POINT OPTION: A Time-Travel Military Thriller

by Ian A. O'Connor

  Blizzard nodded. “CAG and I will go outside with you to see if the chopper can get down here between the house and the church for a pick-up. It'll be a tight fit but will save us a long bumpy stretcher ride to the edge of town.”

  After giving instructions to Firefly one, Blizzard handed the radio to Silver. CDC patched him through to Doctor Potter who immediately grasped the seriousness of the patient’s condition. Silver ended by saying he would be injecting 10 milligrams of morphine and to let the operating room anesthetist know.

  Blizzard signaled to Silver that he needed to talk to Potter. “This is Blizzard, Clarence. How long is post-operative recovery for something like this?”

  “I’m reading your mind, Miles. Post operatively he should do fine, that is if you can get him here in time. There should be no need to keep him on the carrier. He can be flown back to shore and recuperate there. We’ll perform the operation laparoscopically, which means there’ll be no post op drains to contend with, and anyone can administer the antibiotic capsules we’ll leave.”

  “That’s good to hear because the LBJ must be prepared to move on a moment's notice. And, Clarence, please do your best, because your patient is the Cardinal of Pisa, and he holds the key to us saving the crew from the Félicité.”

  “Understand, Captain. If that's all, then I'm signing off and going to scrub. Doctor Datzman will be the one doing the actual surgery using our newest da Vinci machine. I consider him the best surgeon in the Navy, so that cardinal of yours will be in good hands.”

  Another voice came over the net. “Miles, this is Taylor. I overheard what you said. Is this the only way?”

  “It's the only way, Admiral. I'll explain when I see you, but we're going to have to move fast. I want us out of here as close to sundown as possible. I've got the helicopter coming in now for the pick-up. Out.”

  A minute later they heard the helicopter's engines, and while Blizzard and Silver returned to the house, Gowdy directed the pilot into an LZ. Five minutes later the cardinal was on board, sedated and secured.

  Father Caffarone had told the Italian priest that it was going to be necessary to take the cardinal away to be treated. He further explained that Lieutenant Silver knew what was wrong, but that other doctors were going to be needed to make the man well. He promised that the prelate would be returned safely in a couple of hours.

  Overwhelmed by events, the priest began to cry. These men possessed such powers that even if he objected, he knew there was nothing he could do to stop them. He nodded his head in mute agreement.

  Blizzard spoke directly to Caffarone.” I need you to stay here with CAG and Major Fleming. That way our new friend will know we intend to come back. I'm going out to the carrier with Silver and the patient, but I’ll return with the cardinal. Is that OK with you?”

  “Of course, Sir”

  He turned to CAG. “Sean, I’ll stay in touch, but if you need anything, just holler.”

  “I’m not anticipating any trouble, Miles. My only request is that you leave us some water. I don't relish the thought of drinking the local brand.”

  Blizzard grinned. Water bottles were handed over, and the helicopter lifted off, slowly inching its way upward to a safe maneuvering height, and once clear of the buildings, headed out to sea homing in on the LBJ’s lone TACAN radio signal.

  CHAPTER 19

  Wednesday late afternoon – June 23rd

  Two corpsmen inched their way forward in a crouch to meet the helicopter as it settled onto the deck. Even before the rotors had stopped turning, they eased the patient onto a metal trolley and started down to the hospital situated amidships on the second deck. Silver was one step behind, while Blizzard headed off in the opposite direction towards the island. The medical crew descended by an elevator connecting the hospital to the flight deck, one used solely to transport injured pilots and deck crew.

  A corpsman held open the swinging door leading into the Number One Surgery Operating Room. The cardinal was lifted onto the table, and through it all remained in a deep sleep.

  Doctor Potter and Doctor Datzman, the surgeon, were waiting along with a nurse anesthetist, two surgical nurses, and two corpsmen.

  “Let's see what we have here,” said Potter studying the cardinal, “but first I need some scissors.” He began cutting off the patient's clothing.

  “I'm going to start with Propofol,” the anesthetist said, and Potter simply nodded. Silver stood in the observation room, listening to the piped-in conversation. Potter glanced at Silver behind the glass barrier as he removed the last of the clothes and discarded them into a stainless-steel drum marked, Surgical Waste - Burn Only.

  “You're right, Saul. This fellow's in a bad way. How long has he been like this?” Potter asked as he sterilized the exposed belly.

  “Onset was forty-eight hours ago, but he really turned sour yesterday evening.”

  “Let’s get started,” Potter said, nodding to Datzman now seated at his surgeon’s console and studying the monitor before him. He flexed his fingers for a moment, then began maneuvering the four robotic arms of the da Vinci Surgical System.

  It was a well-organized team. Working steadily, the surgeon was soon inside the body cavity. The intestine had penetrated the peritoneum and had become badly tangled.

  “It's gangrenous all right,” said Potter, mainly for Lieutenant Silver's benefit, although the flight surgeon could see the problem for himself on the observation room TV monitor. “Doctor Datzman will have to do a resection. I don't think he would have lasted another hour.”

  They worked steadily, saying little. Twelve inches of infected intestine was excised, and the two exposed ends robotically reunited. The tear in the peritoneal wall was repaired, and after a thorough review of their worksite, Potter gave the OK to Datzman for withdrawing the 3-D cameras from inside the patient and start the closing procedure. “Looks good, Saul,” he said for the flight surgeon’s benefit.

  * * * * *

  Blizzard arrived on his bridge a half-dozen paces ahead of Al Paige. “The admiral is staying down in CDC for the time being,” said the XO by way of greeting.

  “Is he getting in everybody's hair?” asked Blizzard.

  “No, he's staying pretty quiet, Miles. He has Manny and a couple of other senior staff with him. Frankly, I think he's really worried about our whole situation.”

  Blizzard sat down in his captain's chair. From this vantage point he had an excellent view of the flight deck far below. He noted the two Hornets were again secured and loaded, ready to be moved onto the mag-lev catapults for launching on a moment's notice. Further back, two helicopters were also waiting, their crews on full alert, ready to liftoff immediately should the word be given. A third helicopter had been sent back to shore to provide a communications link between Sean Gowdy and the LBJ.

  Blizzard let loose a sigh. “Al, I'm worried too.” He looked at his watch. “It's been just over three days now, and I’m getting a bad feeling that even though it’s the right thing to help those folks on the Félicité, we just might have blown our chances of ever returning to our own time. Maybe if we had stayed in place, the same conditions would have re-occurred and we'd be out of this mess already.” A moment later, he added quietly, “I just don't know.”

  “The same thought has crossed my mind too, Boss, but I rejected the argument. We simply had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the right time. But so was that Russian sub, so were our Hornet crewmembers, ditto those folks on the French boat, and God only knows who else. What's more, who can say there aren't scores of other people, boats, and planes forever lost after being transported through a time portal into how many other centuries? Those folks have no hope of ever returning.”

  “That's a grim thought all right,” agreed Blizzard, with an involuntary shiver.

  “Indeed, it is, but back to my original point. Other than for the LBJ, Major Fleming, and the Russians, those other anomalies took place hundreds of square mile
s apart, which means this is no localized phenomenon. How it's happening, I don't know. Maybe it’s a one-off and won’t happen again for a thousand years, but there’s one thing that’s certain.”

  “And that is?” asked Blizzard, a quizzical look crossing his face.

  “That it sure happened to us!” Paige laughed at his own gallows humor.

  Blizzard eased himself out of his seat and began pacing. There was little to occupy the watch crew as the carrier was lying stationary in the water and had been since early morning.

  “No reasonable person would ever believe us,” he began. “This is the grist of the mill for cheap movies and comic books. It's a fantasyland; it’s the dreams of madmen throughout the ages; the ultimate imaginative journey to free us all from the drudgery of the moment. But like you just said, it sure has happened to us!”

  “Miles, do you remember hearing or reading about an incident that happened before our time; I mean like back in 1950s England?”

  Blizzard stopped his pacing and stared at Paige.

  “It was about 1953,” Paige continued, “when the inhabitants of a town woke up one day to find that they were receiving television signals which had been broadcast from several thousand miles away, and three years earlier! This phenomenon didn’t last just a couple of minutes or even hours. Oh, no, I seem to remember hearing it lasted a week, and the signal was coming from Station KLEE in Houston, Texas. For some reason those call letters have stuck in my mind all these years. Anyway, for those few days the people in that town in England were living in two time zones: the present, and the past. Well, the scientific community was rife with theories trying to explain away that one. Some suggested the TV signals had just yo-yoed for years in the atmosphere until finally returning to earth at that particular moment in time. Others claimed that the signal had beamed far out into space unimpeded for years, until it hit something, a planet or an asteroid, which then bounced it back to earth.” He shook his head in wonderment at the recollection. “I don’t remember hearing of anything like that happening before or since. It’s considered a classic tale in the sci-fi community.”

  “So, you’re saying that time is like a TV signal?” challenged Blizzard, with no scoffing tone in his voice. “Maybe that story was a complete hoax from the get-go, but over time it’s morphed into an urban legend?”

  Paige shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe there is a physical form of energy called time, and like all other forms of energy, it’s perpetual.” He paused, then added, “But here's a scarier possibility. Supposing someone or some nation has actually cracked the time-travel cosmic code and have developed the wherewithal to transport themselves backwards or forwards at will. I don’t mean as passive time travelers like we are right now, but they’ve found the way to actually take an active role in their transport. Heck, they could destroy their enemies then make a getaway by zipping off into the future or skedaddling back into the past! How's that for some nitty-gritty, science-fiction to pack in your pipe and smoke?”

  Blizzard laughed aloud. “It's a scary thought all right,” he managed, then changed the subject by asking a serious question. “Al, does the crew suspect anything?”

  “We have over five thousand nosy minds aboard, so, yes, rumors are flying, and some of them are hitting pretty close to the mark. The crew knows something’s up, and I would counsel that if we don't find a solution within the next forty-eight hours, they’re going to have to be told the truth. They have a right to know, Boss.”

  Blizzard nodded his agreement. “You're right. This morning I made some rounds and answered questions, and I could feel an uneasiness starting to manifest itself. If we’re still in the same situation forty-eight hours from now, I'll break the news.”

  “What about the admiral? Where does he fit in?”

  Blizzard let loose a mirthless laugh. “He’s a strike group commander without a command at the moment. In fact, he's an admiral of a country that won’t even exist for another three hundred years, while on the other hand, I sure do have a ship!”

  They went to work on ship's business, going over the scores of items that daily make demands of their time until the phone rang. It was Doctor Potter informing Blizzard that the surgery had been successful. The time was 2:45 in the afternoon, and the weather was turning noticeably colder. It was time to move.

  CHAPTER 20

  Wednesday, afternoon to dusk – June 23rd

  “CAG, the priest is asking if we want some food?”

  Gowdy shook his head. “Better not, Padre. Chances are we would come down with something but thank him for the offer.”

  The group was killing time walking slowly through the heart of Livorno. They were being followed at a discreet distance by a smattering of townsfolk. The Americans were becoming used to the smell.

  “When did you learn Latin, Father?” Fleming asked.

  “Years ago. It was a requirement in my senior year at the Catholic high school and for two semesters in college. I was a terrible student back then, but somehow managed to get passing grades. In the seminary things were different. In order to be ordained I had to learn Latin fluently. Oh, how I struggled, but then I was fortunate to spend two years at the Vatican and that's when I fell in love with the language.”

  “But I thought Latin wasn't used in the Church anymore?” pressed Fleming.

  “On a day-to-day basis, that's true,” Caffarone agreed. “And sad to say, many of our younger priests can't speak it at all! I suppose you could say a streak of pride lies within me because I try to read the scriptures in the Vulgate as written by St. Jerome back in the fourth century. All my hard work seems to have paid dividends these last couple of days, wouldn’t you say?”

  “It sure has, Father, and in spades.” replied Fleming.

  Gowdy was the first to spot Firefly two and radioed landing instructions. Five minutes later the pilots reported that all was quiet on the road and stated there were no new messages to be relayed from the carrier. It was now fifteen minutes to three; the sun was beginning to cast long shadows, and the day was turning noticeably colder.

  Their host told them of life in the small town. The people were simple, hard-working, God-fearing Christians who eked a meager living from the sea. Many had never ventured far from the outer edges of the town, and it was more the rule than the exception to say that the majority had never even been to Pisa. Politics meant nothing to them; they had no time to follow the goings-on of the princes and nobles in the surrounding city-states.

  Only a handful could understand a little Latin, but he alone in town could read and write it, at least that he was aware of, but confessed that even those skills were barely adequate.

  He went on to tell them that out of every ten babies born, two would live to five years of age, then only one would survive beyond that. It was God's plan, he explained, and all accepted the ways of God with a stoic humility. Most had contracted smallpox, and those who survived, bore the defacing scars of their hard-won battle. He remarked how rare it was to find the man or woman with a beautiful face and sparkling white teeth such as the strangers had.

  Girls were married by twelve, fourteen at the latest, the men a few years older. So many women died in childbirth that it was not at all uncommon for a man to have three and four wives in his lifetime. And that life usually ended around thirty. By then, most of one's teeth were long gone, and the eyes were no longer capable of good sight. Life was harsh, but it was God's plan.

  Food mostly consisted of fish, bread, and a few simple vegetables. Fruit was a treat enjoyed only in the fall. Rare was the day that anyone sat down to a meal of meat because just the rich could enjoy such a feast, and there were no rich people in Livorno. Life was hard, he repeated, but his people were content just knowing that God had prepared places for them in heaven.

  In turn, however, the priest could not glean much information from Father Caffarone about his faraway country and its customs but was surprised to learn he was fifty-one years old.
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  “But you have all your teeth!” he exclaimed.

  Caffarone then shocked the man by removing both uppers and lowers and grinning widely to show his naked gums before slipping his dentures back into place. Gowdy and Fleming had laughed heartily, and the Italian prelate joined them a few moments later.

  He marveled at their clothes, but spent a long time examining their boots. “A man could walk in those until he fell off the edge of the world,” he told Caffarone, “and still the boots would be as good as new.” He believed a small person lived inside Gowdy's radio, and the Americans did nothing to disabuse that belief.

  They strolled leisurely for the next twenty minutes, seeing the town from one end to the other. Only the main thoroughfare was cobblestoned; the others no more than dirt tracks leading down to the wharf and to the various pockets of homes. They saw an untold number of rats picking their way through piles of refuse while warily avoiding the group, but none scurried off to hide in the lengthening shadows.

  When they were within a few feet of the priest's house, Gowdy's radio came to life.

  “CAG, this is Firefly two with a message from LBJ. You prepared to copy?”

  “Read you five-by-five. Go ahead.”

  “LBJ says the operation was a success. The patient will be transported back at sixteen hundred hours on Firefly one. Captain Blizzard and Doctor Silver will be accompanying. They'll put down behind the church.”

  CAG keyed his radio. “Acknowledge to LBJ that we understand the message. Out.” He turned to Caffarone. “Tell our new friend his cardinal is doing fine and will be back shortly. Also, remind him the prisoners must be released to us so that we can leave.”

  The Italian prelate’s face broke into a wide grin. These strangers had performed a miracle.

  Fleming stood next to CAG as he guided Firefly one in for a smooth touchdown. It was a few minutes past four-thirty, and the chill in the air was becoming more evident.