POINT OPTION: A Time-Travel Military Thriller

by Ian A. O'Connor

“We come from far away,” Caffarone began, speaking slowly to make sure there would be no misunderstanding of his words. “I am Father Eugenio, and like you, I am a servant of his Holy Father in Rome. “These men are my friends,” he added with a sweep of his hands. “We have come searching for people who came to this town a short while ago. We only want to take them with us and return peaceably to our homes.”

  “Those people are infidels,” the priest screamed back at Caffarone. “They speak in the tongue of the followers of the infidel Muhammed,” he continued, wagging a finger, his face empurpled with a righteous wrath. “They are spies for the Ottomans, and you are the same!”

  Caffarone translated quickly for the others.

  Fleming was the first to speak. Looking straight ahead but addressing Blizzard, he spoke softly. “Captain, it's my guess the Félicité might be registered in Cannes, but it's probably owned by an Arab sheik. I can only imagine the reception they got when they landed looking for help.”

  “I think you're spot on, Fleming.”

  The group loitering by the side entrance of the church had grown considerably, and seeing the outrage on their priest’s face, were showing a newfound courage. They began moving toward the Americans. Several openly held knives, while others stooped to pick up rocks. The crowd was waiting for a signal to attack.

  “Caffarone, warn them to stay back,” said Blizzard, keying his radio. He spoke rapidly, ordering the helicopter crew to over-fly the church. “The chopper should scare them, at least momentarily,” he added for all their benefits.

  “Do not come any closer,” warned Caffarone in Latin.

  The remainder of the congregation was now pouring out of the church, women and children forming in loose ranks behind the men. They paid no heed to Caffarone's warning, and he immediately realized it was because they couldn’t understand him.

  “Get that helicopter here, and fast,” commanded Blizzard into the radio. They could hear the spooling whine of the engines as the pilot revved up to liftoff power. The harsh noise stopped the crowd in its tracks, and all heads turned toward the sound.

  The Sikorsky flew into view, thumping its way just above the roof tops, heading directly for the church. Fingers pointed skyward, and a frightened murmuring rose from the crowd. Mouths opened in awe, and children began shrieking in fear. All signs of hostility had vanished, and, on some unspoken command, the rabble turned tail and ran back inside.

  The helicopter went into a hover twenty feet above the church, the frightening noise from its engines and huge rotors terrifying those hearing such sounds for the first time.

  The priest stood his ground on the steps of the church, his mouth moving, his arms gesticulating wildly, but his words were lost to the din.

  “This is Blizzard,” said the captain, holding the radio close to his mouth and looking up.

  “Back off, but stay in view. We can't hear, and their leader is trying to tell us something.”

  The craft climbed higher, all the while moving southward. With the noise fast-fading, the prelate yelled again, only now he had taken a crucifix from around his neck and held it high.

  “You are sons of Lucifer, monsters from the depths of hell. In the name of Jesus Christ, the Savior of all men, I command you to return to the fires from whence you came.” As he spoke, he made a sweeping sign of the cross with the crucifix, apparently expecting them to immediately disappear. When they continued to stand before the crowd, the cleric’s face began to show genuine traces of fear for the first time.

  “OK, Padre, I'm getting tired of this circus,” said Blizzard, after Caffarone had translated. “No offense intended to your religious beliefs, but we have a job to do, and we're getting nowhere. Tell that fellow I'm giving him one minute to let us know where the crew from the Félicité is being held, and if he doesn't come up with some answers, he's really going to see what the fires of hell look like, right here in living color.”

  As Caffarone spoke, the priest dropped to his knees, the crucifix still held aloft.

  “Heavenly Father, what is the reason for this test?” he beseeched of the Almighty. “First the unbelievers reach our shores in a vessel created of Satan’s hand having neither oar nor sail, and now these fallen angels come forth to add to our anguish. Our holy cardinal from Pisa has been struck down by their sorcery. O heavenly Father,” he continued to lament, “what do you want of us? Give me a sign that I might understand.”

  Father Caffarone translated.

  Blizzard had reached the end of his patience. “He wants a sign. Well, son-of-a-bitch, he's going to get one.” He called the helicopter. “Tell LBJ to launch the two Hornets immediately. I want them in afterburners, I want them to buzz the town from north to south, I want them down on the deck, and I want to hear some sonic booms. Then I want them to make a pass over the harbor and dump napalm onto the group of fishing vessels moored furthest from shore. Did you copy all that?”

  The helicopter crew acknowledged.

  “Caffarone, tell that clown to get his congregation back outside right now,” Blizzard said. “I don’t want them missing the show.”

  “Captain, don’t you think…”

  “Dammit, I gave you an order, Commander,” Blizzard shouted, using Caffarone’s military rank for the first time. “Now repeat what I just said.”

  Caffarone relayed the order. The Italian priest rose slowly from his knees, visibly shaken in the realization God was not going to answer his prayer.

  “Tell him to empty his church, now!” Blizzard roared.

  The priest must have guessed at the nature of Blizzard’s command, because before Caffarone could speak, he turned and entered the church. Moments later he reappeared, followed by a trembling congregation.

  “Now tell them to stay put, no matter the noises they hear, and whatever they see.” Blizzard paused before adding in a quieter voice, “Tell him the women and children can stay inside if they wish, but all the men must come out. And, lastly, tell him we promise that no one will get hurt if they do as they're told.”

  It wasn't long before two dots appeared low on the horizon, growing, and moving amazingly fast. The priest blessed himself, and as if on cue, the gathered men did likewise.

  The two jets raced toward the crowd, then came ear-splitting, double sonic booms as both craft streaked over the church.

  “Tell them to keep their eyes open,” said Blizzard. “I don't want them missing the next act.”

  The planes had slowed while making a wide turn over the harbor in preparation for their bombing runs on the boats. Water vapor contrails spiraled off their wingtips.

  Flying in trail, the lead aircraft released a napalm cannister from a height of three hundred feet. It turned end over end as it fell, and scored a perfect hit, spewing its jellied fire over a dozen vessels. Within an instant, the boats disappeared inside a man-made inferno.

  The second plane dropped its load a little short, but the pyrotechnical display was just as impressive.

  Both Hornets made a second approach over the city, flying so low Fleming could clearly see the helmeted heads of the crew. The planes banked sharply right, emitting a long, whining sound.

  Gowdy spoke into his radio as they began another large circle over the water. “CAG to fighter cover lead. Do you read?”

  “Roger, CAG, this is lead. What next?”

  “Lead, return to the LBJ. Your firepower demonstration was just what the doctor ordered. Relay to CDC that everything is fine here but tell them to continue to hold two aircraft fully armed and ready to relaunch on a moment's notice.”

  The pilot acknowledged, then relayed a message from Taylor. “The admiral wants to know if he should prepare a landing party to back you up in case of serious trouble?”

  Blizzard thought for a moment. “Yes, good idea,” he replied, thinking of the one hundred marines on board his carrier. It couldn't hurt to have them ready to move in a hurry should things really turn sour.

  Th
e pilot again acknowledged, wagged his wings in salute, and headed out to sea with his wingman in trail.

  Blizzard saw this as the moment of truth. “Gentlemen let’s take advantage of the situation. Follow me.”

  The others fell in step beside him, forming a line seven abreast. They walked until they were within touching distance of the priest who now looked like death itself.

  Father Caffarone stepped toward his fellow cleric and reached out his right hand in blessing.

  “In Nomine Patris, et Felii, et Spiritus Sancti,” he intoned in a quiet voice, making the sign of the cross over the other man's head as he spoke in Latin. “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

  Women and children were slowly coming out of the church, curious to see what was happening. The fishing boats furthermost out in the harbor had already sunk, but a still-rising column of black smoke gave mute testament to the destruction that had recently taken place.

  “We mean you no harm, Father,” said Caffarone hoping to calm the man with his words. “We are not from the devil, but are God-fearing men like yourselves. It is true we possess powers you cannot imagine, but we do not use them to conquer. We could destroy the entire town in minutes if that were our intention, but it is not. We only want the men who came on the strange boat. We wish to take them home.”

  “And wh…where is th...that?”

  “It's a land far away across the sea.”

  “Ch...Chi…China? Th…They do not look like y...you.”

  “Not China, but a land even beyond China,” said Caffarone, hoping this answer would satisfy the cleric.

  The Italian priest nodded, although his wide eyes betrayed the fact that he could not conceive of anything beyond China, a land which he knew lay at the very edge of the world.

  The citizens of Livorno listened in silence to the exchange between priests, taking advantage of the opportunity to study the foreigners at close range.

  Fleming stared back, trying to imagine the thoughts going through their collective minds. These strangers are so tall! Their faces are smooth; there’s no sign of pox. Fleming remembered reading that very few adults in Medieval Europe had escaped the ravaging punishment of smallpox, and those lucky enough to be alive after the disease had passed, were left with disfigured faces. But this was life, and the survivors’ countenances were mute testament to a destructive disease that knew no cure.

  Fleming in turn examined them. The tallest guy can't be much over five feet. He could see and smell their poverty. Most were dressed in clothes that were old, threadbare, and dirty. He turned his attention to Caffarone and listened, though he had no idea what they were saying.

  “And where are you holding those men?” Caffarone pressed, smiling as he spoke.

  The priest paled again. “Y ... you are a priest?”

  “I am a priest.”

  “Then you will understand.” He paused to gather his thoughts, then began slowly. “The Cardinal from the great city of Pisa happened to be in our town when the infidels came. He had come to honor us with his presence for Holy Week. Never had the cardinal come to our humble town for such an important occasion. It was his plan to celebrate the feast of the resurrection of Christ with us, but the evil ones changed all that! Within one hour of their arrival, they cast a spell from Lucifer, and His Eminence became ill. He is growing weaker by the hour. It was he who told us that the sons of Lucifer have placed a curse upon him, and that they must be put to death at the stake. He said they are soldiers in the army of the Prince of Darkness, and enemies of the Holy Father in Rome. His word is final, and only he now holds the power to rescind that order. But he is dying and cannot speak. His orders must be carried out under pain of mortal sin. He speaks with the authority of the Holy Father in all such matters. I must obey.”

  Caffarone turned to the others and repeated what had been said.

  “This is going from bad to worse,” said Gowdy.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” added Blizzard, his mind racing, trying to figure out their next step.

  The Italian priest spoke up, his voice shaking. “We have been bound to silence by His Eminence, and even if you should put us to the sword, we cannot tell you where the infidels are being held. We must obey our cardinal.”

  Caffarone translated.

  “Tell him we have no intention of killing anyone, God damnit!”

  “Captain, I must protest your profanity on the very doorstep of the House of God,” Caffarone said, his voice filled with righteous anger.

  Blizzard reddened with embarrassment. “You're right, Padre. I'm sorry.”

  Fleming spoke up. “Captain, we have a doctor here. See if this fellow will allow Doctor Silver to take a look at his cardinal. Maybe there’s something we can do.”

  “Padre, explain to him that maybe we can help his cardinal. It's worth a try.”

  Just then both Blizzard’s and Gowdy’s radios came to life. “Ground party, this is Firefly one. Everything OK down there?” It was the hovering helicopter’s pilot.

  The people murmured in wide-eyed amazement. Voices were coming out of the little black boxes held by the strangers. It was incredible. They could speak, just like the men holding them.

  Gowdy replied. “Everything's fine, Firefly one. Return to the LZ but stay in touch. Out.”

  The helicopter swung away and headed north.

  Caffarone turned back to the priest. “It is possible we can help the cardinal. This man,” he added, pointing to Lieutenant Silver, “is a physician, just like St. Luke, and he has great powers of healing. Please trust him to look at His Eminence.”

  The prelate wrung his hands helplessly as Caffarone correctly read his dilemma. What should I do? If only I had someone in higher authority to consult. I’m but a simple parish priest and know nothing about such important things. Finally, he nodded his assent, while dropping his shoulders in a show of utter despair.

  “Father Caffarone, tell him to have his parishioners return to their homes,” said Blizzard in a quiet voice. “Assure him no harm will come to anyone.”

  The parish priest relayed the message to his congregation, speaking now in dialect rather than Latin. They obeyed without protest and slowly walked away.

  The overwhelmed priest beckoned the Americans to follow him around to the back of the church to what was obviously the priest's home. It was two story, built of stone, and unlike any other house they had seen in Livorno, this one actually had glass windows.

  Blizzard nodded to the SEALs. “I need you both to remain outside in case a mob forms.”

  Fleming and the others followed the Italian priest into a small foyer. The drab interior had been whitewashed to present a brighter appearance, and in a niche stood a marble statue of a woman holding an infant in her arms. To her side was a pedestalled marble basin of holy water.

  A young girl who had been standing in the shadows took a step forward and bowed low to the visitors. The priest spoke to her in whispers and pointed to Lieutenant Silver. She beckoned the strangers to follow her upstairs.

  The house was cold and damp. Fleming saw little evidence of any items for creature comfort. The meager furnishings were strictly utilitarian. He spotted a fireplace but noted that it hadn't held a fire in ages. “Not the best of comforts for a dying patient,” he murmured to Lieutenant Silver as they entered a darkened bedroom. He could see an old woman holding a cloth to the head of a figure lying bundled beneath a mound of covers.

  Silver went over to the one small window and opened its wooden shutters, allowing in the rays of waning sunlight along with much needed fresh air.

  The physician reached out to the Italian priest and placed a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Tell him I'll be gentle with his cardinal,” he said, and Caffarone relayed a translation.

  The cardinal lay on his back, eyes closed, mouth agape. His face was ashen, and beads of perspiration dotted the thinning hair line. The patient appeared to be in his early fifties.


  Silver picked up a limp wrist, looked at his watch and began a pulse count. When finished, he slipped a thermometer under the cardinal’s tongue. Next, he opened the eyes one at a time, checking each with an ophthalmoscope. Silver read the thermometer, shook his head, then spoke. “His pulse is one hundred and fifty, and his temperature is one hundred and four. We have an extremely sick man here.”

  The parish priest spoke rapidly to Father Caffarone. The American nodded and turned to the physician.

  “He says that the cardinal has been like this since last night. He could not hold down any food or water. Everything keeps coming back up.”

  Silver nodded, and gingerly pulled aside the covers. The patient groaned once, but otherwise remained motionless. He was covered with a long, coarse, grey gown. “Help me get this robe up as far as we can, Father.” Silver lightly probed a large mass in the groin, studying the protrusion with his fingers. The skin was dry and hot to the touch. The man groaned again, this time longer and louder. Still, the eyes did not open.

  Silver turned to Blizzard. “He has a hernia, Captain, and highly likely it’s strangulated. This means the intestine has intruded into a body cavity, and in the process has become wrapped around itself. My best guess is that gangrene has already set in, and if we want to save him, we're going to have to operate within the next couple of hours. We wait any longer, he'll die.”

  “Right here?” said a surprised Blizzard.

  Silver shook his head. “No, Sir. His only hope is for us to get him back to the carrier where we can do the job properly. It's his only chance, and a slim one at best.”

  “Damn!”

  “How long would the operation take?” Fleming asked.

  Silver pursed his lips and glanced down at the swollen figure on the bed. “At least an hour, but with unforeseen complications, maybe two, or more.”

  Blizzard walked over to the window and looked out. He stood there for fifteen seconds then turned to the doctor.

  “OK. Prepare him to be taken out to the carrier.”

  “Captain, I’ll need you to radio the ship so I can speak with Doctor Potter. I’ll tell him the problem so that he'll be ready to move as soon as the patient is aboard.”