She found a job for the coming school year in the small Southern California town of Lancaster, close to Edwards Air Force Base, where she dated little, sometimes young officers from the airbase, but towards the end of the school term had met a man she knew she could easily fall in love with. The feeling truly scared her, and though she fought it at first, somewhere deep within her soul she knew that such an opportunity and such a man might never come her way again. His name was David Fleming.
* * * * *
At a few minutes past one, Gowdy roared off the carrier and headed for the harbor at Livorno. Liam Prescott insisted he should go, too, and Gowdy didn’t object. Ninety minutes later, CAG, Blizzard and Paige were studying prints of the vessel. CAG had made a low pass from out over the water and had captured the name on the ship's transom. FÉLICITÉ-CANNES was written in bold, black letters.
“I’ll bet there's more than one very confused Frenchman down there at the moment,” Blizzard said as he studied the photographs. “Their world has really been turned upside down, and they haven’t a clue what’s happened.” He glanced at Gowdy. “Were there any signs of life aboard? I really can’t tell from these photos.”
“I made our first pass from north to south, and one hundred feet off the deck. We were clocking three-twenty knots and scared the crap out of everyone in the harbor. It had a handful of folks on board, but from the way they reacted, I'd have to say they were not the owners or crew. Lieutenant Prescott saw two jump into the water, and the rest scrambled onto the pier and disappeared into some buildings nearby while I was executing a climbing three-sixty overhead with full afterburners. I think it's safe to say that any modern-day sailor would have stood in the open and waved to us. These guys acted like it was the end of the world. Bottom line? There were no Frenchmen on board.”
“Yeah, that makes sense,” Blizzard said, then turned to Paige. “Before I forget, Al, Doctor Potter says he wants our entire crew checked for current plague shots, and those whose records indicate none, they’re to be vaccinated at once. Same goes for the air wing, CAG. He also wants us to let him know of any plans we have to send people ashore so that he can update their shots or vaccines for other diseases. If this really is the Fifteenth century, then there's a lot of bad stuff out there, and the last thing we’d need is an old-fashioned epidemic breaking out onboard, or even something like that Corona 19 virus thing from a couple of years ago.”
* * * * *
Later that evening, a plan was submitted to Admiral Taylor for his approval. All day the temperature had remained in the mid-fifties, confirming that it was indeed early spring. At fifteen hundred hours, Commander Hirshberger reported to the bridge that the meteorological department was again experiencing unexplainable readings on its instruments, and the electronics folks noted that the ship’s radar had become unreliable, then totally inoperable for a few tense minutes before turning operational again without warning.
Captain Blizzard had ordered the carrier north, the admiral wanting the LBJ to be positioned off the coastline by midnight, but near the port of Livorno. With the admiral’s approval, Blizzard had briefed his staff on the unexplainable turn of events. And, for the first time, select senior tech-reps from Westinghouse, IBM, Hughes Aircraft, Bechtel, and Boeing, were brought into the small group.
Throughout Blizzard’s briefing, Lieutenant Commander Birdwell had been working alongside two IBM reps armed with old-fashioned slide rules, and after double-checking their work, he feverishly transferred their findings to paper.
When Blizzard was finished, Birdwell stood up. “Captain Blizzard, Gentlemen,” he began, “I've been working on this problem along with Joel Hirshberger, and we think the warning signs and red flags were all there from the moment we started this deployment. However, because none of us had ever confronted such happenings before, we failed to notice the obvious.”
All those around the conference table leaned forward in anticipation of what was to come.
“It’s clear now that the weather abnormalities and the communication failures we’ve experienced since Thursday were but a prelude to Saturday’s main event.” Birdwell paused, his intention being to maximize the effect of what he was about to say. “Gentlemen, we are living proof that the fourth dimension really does exist!” He held up a hand to stave off the ridicule and objections he fully expected but showed genuine surprise when none were forthcoming.
He rushed ahead before any skeptics could weigh in. “The only possible conclusion we can draw is that time and light are somehow similar, even though theoretical physicists up until now have insisted they’re not interchangeable. However, Einstein proved with his famous E = mc2 theorem that light and mass are interchangeable, the key which unlocked the door to usher in the Atomic Age. And gentlemen, our being here at this very moment proves that time and light are energy fields which are interchangeable, and that both last forever! Just as a star explodes into oblivion, the light emanating from that dead celestial body will race unimpeded through the universe for all time, so that when we gaze through our telescopes into the night sky we will see that very same light coming at us from billions of light-years in the far distant past.”
Birdwell stole a quick glance down to his notes. “But let's now do a one-eighty and turn our attention to the plane’s crewmembers who both died last Saturday. They encountered what we later ran into, but were not nearly so fortunate as we were. Instead of passing cleanly into the fourth dimension, they hovered on its fringe, and that indecision of nature killed them. Their on-and-off, garbled, then finally broken radio transmissions prove that. They were teetering on a cusp, caught somewhere between the present and the past. How far into the past had they traveled, I can't be sure. But what I do know it was the past because they aged terribly, and hours later when they actually died, they were truly old men. And their plane aged at a similar rate. So, I would venture to guess they went back in time less than two hundred years, because if they had traveled as far back as the Fifteenth century and then managed to return under those same on-again, off-again conditions, they would have returned as mummified corpses. In summary, their misfortune was that they did not pass cleanly through that fourth dimension, and it killed them.”
While his listeners were digesting his remarks, Birdwell grabbed a quick drink of water, then continued. “But Major Fleming and Lieutenant Lafayette were a whole lot luckier. They made a clean pass through that time portal, and so did the LBJ a day later. Major Fleming spoke of seeing a fog, and his backseater told him his radar was painting a barrel-shaped object closing in on their position at an alarming rate. The LBJ passed through that same portal at night, so even though none of us actually saw a fog, it most assuredly was out there. Also, both Fleming and the LBJ experienced an explosion and saw a brilliant flash of green light upon entering the fourth dimension. Saturday’s Hornet crew never experienced an explosion, nor did they witness an emerald green flash, which tells us the absence of both phenomena cost them their lives. All the pilot could remember was a strange fog he found himself flying in and out of.
“But we have the resources to help ourselves. Because of our nuclear capability, we can function self-sufficiently for a helluva long time and, with our computers and scientists, we have a fighting chance of making it back. God only knows how many people throughout history have had the misfortune to do what we’ve just done. They were all doomed to a terrible fate because they did not have the wherewithal to initiate a return. Which means we must seize the moment when it comes, because in all likelihood we will only get that singular chance.”
“That was quite the speech, Commander,” said Blizzard, breaking the long silence that followed. “I have no evidence to dispute what you suggest, so until something better comes along, I’m buying what you’re selling. And I agree that time will be of the essence, no pun intended, and that we must be prepared to act on a moment's notice. You tell us that the weather instruments are still acting up,” he continued, “along with most of ou
r telecom, which could suggest that our 21st century is still battling the 15th century for dominance.” Blizzard smiled. “Believe me, gentlemen, that all sounds just as farfetched to my ears as I’m sure it does to yours, but I'm afraid I can't express myself more clearly at the moment. I’ve never been a good extemporaneous speaker, especially when it comes to talking of things I know nothing about!”
The assemblage laughed, then Blizzard continued. “Nevertheless, we have things we must do, and do in an extremely limited amount of time. Our first order of business is to recover that French pleasure cruiser from Livorno. Naturally, that means recovering the owner and crew as well. We will not leave them behind to fend for themselves in Medieval Europe.”
Heads nodded. Empathy with the unfortunate Frenchmen was easy to come by; each man present could only imagine his own terror upon finding himself alone in a world as foreign as those folks from the Félicité surely must now be finding themselves.
Taylor approve the rescue plan when Blizzard presented it, but with a caveat. “OK, Miles, get that boat and bring her back to the LBJ. My only change to your plan is this: If the crew isn't on board, I don't want the boarding party going ashore to find them. Recover the boat and come back to the carrier immediately.”
When Taylor pressed Manny Eisenhauer for his opinion he replied, “Admiral, I don't know what to think.”
Some help you are,” said Taylor, but not in a nasty way. He turned to Blizzard who obviously had something he wanted to add.
“Admiral, we have a moral obligation to rescue those folks.”
“Overruled, Captain. You're the captain of the LBJ. That's your command. Anything outside the operation of your ship is my responsibility.” Taylor sighed deeply. “Miles, I have no intention of leaving those men behind,” he continued in a quiet voice, “but we can't go off half-cocked in the middle of the night to rescue folks who might already be dead. And if not dead, they could be anywhere. No, do it my way. Get the boat first, then we'll tackle finding its crew.”
Blizzard was momentarily tempted to press for his point of view but admitted to himself that Taylor was right.
“Aye, aye, Admiral.”
“Good. Now, who do you plan to send ashore?”
“I'll lead, Admiral. There'll be five of us: Four SEALs and me, all sailors with backgrounds working as crewmembers on private yachts before joining up. Lucky for us we have SEAL Team 3 aboard for an exercise scheduled to begin later in the week. We'll take a rubber Zodiac by oar up to the harbor’s entrance, slip into the water, and board the Félicité. I intend to crank her up and drive her right out to the LBJ.” He then made a back and forth cleaning motion using both hands. “It’ll be done, just like that!”
“Done? Just like that? What of your command?” asked an incredulous Taylor. “Sometimes I don't understand you at all, Miles.”
“Supposing I did get killed?” Blizzard countered. “So what? Al Paige is more than capable of commanding the carrier. For that matter, you're also a fully qualified carrier commander, Admiral.”
“OK, I'm not going to argue with you anymore, Miles,” said a visibly exasperated Taylor. “Go get the boat; be a hero, and report back to me. But remember, Captain, only the boat.”
One half-hour later, Admiral Taylor sat alone in his stateroom staring into space, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders.
CHAPTER 15
Tuesday night – Wednesday morning, June 22nd
– June 23rd
Fleming was in his stateroom, enjoying the profound sense of relief that he was again among friends and in familiar surroundings. He had taken note of the multi-colored bruises on his torso when showering, trophies acquired when he had been violently blown away from the ejection seat. And aching muscles in his back foretold of more such souvenirs yet to be discovered.
Like many military officers, Fleming kept a daily diary, a habit picked up while a cadet at the Air Force Academy. Some entries were longer and more detailed, others no more than a single sentence. But in the fifteen years of faithful recordings, he could only remember missing a handful of days, and most were recounted later. These diaries were actual hardcopy books and not merely electronic logs in computer files. Fourteen were now stored in his parents’ home in Sedona, Arizona, the fifteenth, and current one, was with him now on the LBJ. He harbored secret visions of one day turning them into a best seller, or a blockbuster movie, or even … ?
It took him an hour to transcribe the events of the last two days. Because the admiral had placed a TOP SECRET blanket over the incident, he had been extra careful with his choice of words. Satisfied, he closed the diary and snapped shut the locking mechanism.
Fleming picked up a magazine which had been on his desk since his arrival. The banner headline read: “PROPERTY OF USS LYNDON BAINES JOHNSON PLANKOWNERS.” He flopped down on his bunk and snapped on the reading lamp. Speedreading through the introductory Welcome Aboard message from the Captain, he settled in to learn some of the more interesting facts about the world’s most potent warship.
‘The LBJ has much more room for storage than her older generations of sister carriers simply because she is not required to carry thousands of tons of ship's fuel just to keep the screws turning. This has freed up much more space for additional aviation fuel and weaponing, enabling her to roam the seas for extended periods and strike an enemy repeatedly.’
Fleming put the magazine aside, snapped off the light, closed his eyes, smiled into the darkness, and thought, none of this impresses the average eighteen or nineteen-year-old plankowner. Nope, those kids live only to go from one shore leave to the next, and dream of scoring while guzzling gallons of local beer.
* * * * *
It was now shortly after midnight, and the carrier lay three miles from the mouth of the harbor at Livorno. Captain Blizzard was talking quietly with his XO, who had just remarked that the fathom depth readings and channel markings on their paper charts weren't worth a damn.
“Miles, I've been thinking about that Russian sub. Birdwell’s on the right track about time warps, fourth dimension transitions, and what have you. The submarine incident supports his theory. One second she wasn’t there, and the next moment all hell was breaking loose. And from what little we learned from our loudspeaker contact with the captain, it was evident his crew was in a really bad way. My bet says they met a fate similar to that of our two dead pilots.”
“I agree.” Before Blizzard could say more, his portable radio came to life.
“We're ready for you, Captain.” It was the senior SEAL in the boarding party.
“I'm off, Al,” Blizzard said with a quick handshake. “We should be back in a couple of hours, but I’ll keep you posted. We can talk freely on the radio because there won’t be any eavesdroppers.” Blizzard zipped up his wetsuit and checked his gear. “I've decided we’ll paddle the Zodiac all the way to the dock. There's a rising moon, but lots of cloud cover, so I can't see the need for us getting into the water and sneaking on board. We’ve got our night vision glasses, so we’ll be fine, and I’ll drive the Félicité back here like the admiral said.”
“Sounds good, Boss. See you in a couple.”
Blizzard told the team of his decision to use the paddles all the way in. Each team member had been assigned a number. Blizzard was one, the others, two through five. They untied the line fastening the Zodiac to the ladder and began a rhythmic paddling toward the shore. The sea was running slightly with them. Blizzard had requested that a light be flashed twice every minute from high up on the LBJ’s island to help them keep their bearings.
For twenty minutes they paddled in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. The team had been briefed that violence was to be avoided at all costs, but if they had to engage an armed enemy they would respond only to the degree necessary to protect themselves.
Number Four was the first to break the silence. “Man, this harbor smells like an outhouse.”
“Makes me glad I
decided not to abandon the Zodiac and swim the last couple of hundred yards to the boat,” Blizzard whispered back. He checked his watch and wrist compass. “OK, keep a sharp look-out, Number Five. I’m figuring a couple more minutes. Remember, when we get to the transom, the grappling hooks go over the rails, then it's me, with Two and Three going onto the Félicité. Four and Five, you’re going onto the dock to cast off her lines when the time comes, and to keep anyone from boarding. As soon as I fire up the engines, you two climb aboard and secure the Zodiac to any rail, even if it bounces around behind us until we can hoist her on to the deck. Now, let’s take thirty seconds to do an equipment buddy-check.”
Five paddles came out of the water simultaneously. The men checked themselves and each other. Less than a half-minute later the paddles went noiselessly back into the filthy sea, silently propelling the Zodiac toward the quay.
Every minute, two short flashes from the LBJ kept Blizzard on course, and just when instinct was telling him they were nearing their objective, they heard a noise and froze. From out in the blackness came a deep, phlegmy cough, followed by the sound of water being poured into the harbor. Blizzard stifled a laugh. Someone was taking a leak!
POINT OPTION: A Time-Travel Military Thriller Page 13
