” He held his right hand aloft, a signal for more to come. “It's absolutely preposterous, I know, but that’s what we have here. There was total degeneration throughout the body. The heart was one you would expect to find in a man in his late eighties, and the same can be said of his cardiovascular system. The musculature had atrophied to reflect what you would see in an octogenarian, and the bones were brittle and dry. I could rattle on with the medical mumbo jumbo, but the end result would remain. The lieutenant died of a malady known to us medicos as simply old age. It's all here in my report.”

  Taylor pursed his lips and glanced at Manny Eisenhauer with a look that said, you go first.

  The chief of staff took the cue. “Clarence, tell me, did he actually look like an old man? I mean, externally. Was he all wrinkled and bald-headed, … you know?”

  “Yes and no, Manny, and I'm not being a smartass. The tissue had degenerated, and this was very apparent microscopically when we examined the epidermis, the dermis, and the subcutaneous fat layer. His hair was also in bad shape. Much of it fell out between the time we recovered him and the time he died, and I venture to say, had he lived another couple of days he would have been completely bald. So, yeah, you could certainly say he looked old.”

  “And the pilot?” asked the admiral. “What kind of shape is he in?”

  “Not good, Admiral, and I don't know why. He was progressing nicely, then this morning he started going sour. He’s now lapsed into unconsciousness, and it's the medical staff’s considered opinion the man will die shortly.”

  “The same thing?”

  “Yes, I'm afraid so.”

  “This is just impossible,” the admiral said, as he began to pace. “OK, I’ll buy into the idea that one’s dead and the other’s dying from shock brought on by only God knows what, but I refuse to believe they suddenly turned into little old men. Doctor, your colleagues back home would laugh you out of the profession if you presented them with the same findings you're foisting on us right now.” The admiral went quiet for a long moment, then said in a low voice, “Aw, hell, Clarence, of course we believe you. It’s just all so preposterous. Anyway, please keep it to yourselves in the medical department. I don't want this word spreading among the crew or getting out to the rest of the ships in my strike group.”

  Potter nodded his agreement, then left. Five minutes later, Commander Seymour, and two civilian technical representatives presented an equally disturbing report on the condition of the plane. The four officers spent the next few minutes reading the findings.

  “You’re all in agreement on this?” the admiral finally asked, looking to each man in turn.

  “Yes, Sir,” the three replied in unison,

  “Let me summarize for my own benefit what I’ve just read,” continued Taylor, “because I want to be absolutely sure I have it right. Commander Seymour, you write here that the Hornet did not fly into a sandstorm, but rather, it is now falling apart due to old age. The pitting and the wrinkling of the structural metal parts, and on the composites which we all inspected yesterday, was caused by fatigue; that the molecular structures of the metals, alloys, and other materials are showing all the classic signs of wear associated with aging, and if sophisticated Carbon-14 dating tests are performed in a stateside lab, they will confirm those findings. So, tell me, gentlemen, based on what you have been able to establish so far, how old do you claim this airplane to be?”

  “I can't give you a hard and fast answer on that, Admiral,” said Seymour. “Certain parts of the plane have aged faster than others. There's no rhyme or reason to it that we can tell, but that's what’s happened.”

  “Explain.”

  “The vertical stabilizers and tail assembly were all in fairly good shape, only minor fatigue found there. However, both cockpits were another matter, especially the backseater’s. Somehow, the metals in that part of the plane aged well over two hundred years, yet a mere few feet away the aging process was less than a hundred years. Admiral, we’ve checked and rechecked our equipment thoroughly for malfunctions; everything tests normal. I'm at a loss to give you an explanation. There's got to be a scientific answer, and when we find it, we'll report back to you.”

  “I'm sure there is a reason, Commander. Meanwhile, who else knows these findings?”

  “Only those who worked on the aircraft.”

  “And how many is that?”

  “Less than a dozen.”

  “As of right now your report is classified Top Secret. Tell the rest of the people working on the plane to keep this to themselves. I don't want the information spreading throughout the ship and to the rest of the fleet. Clear?”

  All three acknowledged that they understood.

  One minute later klaxon bells sounded throughout the LBJ calling the crew to general quarters, and five thousand sailors immediately shared the same thought: Is it a drill … or could this really be war?

  CHAPTER 8

  Sunday morning – Late night – June 20th

  Father Caffarone was celebrating mass on the hangar deck for almost three hundred sailors when the klaxon sounded and a voice commanded: “General quarters, general quarters, all hands man your battle stations, this is not a drill.”

  Men dashed to their battle stations; all thoughts of the Lord forgotten in the scramble to get to their assigned positions. Pilots not on duty rushed to squadron ready rooms, while those on alert raced for the special escalators that would whisk them topside in seconds. At the moment of the first sounding of the alarm, the LBJ began turning into the wind, her escorting destroyers dancing nimbly out of her way. Her foaming wake was a seething cauldron as hundreds of tons of water were churned by her four huge screws turning at maximum revs, allowing the one hundred-thousand-ton behemoth to come about. Three minutes after the first note of the alarm had sounded, four jets roared off the maglev catapults and headed away from the ship. The LBJ had not needed to come about more than twenty-five degrees to starboard in order to have the wind coming directly down the angle deck, and now, for the first time, she was reacting to the end for which she had been created: To attack the enemy.

  Two hours later Blizzard addressed the ship's company to explain what had happened. “All hands, this is the Captain,” he began, his metallic voice being piped from the bridge to the far ends of the ship. “This morning at oh eight hundred hours a Russian submarine made an emergency surfacing approximately one nautical mile from our position. She was a nuclear Laika-class boat and gave no warning of her intentions.”

  Blizzards paused for a moment, then continued. “Long before she surfaced, we were aware of her presence and, of course, knew that she was not one of our own. Four of our escorts surrounded her as soon as she broke the surface, and before the Russians had their ha
tches opened and could put observers up into the sail, we had four Hornets flying overhead. I want to stress that at no time did she present the slightest threat either to us or any other vessel in the strike group.”

  Again, he allowed a few moments for the crew to digest his words, then added, “I can further inform you that her surfacing was rather unusual, and from what we have been able to determine, she was in grave peril of sinking. The Tacoma sailed close enough to hail the Russians with loudspeakers. Apparently, the Russian boat had lost all of her radios and navigational aids. She asked that the Tacoma confirm its longitude and latitude coordinates, and when advised of their exact position in the Mediterranean Sea a few minutes later, their captain seemed genuinely shocked at the news. He then asked Tacoma to inform the nearest Russian surface craft of her position. Within an hour a trawler pulled alongside. The Russians requested that our destroyers not move any closer than one hundred meters, and we complied. Also, they said that for some unknown reason most of her crew members needed medical attention but declined our help.”

  Blizzard paused for a couple of seconds, then continued. “So, let me wrap up by saying that two guided-missile cruisers from their Mediterranean Fleet are steaming towards the submarine at the present time, so I think the Russians will be out of our hair for a while. Again, I want to extend my appreciation for the professional manner in which you all conducted yourselves. We will secure from general quarters and resume flight operations as scheduled.”

  Another pause, and the XO came on the speakers. “The chaplains wish to advise that church services will be held this evening, and times for the various denominational services will be broadcast later this afternoon. That will be all.”

  Blizzard had sounded relaxed, but that was far from the case.

  * * * * *

  “What is it, Al?” he had asked two hours earlier, racing onto the bridge.

  The XO replied while keeping his eyes glued to a pair of binoculars. “Looks like a bogey submarine surfacing at two five zero degrees true, Boss. I immediately checked with the Combat Direction Center and they had no warning of a boat even being in the area! They became aware of her presence just moments ago,” he added, still adjusting his binoculars.

  “Dammit, Al, that's flat out impossible,” Blizzard replied. “Somebody hand me some glasses!''

  A yeoman jumped forward with a pair of binoculars. Blizzard trained on the target and sighted it in. The black shape took on an identifiable form.

  “Looks like a Laika-class boat, Boss,” said Paige, taking the words out of Blizzard's mouth. “Probably the Yakutsk.”

  The LBJ was already well on its way to coming into the wind, Paige having given the order immediately after calling for general quarters. The men gathered on the command bridge could see the pilots strapping into their cockpits while the various color-coded deck crews prepared the ship for launch operations.

  “Tell CDC to get their shit together and come up with a damn good explanation as to why we weren't warned of that submarine in the first place. Also, I want to know why everybody on the escorts were also asleep. Why the hell didn't they squawk bogies in the area?' As Blizzard spoke, the red phone by his elbow rang. It was the admiral wanting to know what was going on.

  It took Blizzard less than thirty seconds to apprise him of the situation. “Why wasn't I told of the Russian sub? I'm the strike group commander in case you've forgotten, Captain. While my flag’s aboard, you're my eyes and ears, Blizzard.” He was furious. “Stand by for further orders.”

  “Aye, Admiral,” replied Blizzard, rankled that Taylor was blowing off steam at him, yet deep down fully appreciating the admiral’s dilemma.

  Blizzard studied the faces of the two officers who had appeared in the sail. Something was very wrong. He alerted his Executive Officer. “Al, zoom in on the captain; I want you to look carefully at his face. The guy hasn’t shaved in days, his whole appearance is haggard, and you’ll see he’s shivering uncontrollably. That’s the face of a man who’s really ill.”

  “The same can also be said about his friend, Boss,” the XO replied. “Did you see how they’re dressed? Why would anyone be wearing a winter sweater in the middle of summer? It just doesn’t add up. I’m thinking they’ve got some major problems. ”

  Later, Blizzard and his department heads met to try to piece together what had happened. Their answers were puzzling, and in many respects not answers at all. For some still-unknown reason, none of the sonar operators in the strike group had recorded the Russian submarine's presence until moments before she broke to the surface. There was no explanation for this egregious, impossible lapse, yet all monitoring equipment was found to be functioning normally.

  A chief from the Combat Direction Center spoke for them all when he said in an exasperated voice, “Captain, it's like one moment the water was clear of all hostiles for a hundred miles, then in the next instant, pow! God created this one and popped it to the surface!”

  Blizzard stared the man down with an icy look while silently admitting that his was as good an explanation as any. But all shared the same genuine concern. How could they not have known of the Russian sub’s presence? What sort of new technology did the Russians possess that their submarines were now impervious to detection? It was enough to make the hairs on one’s neck stand on end just thinking of the ramifications of such a game-changing possibility.

  * * * * *

  “Commander Hirshberger, you'd better come down here immediately, Sir.” It was the duty weather officer.

  “Is there a storm brewing out there?” he asked into the phone beside his bunk.

  “Negative Sir, but it's real important.

  “This Ensign Hoyle?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “I’ll be there in five.” Three minutes later, Hirshberger hotfooted it into the weather station. He had noted the ship was riding with a barely perceptible roll, so he realized the problem couldn't be weather-related.

  “Sir, I need you to take a look at the readings we're getting.” He led the way to a bank of screens which were displaying in real time a readout of barometric pressure, wind velocity with direction and speed, temperature, dew point, and a satellite display of weather patterns for the entire Mediterranean and adjacent land masses. Hirshberger studied the displays, his eyes darting from screen to screen before speaking.

  “How long has this been happening?”

  “About ten minutes, Sir. Suddenly, everything began acting haywire. I immediately sent a technician topside to check and see if our instruments had been damaged, but the package is normal. I then asked the weather guys on the escorts if they were having the same problems, but for some reason our radio transmissions keep breaking up, and we’re having a tough time confirming anything, so I decided to call you because of your standing order.”

  “That was the right move.” Hirshberger knitted his brow, lost in thought. Glancing once more at the displays for confirmation that what he was seeing was indeed fact, he reached for a phone on the bulkhead and dialed up the communications center.

  “This is Lieutenant Commander Hirshberger, let me speak to the duty officer.”

  A few seconds later, “Joel, Ed Sewell. What gives?”

  “I might ask you the same Ed, or is it normal for you to be there at twenty-three hundred hours?”

  “No, it's not.'' Sewell sounded serious. 'Frankly, we're having major problems with our comm.”

  “Across the entire spectrum?” Hirshberger asked.

  “That's affirmative. HF, VHF, UHF, single sideband, infrared, and our all discreet frequencies. Radar and Sonar, same story. Also, the Internet is down. Fact is, I was about to call you to see if it was weather-related.”

  “My instruments are screwed up too, Ed, and I can't explain it. Do you know if the skipper has been alerted?”

  “He has,” Sewell replied. “Captain Blizzard, the XO, and the admiral are on the command bridge right now. We'll be recovering aircraf
t in about twenty minutes, and the brass is worried whether we can bring them down or not.”

  “How many are up?” Hirshberger wanted to know.

  “Carrier Air Traffic Control Center tells me we have two, four-ship formations. Communications is kaput between us and them, so they're going into a standard holding pattern waiting for advice from the ship. The Tactical Air Navigation System (TACAN) and the Instrument Landing System (ILS) are also down.”

  “Knock wood we’re back on the air by then,” replied Hirshberger. “Got to run, Ed, stay in touch.” He hung up the phone and told Hoyle to make another check of their outside instruments up on the island superstructure. His thoughts harkened back to what Ed Sewell had told him. The eight planes, some single seaters, most two-seaters, were now flying blind somewhere up in the darkness. But even if they were able to get back to the ship in the unlikely event that only a directional beacon was still operational, it would be impossible to land those big, supersonic jets without an ILS. It was moments like these that Hirshberger was glad not to be a pilot.

  “Holy shit, Commander, come look at this!” shouted a sailor monitoring the panels.

  Hirshberger jumped to the console. The instruments were all rapidly seeking new positions. The barometer went into a freefall, stabilized, then rapidly reversed itself as the temperature gauge began climbing. Within a minute the instruments had all settled onto new readings, doing in seconds what should have taken twenty-four to thirty-six hours.

  He felt the hairs on his neck rise. He grabbed the phone.

  “Ed, do you have your communications back up?”

  “I do. Moments ago, everything came alive. We're back in touch with the aircraft aloft and have let them know our inertial navigation system and ILS are operational. We should be recovering shortly. There's no way I can explain this, and I know the boss and the admiral are going to want answers.”

  It was as if he were clairvoyant. No sooner had he spoken than he was paged to report to the command bridge. A similar call went to Hirshberger. Both men met a couple of minutes later and walked onto the bridge together.