POINT OPTION: A Time-Travel Military Thriller

by Ian A. O'Connor

  “Chuck, we're going to have to punch out. I'll set the trim and engage the autopilot to take the Hornet out over water once we part company. It will crash harmlessly into the sea. Any objections or comments?”

  “No, Sir. Something is very wrong down there. Is it even possible we're not over Italy?”

  No, that's Italy all right,” Fleming said, as they climbed through fourteen thousand feet with an indicated airspeed of two hundred and seventy knots. The terrain below was rolling hillsides, and the weather was clear.

  “You all set back there?”

  “I'm ready to go on your command,” Lafayette said as he mentally went through his ejection checklist for the umpteenth time. ‘Canopy. Visor. Mask. Seat Kit. Life Preserver Unit.’ Ready.

  Three seconds later Lafayette heard the one word command, “Go.”

  Instantly, the canopy blew away as he triggered the rocket-propelled Martin-Baker ejection seat. He was violently thrust up into the slipstream at a speed of sixty-five feet per second while instantly enduring a crushing force on his body equal to twenty times that of the earth’s gravity.

  One third of a second later, Fleming followed him, the tremendous roar of his own rocket seat blotting out all other sounds. Gravitational forces scrunched him low into his seat, but before he had a chance to react, the separating mechanism kicked him free, and one second after that he was snapped into an upright position as his parachute opened automatically. He remained conscious throughout the ordeal and, as he swayed below his billowing chute, he took stock of the situation. His eyes searched for the Hornet which was now over the water and out of fuel. It had started a downward death spiral toward the sea. He turned to look back over his left shoulder, and spotted Lafayette behind and below him, drifting peacefully toward the ground. He replayed in his mind the scene of the harbor they had overflown only minutes before. I can't believe any of this shit, but dammit, Chuck saw it too, so I know I’m not hallucinating. A chill ran through him. One way or another, we'll have an answer soon enough. The ground was getting closer as it rushed up to meet him.

  CHAPTER 10

  Monday morning – Monday night – June 21st

  The Combat Air Wing Commander activated the ship's 1 Main Circuit (1MC) PA system. “Now hear this,” Gowdy said over the intercom, his voice being piped throughout the ship, “this is CAG requesting Captain Blizzard to come to the Combat Direction Center. That is all.” This was a call from one commander to another commander of equal rank and equal authority. Their interdependent commands were an anomaly found only aboard aircraft carriers.

  In simpler terms, all shipboard operations fall under the sole authority of the ship’s captain, and all vessels can only have one captain. And even though several of the senior officers aboard can hold the navy rank of captain, every one of the ship’s crewmembers knows there’s but one person called ‘The Captain,’ and he’s also known as ‘God’ while commanding the ship!

  So too, a Combat Air Wing (CAW) can only have one commander, and the CAG has sole authority over all of his sailors, and the 76 or more, aircraft in the CAW. He does not answer to the ship’s captain, and vice versa. In the air wing, he too is God!

  The phone by the watch officer's elbow buzzed. It was Blizzard. He turned it over to CAG.

  “Miles, we're having a problem with one of our planes. It could be a repeat of Saturday. Please come to the CDC.”

  “I'm on my way.”

  A couple of minutes later Blizzard joined Gowdy in front on a huge plexiglass situation board. Every airborne plane's position was being monitored in real time, and all pertinent information was being posted by sailors writing in black markers behind the transparent board. Their scripting and numbering was written backwards, so that those standing in front of the panel could read it. Theirs was a unique skill that took months to master.

  “What's the problem, Sean?” asked Blizzard.

  “Liberty one,” replied Gowdy using a metal pointer to show Fleming's position relative to the LBJ. “A couple of minutes ago we received a signal from him stating that his instruments were malfunctioning, and that his radio-nav package had become unreliable. His transmission was patchy, and we missed some of it, but what we did hear we have on tape. We heard him trying to raise his wingman, so we broke in when we heard him call Liberty two a couple of times with no response. We're not sure whether he heard us or not.”

  “Where is he now?” Blizzard, asked, eyeing the entire board to grasp the big picture.

  “Apparently he's gone down, Skipper,” said Gowdy. Meanwhile, all around the two officers, men were working quietly and efficiently with the aid of the ship's computers, guiding the seventeen remaining planes back to the carrier. “One minute he was painting a good return on our radar, and the next minute he disappeared, just like that,” CAG said, snapping his fingers.

  “What about Liberty two? Did he experience any similar difficulty, and did he see Liberty one go into the water?”

  “Yes, he had difficulties and, no, he did not see Liberty one go in. Liberty two also had radio and nav problems. He told us he experienced momentary, severe spatial disorientation at the same time he lost Liberty one on his surveillance radar. And apparently this all happened within a couple of seconds. Weather is unrestricted, and that’s why I’m saying it looks like a replay of yesterday.”

  “Who's the pilot?”

  “Major Fleming, our Air Force guest. He’s flying a Super Hornet, and his backseater is a Lieutenant Lafayette.”

  “Have the angels launched?”

  “Yes, Captain. As soon as we lost him, we sent two helicopters up.'' CAG studied his watch. ''They should be over the area of last contact in about twenty minutes.”

  Blizzard rubbed his jaw, thinking through a host of possibilities and rejecting all in rapid succession. Without looking at anyone, he asked quietly, “Has the admiral been told?”

  “Negative, Skipper.”

  Blizzard called Taylor on a direct line. “Admiral, we have a downed aircraft about one hundred miles north of our position. It appears to be a repeat of Saturday’s problem. Spotty communications, total instrument malfunction, then the loss of any radar contact in a split second’s time. We have angels airborne, and they’re on their way to its last known position.”

  Blizzard heard a sudden intake of air, but when Taylor spoke, he was calm. “Two questions, Captain. What's the Truman’s position? And how are her decks?”

  “Stand-by, Admiral.'' A few seconds later Blizzard had the answer for the admiral. “The Truman is on station approximately fifty nautical miles to our west, and her decks are spotted for launch. Did you want her to recover our planes, Sir?” Blizzard was trying to second-guess the admiral.

  “It was a thought, Miles, but no. Continue to recover. As soon as the last bird is down I want you to move the LBJ to the aircraft's last known position. Radio the angels our intentions. Also, Miles, I am ordering our screen of destroyers and escorts to rendezvous with the Truman Strike Group. We’re going in alone.”

  “Am I sure I heard you correctly, Admiral? You want us to go forward unescorted?”

  “Yes, you heard correctly, Captain.” There was a momentary pause, then Taylor continued, “Miles, the US taxpayers have ponied up sixteen billion dollars to build this ship. There's nothing like her on earth, not even the other carriers in her class. She’s that unique. Now, if we can't operate for a few hours alone, then the public has effectively wasted our country’s treasure. Also, I can't say I'm thrilled at the way our screen failed to find that Russian sub yesterday before she suddenly surfaced right on our doorstep.” After a longer pause he said, “Miles, request permission to join you on the command bridge in five minutes.”

  “Of course, Admiral,” said Blizzard. It was the expected reply, one steeped in naval tradition. Decorum called for the admiral to request permission to come onto the captain's bridge. There is only one captain on any vessel, and Blizzard was the only skipper of the
LBJ. But to deny the admiral access to his bridge would have been unthinkable.

  * * * * *

  An hour had passed, and the LBJ command bridge was electric with anticipation. The executive officer was effectively in command of the carrier even though the skipper was on the bridge but engaged in next-step planning discussions with the admiral and his staff.

  All the aircraft aloft had been recovered, most now securely tied down on the flight deck, others moved down to hangar deck for maintenance. The escort vessels in the LBJ carrier strike group would rendezvous with the Truman and fall under the direct command of the Strike Group Commander, Rear Admiral Barry Morgan, until further notice.

  Hamilton had been debriefed personally by Admiral Taylor. He could not shed any light on the mysterious disappearance of his flight leader and spoke of his own confusion and problems in the air. The admiral insisted he go to sick bay along with his backseater for a complete medical check-up. Hamilton began to object, saying he felt fine, but Taylor cut him short stating that it was a direct order.. He was also told not to talk about the strange turn of events to anyone other than Captain Gowdy, or Captain Potter. Hamilton saluted and left.

  When the helicopters were less than ten minutes away from the point of last contact with Fleming's plane, they reported back to the CDC that their instruments were malfunctioning and could no longer be considered reliable. Their radio transmissions were becoming noticeably garbled and broken, and this update was immediately telephoned to the bridge.

  “Tell them to abort the mission and return to the carrier,” Admiral Taylor commanded.

  A few seconds later the CDC duty officer informed the bridge that both pilots requested to continue the search.

  The admiral exploded. “I gave an order for those men to return to the carrier now, and that means now! Confirm immediately that they know where the order is coming from and have them report to me on the bridge as soon as they land.”

  “They're heading back here now, Admiral,” came a reply moments later from the duty officer several decks below. “They should be on board within a half hour.”

  Taylor wasted no time in giving other orders. “Manny, contact Admiral Morgan and tell him I have ordered all flight operations on the LBJ cancelled immediately and recommend he do the same for the Truman. I will contact him shortly to personally brief him. Barry will understand that something big must be happening.” He looked at Blizzard. “No aircraft are to be launched without my direct approval, understood?”

  “Aye, aye, Admiral.”

  Commander Birdwell stood waiting a few paces from the group of senior officers, a collection of nautical charts under his arm. He placed the appropriate chart of the area on the metal table, marked the point of last contact with Fleming's plane and the present position of the carrier. “We should be there in just under two hours, Admiral.”

  Taylor nodded and studied the chart, all the while whistling tunelessly. Everyone waited.

  “How's the weather there right now? he asked, surprising everyone with his abruptness.

  Joel Hirshberger spoke up. “More of the same, Admiral. Visibility is unlimited with no isolated storms or cells within three hundred miles of our position. Seas are running two-to-three feet, and I expect everything to stay status-quo for the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours.”

  “Well, at least that's something in our favor,” Taylor said.

  He turned to recognize the two helicopter pilots who had just reported to the bridge.

  They stood at attention, saluted in unison, and waited for the admiral to speak.

  Taylor looked at the senior pilot. “Tell us what you encountered, Lieutenant. Keep it simple.”

  “For some unknown reason, our instruments began acting up as we approached the area of last contact with Liberty one. Our radio transmissions became unreliable, but the weather was VFR, with unlimited visibility.” The pilot shook his head. “I have no explanation for the phenomena we encountered, Admiral. We exited the area on your orders and came right here after landing.”

  “I want you to report to Doctor Potter in sick-bay along with the rest of your crews for complete medicals. Tell your flight surgeons those are my orders. Also, say nothing about your experiences except to CAG and the hospital commander.”

  They saluted and left.

  * * * * *

  The sun was setting as the carrier approached the area where Fleming had disappeared, and the worry was that both men might be in the water. The senior staff officers were at a loss to understand why Taylor had ordered the LBJ to proceed without the escorts, reasoning they would have been invaluable in helping search the many square miles of ocean. Only once had the admiral given an indication of his thoughts, and that was when he had turned to Hirshberger and asked about the currents off the coast.

  “There are no currents to speak of anywhere in the Med, Admiral.” Hirshberger said. “The prevailing winds aloft flow in a northwesterly direction. However, at this time of year they're pretty soft, which means if those guys are in the water they won't drift far or fast. By morning they should still be within twenty to thirty miles of where they went down. It wouldn’t be hard to spot them.”

  Alan Paige had sent down to the galley for sandwiches and coffee, and the assembled group now ate and drank in silence, watching a bright sun sink below a pink-streaked horizon.

  At twenty-thirty hours the meteorological officer on duty below decks called up to the bridge to tell Commander Hirshberger that their instruments were starting to give intermittent false readings. His message was heard by all on the loudspeaker.

  A few minutes earlier, the admiral had suggested to Blizzard that they bring the carrier around into the wind, what little there was, and hold close to that spot until daylight. They were now in the vicinity of Fleming’s last known position, approximately thirty miles east, and slightly south, of the port town of Livorno. There were two hundred and forty-five fathoms of water beneath the keel. Search radar and sonar were indicating there were no obstructions on or below the surface within ten miles of the LBJ.

  As they were digesting this update from the meteorology department, a message from the navigation duty officer was piped through for Lieutenant Commander Birdwell.

  “Commander, all our nav-aids have gone on the fritz. It started moments ago, and your instructions were to report anything out of the ordinary immediately. Also, the ship is losing all communications with the rest of our strike group and with the Truman Strike Group. It's probably just an atmospheric anomaly,” he added.

  All the assembled officers crowded around the bridge’s three radarscopes. Snowlike images danced across the screens while their operators worked diligently to clear the pictures.

  Without warning, the sweep hands on the three screens began painting a clear return, showing a mammoth obstruction which appeared to have completely surrounded the LBJ for a full three hundred sixty degrees. It was ten miles from the carrier and closing in rapidly.

  None spoke, all eyes glued to the monitors. Each man involuntarily held his breath and watched helplessly as the unknown raced towards the ship. Twelve seconds later it hit.

  All the lights on the LBJ flickered, once, twice, then went out. The LBJ shuddered violently as if wracked by an explosion from deep within her hull. Everyone on the bridge staggered, and some fell to the deck, a few landing hard, but all feeling an unbearable pressure squeezing the life out of them. At the moment of explosion, the entire interior of the LBJ was bathed in a brilliant flash of emerald green light.

  It was all over in less than three seconds, and the ship’s lights came back on moments later.

  Blizzard was the first to react. He staggered to his feet and grabbed the PA phone. “This is the Captain,” he said, his voice piped to all areas of the ship. “Damage report from all departments; nuclear engineering, report immediately.”

  He made his way in hesitant steps over to a computer display terminal that showed the operational
workings of all of the LBJs systems in real time, updating themselves by the nanosecond. The information Blizzard was seeing told him the ship's functions were normal.

  “Captain, this is nuclear engineering,” came a concerned voice over the intercom. “Lieutenant Rodriguez reporting for Commander Castle. The reactors are operating normally, but the darndest thing happened. Both reactors actually shut themselves down for a few seconds. I know that’s impossible, Sir, but the mainframe computer captured a permanent record of the exact moment it happened. Lucky for us the computer operates with a continuous parallel power source independent of the ship’s electrical grid. It’s part of the failsafe design. Anyway, the reactors are running as if nothing happened. Also, for the record, we lost the continuous time signals from the GPS satellites’ atomic clocks at that exact same moment, but so far, we’ve not been able to reacquire. I've never seen anything like it.”

  “But you’re absolutely sure there's no leak or threat of any kind to either of the reactors?”

  “Everything is normal, Sir. Not the slightest hint of any radiation leak, but of course, we’re going over the entire system with the tech-reps right now. I’ll call back with a full report.”

  “Very good, carry on, Mr. Rodriguez.”

  Over a span of the next fifteen minutes, departments began reporting to the bridge, each summarization was a duplicate of the one preceding: No scorch marks were found anywhere, and no damage was reported, except for some broken dishes in each of the galleys. No one had the slightest idea what had caused the phantom explosion, or if it had even been an explosion at all.

  * * * * *

  Captain Blizzard soon realized their troubles were far from over. Meteorology had reported all systems normal, but the same was not the case with Navigation or with Communications. The reports from both were disconcerting. Commander Birdwell had told him it was impossible to raise any station on earth. All of the navigation instruments were not only tied into the ship's mainframe computer but were likewise dependent upon earth orbiting satellites for precise positioning information. They were obviously malfunctioning, simply because any and all signals from the LBJ up to the satellites were not being returned. Yet the maintenance crews insisted there was nothing wrong with the ship's equipment. Birdwell had summarized the situation with the somewhat lame observation, “It’s as if all of the satellites, in thousands of orbits, have been snatched out of the sky. And the same holds true for our more conventional navigation aids, Sir, such as our Global Navigation Satellite System (GNSS), and the Global Positioning System (GPS). These signals which blanket the globe are just not being received at all. And, lastly, Captain, the emergency hotline to the International Space Station (ISS) is not responsive either.”