POINT OPTION: A Time-Travel Military Thriller

by Ian A. O'Connor

  Number Five motioned with his arm, signally for a turn to a more westerly direction.

  The man emptying his bladder finished and, after another coughing jag, quiet returned, save for the barking of a solitary dog off in the distance.

  The Zodiac continued toward the Félicité, with Number Five sitting in the bow giving directions with his hands. Number Three had readied the two lines to fasten the Zodiac to the boat, and now waited for the signal from Blizzard to throw them over the railings.

  The Zodiac bumped to a gentle stop. No lights were seen from behind any of the portholes, and as the team worked its way back towards the transom, no voice rose to challenge them.

  With a silent nod from Blizzard, both lines were tossed and landed with a muffled thud. Number Three yanked them taut, their rubber-coated grappling hooks finding secure holds around deck stanchions.

  Blizzard began working his way hand-over-hand up the side with Two and Three following him, while Four and Five paddled the Zodiac toward the pier. And still their presence had not been detected. Once aboard, the three instantly searched about for any signs of guards. None. Blizzard shrugged, then pointed downward. The other two nodded behind their night vision goggles that they understood, then double-checked their holsters and knives. Blizzard gave a thumbs-up signal, and the trio padded their way toward the hatch.

  He opened the hatch and descended into a spacious, but darkened drawing room, the two SEALs close behind. He wrinkled his nose. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, garlic, and cheap wine. Blizzard wanted to retch.

  A loud coughing fit from somewhere in the darkness caused the three to instinctively spread out, ready to engage any threat. Number Two stumbled over a figure curled up on the floor beside a settee, but before the man could react, a gloved hand was clamped over his mouth and an Ontario MKIII Navy Knife pressed to his throat. His eyes opened and he froze, releasing a clutched wine jug which began gurgling its contents onto very expensive carpeting.

  Blizzard and Number Three crept on toward the coughing sound. A voice called out, and a shadowy figure appeared in the companionway only to be instantly overpowered and tossed onto the deck. Like his companion, he immediately understood the knife held to his throat. He lay quietly for a moment, then began an uncontrollable shaking. Blizzard pressed forward alone. A minute later he returned. “Looks like they’re the only two aboard, so let's get him into the salon to join his pal.”

  Blizzard held a finger to his lips, the universally understood command for silence, and beckoned the quaking man to get up. He rose on unsteady legs, but immediately doubled over, and began coughing.

  “I'm going topside to get the grappling lines and to radio back to the LBJ. We'll bind these two and leave them on the pier, but with their legs hobbled. They’ll be able to walk slowly to look for help, but we'll gag them as well so they can't start yelling before we’re gone.”

  “Roger that, Captain,” Number Three replied, nudging his prisoner to join his mate.

  Blizzard went up on the deck. “Four, Five, how goes it?” he called softly into the night.

  “All secure, One,” came a low voice from the pier. “No opposition. What’s next?”

  “There are two prisoners below,” Blizzard said. “We'll take them off the boat, then you guys stand by to cast off the lines. We should be ready within three minutes. Secure the Zodiac to the Félicité and wait for my order to board.” Blizzard then keyed his radio. “Paige, do you copy?”

  “Roger, Boss, what's the word?”

  “Everything’s good here. We’ll cast off in a couple of minutes. Al, I want you to move the LBJ over the horizon so that she’s out of sight from land before daylight. The folks here are going to freak-out when I fire-up these marine noisemakers. Keep the ship blacked out except for the signal light up on the bridge. We'll come up on your starboard side, and once we have daylight we’ll get this boat up to the hangar deck for safekeeping.”

  “Right, Boss, I'll inform the admiral.”

  Blizzard ordered the two prisoners bound, then went to the bridge to check batteries, electrical circuit breakers, navaids, gauges, and the amount of fuel aboard. He returned to the salon to see the two Italians were now bound, seated on the deck, and still very much in fear for their lives. Blizzard told the other two to remove their night vision glasses, then switched on a sizeable table lamp. The soft glow lit up the room, startling the prisoners. The wide-eyed look on their faces spoke volumes as they stared at the bulb. What magic can make light without fire?

  “Everything's good topside,” Blizzard reported. “Batteries are still fully charged, and the fuel gauges show we have about one thousand gallons in two tanks. She's fitted with twin six-hundred-horsepower GM Diesels, which means we’ll make one helluva racket leaving this place. I've already cranked up the bilge blowers.”

  He turned to study the captives. Their appearance shocked him. Both were probably in their twenties and incredibly filthy. They were short, thin, maybe five feet tall, both with faces scared and pitted from the ravages of smallpox. The cougher had mucous oozing from his nose, and every few moments his tongue would dart out to lick at the slime. Blizzard wanted to choke.

  “Captain, have you ever seen anything like this in all your life?” said Number Two. “I haven't ever smelled an animal as ripe as these guys. You just gotta know they're covered with fleas and lice, and all sorts of other creepy-crawly things.” He shuddered at the thought.

  “I don’t want to even think about that,” said Blizzard, busy opening windows. “This whole boat is going to have to be fumigated after these two. Anyway, without us touching them more than we have to, we’ll leave them on the pier, then get the hell out of here.”

  Once on the quay, the prisoners stood motionless and allowed themselves to be gagged.

  Returning aboard, Blizzard took the helm, started both engines, and gave the command to cast off. Félicité responded smartly, backing away from its berth as if alive, seemingly glad to be underway once more. Navigation lights were switched on, and once clear of the dock, Blizzard lit the two powerful spotlights on the forward deck. He immediately spotted huge amounts of garbage and flotsam of all description bobbing in the filthy water, but nothing of sufficient size to damage the vessel. He turned the Félicité westward and headed toward the open sea, its twin diesels sounding like rolling thunder as the craft gained speed. He set a course for the carrier.

  Torches were now seen flickering near the dock. Livorno had come to life.

  The stiffening breeze soon drove away the awful smells, and for the first time in days fresh air began circulating belowdecks. Between gales of laughter and the cracking of corny jokes, the boarding party drew in welcoming gulps of clean air, and released their pent-up stores of adrenaline-stoked energy. They became a momentary band of giddy kids.

  Blizzard maneuvered the Félicité into a position one hundred yards off the carrier’s starboard side, and a half-hour later Paige radioed that the carrier would be powering back. Blizzard acknowledged, and worked his way over to the steel mountain as it came to rest on the open sea. He peered at his watch. It was now three o’clock, Wednesday morning.

  “At first light we'll get her up and out of the water just as soon as we can place a cradle around her. Meanwhile, I'll make sure you have plenty of hot coffee and sandwiches. Post your watches as you see fit and continue to monitor the radio.” He paused and looked at each man in turn. “Thanks for a job well done. You guys are the best. Now, remember, when you get relieved in the morning, you say nothing about any of this to other members of the crew. They’ll be told when the time is right. Of course, they'll all see the Félicité come daylight, but still, say nothing.” He returned their salutes and headed up the ladder to report to the admiral.

  CHAPTER 16

  Wednesday Morning - June 23rd

  “Hey, I'm talking to you!”

  “Whatdya want?”

  “I asked what day it is?”

/>   “How should I know! Do I look like a calendar?”

  A third voice piped up, ringing with all the authority of a chief with twenty years of service under his belt. “Knock it off, both of you, and get back to work.”

  “I only wanted to know what day it is, Chief,” came a whiny reply.

  “It's Wednesday, Murdock,” said the Chief Petty Officer now sounding angry.

  There followed a long moment of silence, then, “It can't be Wednesday, Chief.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because we had fish last night, and we always have fish on Friday!”

  “I'm warning you ...” the chief threatened.

  Blizzard heard it all as he stepped into the ship's printing plant. He appreciated the confusion of life below decks with its jumble of days and nights. For some crew members the only knowledge as to what shift and which side of the clock they were working at any given moment was that the lights were always dimmed throughout the ship during the night.

  The chief spotted Blizzard, but before he could call the area to attention, Blizzard spoke up. “As you were, Chief. Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Captain, anything I can do for you, Sir?”

  “No, just sort of an informal inspection tour to see how things are going. What's cooking?” he asked with a nod of his head towards a huge copier which had begun spitting out copies of something into a wire basket.

  “Oh, that's the newsletter, Sir, except there’s really not much news.” He picked up a copy and handed it to the captain. “Just some junk filler. Ever since the radio blackout started, we haven't received any sports scores or the international news updates from Armed Forces Radio, and we haven't seen a mail plane either. Of course, you know all that, Sir.”

  “Well, hopefully that will change soon.” Blizzard turned to the two sailors. “Chief's right. Today is Wednesday, and for the life of me, I don't know why they served fish last night either!”

  The duo stood at attention and grinned.

  Blizzard spent the next hour dropping in on various departments and was often surprised at the questions he was asked, not by the older men, but the younger sailors.

  “How come we've ceased air operations, Captain?”

  “Saw a boat being hoisted aboard, Captain. Did the admiral get a new gig, Sir?”

  “Is it true the ship's been quarantined?”

  “Some of the guys working topside said the weather has turned real cool all of a sudden. That a fact, Captain?”

  “Can you tell us where we are, Sir?”

  He answered them all, and at the same time listened to their gripes. The sailors all knew he was the son-in-law of the chief of naval operations, and no doubt a few thought he would phone the CNO later that day and report directly to the top sailor what was on their minds. The gripes which he saw to be valid, Blizzard jotted down in a small leatherbound pocket notebook and promised to rectify immediately. Others would take longer, especially items concerning the LBJ. He reminded them that the carrier was still considered a brand new vessel, and that this voyage was really an extension of the shake-down cruise. It could be months before all the kinks were worked out, but he reminded them that for the most part she was trouble-free and that they were privileged to be plankowners of the greatest warship ever built.

  His last stop was to the squadrons’ ready rooms just as eight bells rang; then it was on to Gowdy’s office. CAG ran a tight wing, and kept his officers busy studying tactics and carrying out the many additional duties each must perform to keep the air arm humming smoothly.

  Blizzard brought Gowdy up to date as to what had taken place during the night, and just as he was finishing, Major Fleming walked by the open door carrying a sheaf of papers.

  “Fleming,” he called out, and the Air Force major entered. He stood at attention and saluted both senior officers.

  “Good morning, Captain, CAG.”

  “At ease. You get a good night's sleep?” Blizzard asked.

  “Yes, Sir, I'm fine. So's Lafayette. He might be developing a bit of a head cold, but we're both in good shape.”

  “Close the door a minute,” said Blizzard. “CAG, Major, both of you know the score. In fact, both of you have seen first-hand what it is we're facing.” He then spent a couple of minutes repeating to Fleming what he had told Gowdy moments ago about last night’s recovery of the French vessel, but not its passengers. “So, we're going to have to land a group either in Livorno or Pisa to rescue them. Our party must be kept to less than a dozen, and I think it’ll be wise to bring as few new faces into the picture as feasible. I'd like both of you to be ready on short notice to be a part of a rescue.” He glanced at his watch. “I have a meeting at ten hundred with the admiral to go over other matters, but I’m thinking that would be a good time to come up with a plan to get those folks freed. I’d like you both to be there for input. Any conflicts?”

  Both said that there were none.

  * * * * *

  Blizzard made his way onto the bridge, returning the duty Marine guard’s crisp salute. This was the nerve center of his multi-billion dollar command. A clock on the aft bulkhead told him it was not quite nine-thirty. He had been too keyed up to sleep because of last night's adventure, and after tossing and turning fitfully for a couple of hours, he rose with the first light.

  At seven he watched as two scuba divers went over Félicité’s side to check her hull for damage. Satisfied with what they saw, the duo worked two cradles under her, and secured the boat by steel cables to winches that had been swung seaward and lowered from the hangar deck.

  The sixty-foot craft came slowly out of the water. Blizzard took note of the scores of curious sailors looking down. He had to admit, the Félicité was a beautiful boat. Her sleek, ultra-modern silhouette bespoke of an Italian pedigree, and as she inched her way up toward her temporary drydock berth, Blizzard saw that her hull was almost pristine, suggesting of a recent bottom job in Sicily or possibly Sardinia.

  The bridge was quiet. The duty officer gave Blizzard the ship’s eLogBook to bring himself up to date. The carrier was lying motionless in the water, the reactors sending just enough power to the turbines to keep the LBJ stationary and to generate electricity for the ship’s functions.

  As Blizzard was reading, his phone rang. His face turned hard as he listened to obviously bad news, but he continued to nod while the caller droned on, until finally, he’d heard enough. “And what do you recommend doing? Throwing him into the brig? Use your head. Get him down to the hospital and have them take care of him.” He put the phone down, then immediately picked it up again and punched a button on the console, connecting him to the ship's PA system.

  “This is the Captain. XO, call the bridge.”

  It took Paige mere seconds to respond. “What gives, Boss?”

  “Drop whatever you're doing and get over to the hospital.”

  “What’s happened, Miles?”

  “Nothing serious, but even so, Taylor's going to have my head. Seems we have a stowaway. Apparently he was well-hidden on the Félicité and only discovered moments ago. And I was the one who didn’t find him last night.”

  “Why the hospital? Did someone shoot him?”

  “Not you too, Al,” Blizzard said, trying hard not to sound exasperated. “Just where would you recommend putting a little boy?”

  “Yeah, I see your point.”

  “Al, just go take a look-see, and report back to tell me what the hell’s going on.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Wednesday Morning – later -June 23rd

  “You have a what!” Admiral Taylor exclaimed. He had been updating a journal of his daily activities, a task he hadn't missed in thirty years. “You have a what?” he repeated, the incredulity in his voice genuine.

  “A stowaway, Admiral,” Blizzard replied, slumping low in his chair. “Seems he was hiding on the Félicité and discovered only minutes ago. I ordered him taken to the hospital and sent Al P
aige down there to get a full a report.”

  “Tell me you jest, Miles.”

  “Admiral, he's twelve years old, or thereabouts. I've weighed all the possibilities, and I've concluded he's not going to take over my ship.”

  Taylor shook his head, ignoring the veiled sarcasm, and busied himself by locking his journal and placing it in his desk. “All right. We'll wait to see what Al Paige has to say.” He changed the subject. “What have you decided to do about the folks from the French boat?”

  Blizzard shook his head, “We don't have much of a choice. We're going to have to go ashore and get them. They're entitled to the same fighting chance of finding a way home as we do, and I'm not that optimistic any more about our chances. Our scientists aboard are suggesting we stay close to the spot where we came across with the hope the same conditions will reoccur to somehow transport us back.”

  “And what's that got to do with the Frenchmen?”

  Blizzard shrugged. “Well, while we wait, we may as well do something constructive, and I think that would include rescuing those people.”

  “How many do you think there are?”

  “Four, maybe six.” Blizzard poured a cup of coffee, took a tentative sip, and continued. “We have a meeting scheduled to start in a few minutes, Admiral, and I’ve asked CAG and Major Fleming to join us to help come up with a plan that will meet with your approval. I want to put a party ashore, do what needs to be done, and be back on board well before nightfall.”

  They spoke for a few more minutes on ship’s business, and at ten were joined by Paige, Eisenhauer, Gowdy, and Fleming.

  “Let's hear it, Al,” said Blizzard.

  “The little fellow's doing fine. Doc Potter personally checked him over, and other than being frightened and hungry, he's in good shape. They’re getting him cleaned up and having his clothes sent to the laundry. You were right about one thing, Boss These people understand Latin, at least our boy does. Father Caffarone was able to chat and convince him he’ll be OK. He's a sharp little tyke, and he gave us some good information.”