POINT OPTION: A Time-Travel Military Thriller

by Ian A. O'Connor

  “Like what?” said Taylor.

  “Well, for starters, today is March 19th, and according to our guest, it's the feast of St. Joseph, or Josephus in Latin as the kid said. Apparently, it’s an important feast day in the Catholic Church’s liturgical calendar, and Father Caffarone says that's indeed correct.”

  “And the year?” Manny Eisenhauer asked.

  “The year of Our Lord, Fourteen hundred sixty-three.”

  The news was met with a profound silence. Wide-eyed stares circled around the room. There was no avoiding the truth any longer. They had indeed gone back in time.

  “Well, at least that's something,” Gowdy said, the first to speak. “I don't know how the hell it helps us any, but at least we know the year.”

  “Anything else?” the admiral asked, sounding deflated at that last bit of news.

  The XO smiled. “The little guy won't tell us his name. Father Caffarone says he ran away from home and doesn't want his uncle to find out. So, the kid suggested we call him Josephus in honor of the saint's birthday. He also admitted that he sneaked on board the Félicité out of curiosity, but that he got frightened when the guards came back early from lunch yesterday afternoon. He hid in a forward locker and stayed there until we found him. There was a small porthole, and he saw the scuba divers getting the boat ready for hoisting aboard. Said the ride in the air really scared him.”

  “Does he know anything about the Frenchmen?”

  “No, he hadn't seen them, but they're the talk of the town. The people are saying they came from the devil, and the bishop, or cardinal, or prince, or some other muckety-muck, is deciding what to do with them. Public opinion is that they're going to be burned at the stake soon!”

  “Jeeze!” The admiral's face turned pale. He turned to Blizzard, “Looks like you'll have to move fast after all, Miles.”

  “Agreed.” Blizzard looked at Paige. “Have Father Caffarone report here right now. Whether he likes it or not, he's going to have to come with us because it’s going to be his job convincing the bishop or whoever’s in charge that their burning at the stake party ain’t such a good idea.”

  When Caffarone arrived, he reported that Josephus had eaten a hearty meal and was now fast asleep.

  “It’s obvious he's being well-educated because he speaks Latin like a churchman, and only the nobility and the rich do so. He can also read, which is something of a rarity, even among the upper classes. He says the prisoners are still in Livorno, but thinks they’ll be taken to Pisa at any moment for a formal sentencing. Then they’ll be put to death.”

  After forty minutes of back-and-forth, all agreed that the best approach would be the most direct and to the point. The group going ashore would consist of Blizzard, Gowdy, Fleming, Caffarone, two SEALs, and Lieutenant Silver, a flight surgeon, just in case any of the Frenchmen required immediate medical attention.

  They would all wear battle gear, except Father Caffarone, who thought it best he wear a cassock, the long black robe worn by most Catholic priests down through the centuries, so that the local powers would recognize him as a cleric.

  The agreed-upon plan called for the group to fly to Livorno by helicopter and land as close to the center of town as possible. The idea was to catch the locals off guard by appearing to descend from Heaven, which would strike the fear of God into them. Blizzard, Fleming and Gowdy, would carry Glock 19s, as do all pilots, while the SEALS would be armed with M4A1 automatic carbines and sidearm Glocks. The two non-combatants would carry only strobe lights, plus the flight surgeon would bring along his emergency medical kit. The helicopter crew would wait in the town square for their return, staying in radio contact with both the search party and the CDC. It was agreed that two Hornets would be armed and ready on the flight deck in case their support would be needed in a hurry. Finally, two additional helicopters would stand-by if they would be needed for additional transport. Al Paige would assume command of the carrier and, for obvious reasons, Admiral Taylor would move down to the CDC for the duration.

  “We'll meet on the flight deck in thirty minutes,” said Blizzard, rising, while saluting the admiral, with the others following suit.

  * * * * *

  Fleming made his way to his cabin, eagerly anticipating the adventure ahead. Caldwell had questioned him last night as to what it had been like ashore, and Fleming told him little without divulging the fact that they were smack in the middle of a much older Italy. Like all the other officers in the air wing, Caldwell knew something unexpected was happening, made obvious by the fact that flight operations had been abruptly cancelled in the middle of an exercise. Rumors ran rampant, but no one had any hard facts to fall back on. It was all very strange.

  “Hey old buddy, slow down, slow down,” Hamilton called out, leaving his cabin. He joined Fleming. “What's happening? I hear you've been up in Admiral's Country with the captain, CAG, and all the other brass. Something's popping, that’s obvious, even to this dumb old country boy.”

  Fleming unzipped his flightsuit and pulled a utility uniform out of his locker.

  Hamilton wore a puzzled look. “Going somewhere?” His tone was suddenly serious.

  “Yeah, going ashore for a spell, Bud. I'm sorry I can't tell you any more right now, but that's the way things are.”

  “At least tell me this: Has it got anything to do with your bailing out a few hours back?”

  Fleming nodded. “Yes, but only indirectly. Bud, as I said, I am not at liberty to discuss it. I'm sure you’ll find out soon enough from Gowdy or Dowling, but I can't say anything more.”

  “Well, can you tell me this? Does it have anything to do with that big-assed Chris Craft that was hoisted aboard this morning?”

  Without looking up from strapping on his shoulder holster, Fleming nodded, checked himself in the mirror, and as he was about to leave, Susan’s photograph caught his eye. He picked it up and studied the beautiful face for a long moment. “If anything should happen to me Bud, please let Susan know that I loved her more than life itself.”

  The tone in Fleming's voice sent a shiver up his spine. “That's a promise, Dave,” he replied in a low, somber voice, now knowing that something was very, very wrong.

  * * * * *

  Fleming was the first one to arrive on the flight deck and went directly to the waiting helicopter, it’s mission name, Firefly one. The others arrived a minute later, and on Blizzard’s signal, the pilot lifted off and set a course for Livorno, forty miles away.

  Taylor waited patiently in the Combat Direction Center for word from the shore party. He had asked that Volume R of the World Book Encyclopedia be brought from the library, and was now refreshing his knowledge of Renaissance Italy and Europe.

  The continent was emerging from both the Dark Ages and the catastrophic upheaval brought about by the black death which had first decimated the population of Asia in the east before sweeping its way westward, unchecked to the shores of the Atlantic. The Church fathers held the view that this was God's punishment for a sinful mankind, and by the time the Renaissance was in full bloom, the power of the Church over Europe was absolute.

  Italy was a hodgepodge of city-states, each with powerful ruling families fiercely competing with one another for ever-greater wealth and even greater power.

  Architecture saw a rebirth, and the period spawned the building of many imposing edifices, all directed to the greater glory of God, and of course, His chosen few. But the one dark blot on this picture of perfection was the fall of Constantinople to the Turks in 1453. The reign of Pope Nicholas V came to an end in 1455, and the new pope was crowned Pius II. He was the most powerful man in Europe in this Year of Our Lord, 1463.

  Taylor now turned his attention to a map of Italy. He saw a country divided into twenty-five city-states. The Kingdom of Naples dominated the south, while the Patrimony of St. Peter, and Florence, held center stage. Milan was the evident power to the northeast, with Venice holding a similar authority in the northwest. He
read that the city of Pisa lay within the boundaries of the State of Florence and, by deduction, so too did the port town of Livorno ten miles to the south.

  He closed the book with a resounding thump, startling those around him. He looked up apologetically, rose, and walked over to a plotting board where two sailors were busy adding aircraft identification numbers in crayon onto the Lucite surface.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  The duty officer answered. “Admiral, flight ops has just moved two Hornets onto the mag-levs. CAG’s orders.”

  “What armaments are going on ’em?” Taylor asked.

  The lieutenant referred to an Apple notebook before replying. As he read from the screen, his eyes opened wide. “Looks like they’ll be loaded for bear, Admiral. Each has a mixed bag of air-to-ground missiles, two-hundred fifty-pound bombs, and napalm cannisters. Funny thing though, Sir, they don't appear to be carrying any air-to-air missiles. That must be a mistake,” he murmured to himself, but loud enough for Taylor to hear.

  “That's no mistake, Lieutenant. Carry on.”

  Several decks below, a small group of officers and in-the-know tech reps tasked with finding a solution to the problem were weighing the many variables. They constantly fed information into the computer, but the answers coming back were less than heartening. The biggest unknown was the Félicité. When, where, and how had she been transported back in time? Birdwell had scoured the boat looking in every conceivable place for the ship's log, but it was nowhere to be found. “The captain must keep a log on a boat this size,” he had complained to Joel Hirshberger.

  The group now had charts of the area spread out before them, marked with the exact dates and times of every weather and communications anomaly they had encountered since the morning in Naples when things were first noticed as being odd. They had drawn lines connecting all waypoints, hoping to find some commonality between them and the track the LBJ had followed while underway. Nothing. They had marked red circles around the two most important points: the exact position of Fleming’s Hornet, then that of the LBJ at the precise moment each had been transported back in time. The computer revealed that both incidents had occurred within one hundred yards of the other, and that the LBJ and the Hornet had been on identical headings at the time. Which left the group with two very important unanswered questions regarding the Félicité. Had she been in that same spot and on that same heading when she too had crossed the time barrier? And exactly at what time of day had that happened?

  Commander Birdwell was convinced this would prove to be key to finding the answer.

  CHAPTER 18

  Wednesday Afternoon – June 23rd

  The Sikorsky MH-60S helicopter hovered three feet off the ground before finally settling down onto terra firma. The ride from the LBJ had been uneventful other than flying over a two-masted vessel tacking on a course towards the carrier. The pilot radioed back to the CDC which acknowledged they had radar contact and were keeping an eye on it. Plot determined it was a good five hours sailing time away from the ship.

  The pilot decided there was no safe landing zone (LZ) near the center of town, so after a sweep of its entire perimeter, he settled down on a cobblestone road connecting Livorno with the city of Pisa. Blizzard gave the crew instructions: “If anyone approaches, fire up the engines; that should scare the crap out of them. But if not, and it appears you could be overrun by hostiles, then get off the ground and back away. And if we should run into trouble and a safe pick-up looks impossible, then as a last resort come in prepared to shoot to kill. We'll stay in touch, and you can relay any messages back to the carrier if needed. Any questions?”

  Both pilots gave Blizzard a thumbs up to signal that they understood.

  Fleming looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes to one. There was no activity around them. He had thought it had seemed unreasonably quiet as they had circled the town. Less than a handful of people were about, and those that were, had scurried into buildings on spotting the helicopter.

  “Smells like the inside of a toilet bowl,” Gowdy said, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

  “I bet this must be a fun place during the summer when it gets really good and hot,” replied Fleming, looking all around. “I'm kinda surprised we haven't seen much in the way of a welcoming committee. Not that I had expected to be greeted by adoring hordes with open arms, but I did think there would be more signs of activity. There’s no one on the road, and this has got to be a well-traveled route.”

  Father Caffarone spoke up. “I've been thinking along those same lines, and I believe I have the answer. Odds are one in seven that today is also Tuesday in this new time zone.” He chuckled at a thought. “Josephus could have told me the answer, but it slipped my mind to ask. Well, no matter. My point is this. It’s St. Joseph’s feast day, but more importantly, this could well be Holy Week, which means everyone’s in church. Not just here, but all over Italy.”

  “Makes sense,” Blizzard replied, “so let's act on that assumption. We’re going to church.”

  The group started off for the center of Livorno under a cloudy sky. The temperature was hovering in the low fifties, and a light wind was pushing out of the east. Fleming was surprised to see that the road was in such good repair, knowing it had probably been built by Roman slaves ten centuries earlier.

  They approached the town’s outskirts, and still no one was out and about. The first building they passed was a rundown wooden hovel, and like the shepherd’s hut he had come across with Lafayette, this too had no windows, one narrow, doorless opening, and an appalling stench. They hurried past in silence, and as they released their collective breaths, a mangy cur appeared from around the side of the building. Startled, she stopped short, the hackles rising on her spine. She bared her teeth and growled menacingly but chose neither to advance nor retreat.

  It was an impasse, until suddenly, and without warning, Fleming sprang forward with both arms swinging wildly and screamed, “Move!”

  The startled dog yelped once and fled back around the building.

  “That's all we'd need,” said an obviously relieved Gowdy, “to get bitten by a freaking, rabid dog from the freaking, Middle Ages. Sorry about that Father,” he quickly added.

  “My feelings exactly, CAG.” Caffarone replied. He was dressed in his black clerical cassock and walking alongside the flight surgeon.

  Dr. Silver turned to the priest. “Padre, how do you think these folks feel about Jews, especially if this is the week Christ died?” Before Caffarone had a chance to reply, Captain Blizzard, a couple of paces ahead, spoke without turning his head, “Relax Doc, we don't plan on trading you for the Frenchmen, that is unless it becomes absolutely necessary.”

  “Well, that sure is comforting news for my ears, Captain. I’m feeling better already.”

  The group laughed. Buildings were now closer together, most incredibly old, but noticeably cleaner than the first one they had passed. These too were mostly made of wood, but some had decorative stone fronts now blackened from years of neglect and soot from an untold number of chimneys. It was obvious Livorno was a poor community whose citizens relied entirely on eking out their livelihoods from the sea. The harbor lay in plain sight below a sloping, rocky hillside with dozens of fishing vessels at anchor, some tied alongside wooden jetties, others high and dry on the shore. The tide was rising, and the wind off the water carried with it the smell of fish.

  The sound of running feet drew the group up short. They caught a glimpse of three hooded figures scurrying toward the church, and heard voices rising in chant from within. The trio dashed up the side entrance steps and disappeared inside.

  “Well, we can assume our presence is now known,” said Blizzard, who relayed the information to the helicopter crew. They came to a stop ten yards from the front entrance.

  This is no cathedral, Fleming thought, but it’s by far the finest building in Livorno. Where the others were grimy, in various stages of disrepair and with garbage strewn
about, the church sparkled like a jewel. This is God's home, he realized, and the faithful took an obvious pride in keeping it immaculate. The hewn-stone structure rose more than forty feet, it boasted several stained glass windows, and was topped with a spired belltower. It was the obvious epicenter of life in Livorno.

  Two heavy, metal-banded wooden doors opened slowly; a head appeared for just an instant, then was immediately withdrawn. The chanting stopped.

  “Get ready to do your thing, Padre,” Blizzard said. “Let them know we come in peace and only want the Frenchmen. Tell them we will leave as soon as we have them.”

  Caffarone nodded, waiting to see what the congregation would do next.

  The same figure reappeared at the door and peered out. His head turned sideways as he spoke to unseen others in the shadows, all the while keeping a wary eye on the strangers.

  Caffarone stepped forward and lifted his right hand in greeting. He spoke in Latin. “Peace be with you. We come as brothers in Christ, with charity in our hearts and malice toward none. We ask to speak to your priest on a matter of the utmost importance.” He quickly translated his message to the others.

  Blizzard nodded, but cautioned the group. “Stay on your toes. I don't know what they’re planning but be prepared for anything. It’s possible they might try to divert our attention, then surround us.”

  The doors opened wider, and three men slowly ventured out. The one in the center was obviously a priest. Several others now appeared behind the trio, most of them jostling for a better view of the strangers. The side door opened, and a half-dozen more men descended the steps and stood in sullen silence, staring at the foreigners.

  “Who are you and where do you come from?” the priest shouted in Latin, his deep voice ringing with authority.