POINT OPTION: A Time-Travel Military Thriller

by Ian A. O'Connor

  “Feels good to be underway again,” said Paige, still studying the screen. “Right or wrong, at least we're taking some kind of action to help ourselves, and that's all that counts.”

  “I'll drink to that,” replied Blizzard. “Let's get our butts upstairs, Al. I'll speak with the admiral from the bridge and let him know what's happening.”

  * * * * *

  Forty minutes later the aircraft carrier was cutting a path through the night seas, throwing up an impressive wake as she headed for her rendezvous point. The LBJ had come to life as thousands of sailors below decks acted in concert to bring the ship to flight quarters. The busy twenty-four-hour schedule had started again after a two-day standdown which had still not yet been explained, but to a man, the crew understood theirs was not to reason why. Hopefully, the admiral and the skipper both knew the score was the thought racing through most of their minds.

  Blizzard stood engrossed with the strange arc formation on the radar scope, and still puzzled by the void being left in its wake. He had never seen anything like it in his twenty-plus years at sea. Sure, the radar return had been unusual just before the LBJ had passed across the time-barrier forty-eight hours earlier, but nothing compared to this. Previously, the radar screens had painted a picture of the carrier sailing headlong into a barrel, but events had happened so fast there hadn't been time to understand what was happening. This scenario was immeasurably different, but he realized now that only time would tell whether or not they were embarked on a fool’s errand. Major Fleming stepped onto the bridge, and as he was about to render a salute, Blizzard was interrupted by a yeoman. “Captain, a call for you.” He held a phone for Blizzard.

  “Captain speaking.”

  “Captain, this is Senior Chief Petty Officer Clarke in engineering.”

  “Yes, Senior Chief, what's the problem?”

  “We have a stowaway, Captain. At least I think he’s a stowaway, Sir.”

  “What do you mean, a stowaway?” Blizzard asked absently, studying the picture on the radar scope.

  “Captain, I'm holding onto a kid right now. He wandered in here dressed in a hospital gown about two sizes too big, and he's got some sort of a medical journal and a Popular Mechanics magazine tucked under his arm. And he refuses to say a word.”

  Blizzard's face turned white. Josephus!

  In the confusion and rush of the afternoon's events, everyone had forgotten about the boy, and now they were plowing through the seas, sailing away not only from Livorno, but hopefully from the year 1463 as well.

  “Oh Lord,” thought Blizzard, a pit forming in his stomach. What in the name of God am I going to do? “Hold on, Chief, I'll be right back to you.” Blizzard put the senior chief on hold and switched on the PA.

  “Attention, attention, this is the Captain. CAG and Commander Caffarone, call the bridge immediately.” He repeated the command then reconnected with Clarke.

  “Senior Chief, take the kid to the hospital immediately and wait there with him. Don't let him out of your sight. Father Caffarone will meet you. I want you to turn him over to Father Caffarone, and only Father Caffarone. Understand?”

  “Understood, Sir.”

  Blizzard held the receiver in a vicelike grip and spoke with Gowdy who was waiting on hold. He explained the problem, then said, “Sean, get a helicopter ready to launch, and I mean like yesterday, to take that kid back to Livorno. I suggest using the same pilots we had this afternoon because they're familiar with the town and will know where to land. Have the computer prepare their flight plan based on our present course and speed. And, Sean, make sure those guys know how to find their Point Option, because our radios and navigation aids could go down any moment. Remember, if they miss Point Option, good chance they’ll be lost forever!”

  “We'll be ready in ten minutes. I'll meet Caffarone and the kid on the flight deck.”

  Caffarone was next on hold. Again, Blizzard explained the problem and told the priest to meet Josephus in the ship's hospital. “Take him up to the flight deck, Padre, a helicopter will be waiting to take him ashore. I want you to go with him, so he won't be too scared.” After a moment’s pause, he added, “Padre, I'll meet up with you on the flight deck. Now hurry.”

  “You want me to get his clothes from the ship's laundry, Captain?”

  “There’s no time for that. He's going to have to travel in hospital PJs. Get him some warm socks and a heavy sweater to wear underneath a robe. Move, move, move!”

  Blizzard hung up and turned to face Paige and Fleming. “Can you believe it? Damn!” He slammed his fist into his palm. “Of all the frigging bad luck, and at the worst possible moment.”

  He turned to the helm and ordered the speed reduced to fifteen knots. “As soon as the helicopter is clear, I want you to return to twenty-five knots, then maintain the same heading and speed. We're not coming around into the wind. The pilots are just going to have to manage with the existing conditions.”

  Blizzard watched the forward elevator bring the helicopter up to the flight deck. A couple of mechanics were still working underneath it when one gave the signal to start the turbines. The huge rotors began turning, slowly at first, then faster and faster as power built up. A minute later, under the glow of the red night lights, the pilot taxied slowly away from the elevator and back towards the center of the flight deck.

  “You have the bridge, Al. I’ll be back in five minutes.” Blizzard hurried down from the island to join CAG, Caffarone, and the boy.

  “Everything set?” he yelled in Gowdy's ear.

  “Ready. The crew’s been briefed and told to expect the worst. They know how to find Point Option and will stay in radio contact at all times.”

  Blizzard nodded and turned to Father Caffarone who was holding the boy’s hand in a firm grip. If the lad was scared because of the noise, he didn’t let it show.

  “Ready, Padre?” Blizzard yelled at the priest.

  “All set, Captain.”

  “Thanks, Padre. I'll see you when you get back.” He then looked down at Josephus, smiled, and tousled his hair. “Good-bye, son, and good luck.”

  The boy smiled back, obviously understanding the meaning, if not the words. Caffarone helped him into the helicopter then climbed aboard. The pilot spooled the turbines up to full power and slowly lifted off the deck, hovering close, all the while turning the huge machine into the wind, then started forward, the nose down while picking up speed and altitude. When the helicopter reached one hundred feet, it turned, and set a course for Livorno.

  Blizzard returned to the bridge to be told by his XO that the admiral had called about the helicopter. “He just wants to be kept apprised of what’s happening.”

  “We'll keep him in the loop,” replied Blizzard, turning his attention to the radar screen. The strange arc was still there but closer, and it was becoming more circular in shape. He rang down to the CDC and asked for Birdwell.

  “Birdwell here, Captain.”

  “Reece, I’m studying the radar return and it's dawned on me that we never saw this kind of display on Sunday.” After a momentary pause he added in a not-so-sure voice, “Or did we?”

  ‘No, you're right, we didn't. I've been kicking that around with some Raytheon reps, and they kinda remember seeing something similar earlier in the week, but said it lasted for less than a few seconds. It was as if two time zones were about to fuse with each other, but that an unknown, repelling counterforce finally won out. The only reason we know this is because the mainframe computer sounded an alarm.”

  “And now?”

  “And now, Captain, for some inexplicable reason our radar returns are suggesting a second time zone is coexisting in real time with the time we're in now, and as that arc moves across the screen and becomes more circular in shape, it's literally casting aside other centuries, other time zones if you will, and leaving them behind in its wake. And that explains the expanding void we’re seeing on the radar screens.” After a momentary pa
use, he added quietly, “That' s our theory, Sir, we just can't say for sure.”

  “Keep me posted, Commander.”

  Paige, who had been reading the ship's eLogBook, paused, pointed a finger at the electronic pad, and asked, “Miles, what do you plan to do about this if and when you return to the real world? Entries for those days spent in 1463 will look mighty odd.”

  “I don't know,” Blizzard replied. “When Washington hears about this, the brass will demand that our eLogBooks be slapped with a top secret classification and impounded.”

  “Captain, could you come here, Sir?” said the helmsman's mate standing by the radar display. No sooner had he spoken than the intercom from CDC came alive.

  “Get that, Al,” Blizzard said, heading over to the radar scope. He looked, blinked, and looked again. The arc was gone! Vanished! The entire screen was lit up normally, the sweep of the electronic finger only showing a return of the coastline of Italy.

  “Is that Birdwell on the phone?” he asked Paige, without turning his head.

  “Aye, Boss” replied Paige.

  “Put him on speaker.” A second later, Blizzard asked, “What gives down there?”

  “I don't know, Sir. We're now painting a normal return. One moment the expanding arc was there, then in the next, poof, just like that, it was gone!”

  “Sounds like your bounce theory might be right,” said Blizzard, stunned by this unexpected turn of events. His mind raced for answers but found none. For the first time since Sunday, he honestly believed they had just lost their last chance of ever returning home.

  CHAPTER 22

  Wednesday, later that evening – June 23rd

  The phone call from the flag bridge demanded immediate attention. “Al, tell the admiral we’re aware of what's happened. His radar scope is showing the same as ours: one big fat zero. Ask him to standby; I'll get back to him as soon as I can.” Blizzard turned to Birdwell. “We'll remain on this heading because I'm not about to start flailing around in circles. How long would it have been until we intercepted that arc if it were still out there?”

  “One hour, forty minutes,” Birdwell replied.

  “Stay with it, at least until we recover the helicopter,” Blizzard said, then added, “Do we still have a good radio link with the chopper?”

  “We do, Captain. In fact, they're approaching the shore right now.”

  * * * * *

  The cockpit radar screen in the helicopter showed they were eight miles from the center of Livorno. The pilot banked left and headed toward his planned landing zone on the open road leading to Pisa. When he was one hundred feet off the deck, he switched on his landing light and studied the terrain. Everything looked clear.

  Father Caffarone sat close to Josephus, the boy obviously not scared in the least by the noise from the turbines and rotating blades. They had been chatting as best they could, and Josephus had said how he would have liked staying on the big iron ship a while longer.

  He was enjoying the flight, nodding his head to signal he understood Caffarone’s explanation as to how the strange metal machine could fly like a bird. Caffarone smiled to himself, knowing it was impossible for any child to understand the physics involved.

  As they made their descent, he checked Josephus one last time to make sure that his clothes were tightly fastened. The night was chilly, and he was concerned his young friend could catch cold, or worse.

  Caffarone placed his lips close to the boy’s ear. “Nunc, oportet pergens ad avunculus tuus domus.” “Now, you must go straight to your uncle's house.”

  “Etiam, Pater. Promitto. Non me diu.” “Yes, Father, I promise. It will not take me long.”

  “Good boy.” As he spoke, Caffarone spotted the corner of a magazine cover peeking out of the boy's hospital robe pocket. It was an illustrated quarterly from the Merck Pharmaceutical Company printed for the American College of Surgeons. How Josephus had gotten a hold of it Caffarone had no idea, but knew he couldn’t let the boy keep it.

  They were now in a hover, flying mere inches off the ground. “Josephus, erit tibi dic mihi verum nomen tuum?” “Josephus, will you tell me your real name?” Caffarone asked. “I'd like to know the name of my young friend in Livorno.” He smiled as he spoke. “I promise I would never tell your uncle where you've been. That will be our secret.”

  The lad thought about this, his small face reflecting the struggle within. Finally, he nodded, and told Caffarone. The priest's eyes widened. He placed his mouth closer to the boys ear and asked him to repeat what he had just said. He looked closely at the youth in the dim light, then seeing the look of alarm flitting across his face, quickly patted him on the shoulder and smiled reassuringly. “You've been a good boy, and I'll always remember you, Josephus,” Caffarone shouted above the din of the engines. The helicopter was now on the ground, and the co-pilot had come back to see the boy out safely.

  “Tell him to run far away from the helicopter, Father. We don't want him tossed around by the wash from the turning blades.”

  Caffarone explained this to the boy. He nodded, reached over, and gave Caffarone a hug.

  “Goodbye, Pater Eugenio.”

  “Goodbye, son, and may God go with you.”

  The co-pilot watched Josephus run off into the darkness and disappear. “All clear,” he called to the aircraft commander, and settled into his position in the left seat. The huge blades began rotating faster as power was applied. The helicopter lifted off slowly and turned into the wind.

  “Steve, set the course to our Point Option,” said the pilot-in-command, “and you’ll fly this return leg to the LBJ.”

  “Roger that, I have the helicopter,” Steve replied, placing his hand firmly on the stick between his knees. “We’ll be on the deck in forty minutes.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Wednesday late evening to night -June 23rd

  “Captain, it’s back,” the seaman monitoring the radar screen shouted in an excited voice.

  Blizzard was beside him in an instant. And there it was! The strange arc was back, only now much closer. He punched the intercom to the CDC. “Birdwell, what's the distance?”

  “Forty nautical miles and closing, Captain.”

  “How about the chopper? What's her position?”

  “About ninety-four nautical miles out, Sir. She's indicating one fifty-five knots, and we should have it recovered and secured before rendezvous.” No sooner had he spoken than all the radar screens went blank.

  “What the hell’s happening?” asked a startled Blizzard as he began a fine-tuning of the dials on the radar screen.

  The sailor beside him shook his head. “I don't know, Sir.”

  “Captain, this is Birdwell. We've just lost all radar and radios, which means we’re no longer in touch with the helicopter.”

  “Keep this line open,” said Blizzard while turning to Paige, and the duty officer. “Plot our location relative to the last known position of that arced wall and to the chopper. I want to know how soon we'll recover the helo before we hit that thing.”

  The three were working on the problem when a call came from the meteorological division.

  “Captain, this is Hirshberger. The outside temperature has risen ten degrees in the past five minutes, and barometric pressure is rising. I have no explanation other than to say our instruments are not malfunctioning. And, Sir, if you look outside you'll notice there’s a fog or mist closing in around us.”

  Blizzard peered into the night. Mere minutes earlier the visibility had been unlimited. Now he could barely see the bow.

  His thoughts immediately turned to the helicopter. If they were flying into this fog without radar or radios, there was a very strong possibility they could miss the carrier completely, even if they flew to their Point Option with absolute precision. He made a quick decision.

  “Duty officer, light up the ship,” he commanded. “Not the night lights, but everything we’ve got, including our searchlights,
but direct them forward and not upward so that we don't blind the pilots. I want the LBJ to be seen no matter how bad this fog gets.”

  Within moments, the fog-enshrouded ship was bathed in an eerie white light, while the beams from the huge forward-facing searchlights cut two brilliant paths into the night.

  “Birdwell, talk to me. What's going on?” Blizzard wanted to know.

  “We’re now inside a very disruptive forcefield of some kind. I’m thinking it’s because that arc is closing in on us, but without any radar images, there's no way of knowing for sure.”

  Blizzard got on the ship’s loudspeaker to command the helicopter recovery team on the flight deck to stand by for a hard landing. He glanced at the bulkhead clock. Time was running out. The three officers on the bridge now turned their eyes outside, willing the helicopter to appear.

  “Captain, this is Lieutenant Diebold on the flight deck,” came a shouted metallic voice over the intercom. “We’re seeing a landing light being switched on and off at our six o'clock, directly off the stern.”

  “You sure?” replied Blizzard.

  “We’re sure,” came the reply. “We can barely hear the engine above the wind noise.”

  “Dowse all white lights and go to red. No, on second thought,” he corrected himself, “keep one searchlight on, but tilt her up forty-five degrees. It'll act as a beacon but won’t blind them.”

  Blizzard, the XO, and the duty officer stood shoulder to shoulder with noses pressed to the large shatterproof bridge windows and squinted into the fog to watch the helicopter land.

  Admiral Taylor came onto the bridge with Manny Eisenhauer one step behind.

  They all saw it at the same moment. The helicopter suddenly appeared like some otherworld apparition from inside the swirling fog, hovered momentarily, then scurried crablike across the pitching deck before slamming down hard abeam of the island.

  Two yellow-shirted sailors raced toward it, leaning low into the wind, and disappeared underneath to secure the Sikorsky to the metal deck.