POINT OPTION: A Time-Travel Military Thriller

by Ian A. O'Connor

  A blinding flash of emerald-green light turned night into day, followed a split-second later by a deafening explosion. The shockwave rippled through the carrier, causing many sailors on all decks to grab at handrails, while those less fortunate stumbled and fell like skittles. The lights on the LBJ went out. One second passed, two seconds, then three, and the lights flickered back on.

  Blizzard had been thrown to the bridge’s deck, landing hard on top of Manny Eisenhauer. He slowly picked himself up and staggered to the intercom. “This is the Captain,” he shouted. “Damage report from all departments. Nuclear engineering, report immediately.” It was a replay of Sunday.

  Commander Castle answered moments later. “Castle in nuclear engineering. No damage here, but I think both reactors shut down for several seconds. We're still checking everything, but at first glance the entire system seems to be one hundred percent safe.”

  “Thanks, Walt. Give me a full report as soon as you can.”

  The other departments began calling in to confirm only minor damage.

  Then a jubilant Birdwell came on the line. “Captain, look at the radar screens. We’re back in our own time! The whole freaking strike group is out there!”

  Blizzard limped to his screens and let loose a whoop. Birdwell was right. They were home!

  Commander Sewell cut in. “Captain, this is the communications officer. All radio and nav aids are functioning normally. The Truman is calling, Captain. They say that we disappeared completely from their radar screens for almost two minutes, and they’re saying they couldn’t raise us on any channel. They want to know if anything’s wrong over here?”

  Two minutes? thought Blizzard, his mind racing for an explanation. We’ve only lost two minutes? Commander Sewell needed an answer. “Ed, inform the Truman that everything is fine over here, but don't volunteer anything more.”

  Sewell came back less than a minute later. “Captain, the Truman is asking for a position report from us. They say the satellite shows we’re eighteen miles from where we were just two minutes ago. They’re sure sounding puzzled. Also, Captain, we’ve reacquired the signals from the atomic clocks on the satellites and they all show we’ve been disconnected for two minutes.”

  I'll bet the folks over there on the Truman are puzzled, thought Blizzard. “Tell Truman we’ve been having some minor glitches with our nav equipment and radios, but everything’s OK now. Stand by one, Ed. Don’t hang up.” He turned to the admiral. “Sir, I recommend we rendezvous with the Truman in the morning, and then rejoin our strike group after first light. We should have been in touch with the Chief of Naval Operations by then, and maybe have a sense as to what’s coming next.”

  “Fine, Miles, that's great,” replied a beaming Admiral Taylor, clapping his hands in a rare display of emotion. He then danced a little jig. “Gentlemen, we’ve made history by actually doing what folks have dreamed of since time immemorial. We’ve traveled into the fourth dimension and returned. I know, I know, that’s physically impossible, all sane people would tell us that, to which I would reply: “Then we’ve just done the impossible!”

  Everyone joined the admiral in a round of congratulatory handshakes. Blizzard disconnected from Sewell, then ordered the helmsman to reduce speed to fifteen knots. He turned to the officer of the deck and told him to set a course to rendezvous with the Truman.

  All eyes turned as Father Caffarone came onto the bridge. He was cradling his left arm at the elbow, a bloodstain spreading on his shirt at the shoulder.

  Blizzard strode towards the priest. “Padre, what in the heck happened? You should be down in sick bay.”

  “I'm going as soon as I leave here. I stupidly cut myself when we landed,” Caffarone said.

  “It'll require a few stitches, but nothing's broken … at least I hope not.”

  Blizzard wasn’t having any of that talk. “Father, nothing is so important that it couldn't have waited until you were patched up,” he said with genuine concern in his voice.

  “Not so, Captain,” Caffarone replied. He turned to face the entire group. “Gentlemen, we traveled back in time and we returned, yet we managed to accomplish what every Grade B movie admonishes against: Do nothing to affect the course of history. We tried to follow that advice, but failed on a grand scale.”

  “How so?” Admiral Taylor asked, brow furrowed, tone skeptical.

  “The boy, Josephus,” Caffarone replied.

  “Oh poppycock, Padre,” replied a visibly relieved Admiral Taylor with a dismissive wave of his hand. “For a moment I thought you were going to tell us something truly earth-shattering.” He laughed in obvious relief. “That youngster is just a child, Commander. My goodness, he'll remember the whole affair as nothing more than an exciting dream.”

  “Well, how's this for a big, fat nothing, Admiral,” Caffarone replied, then waited a couple of beats to say in a hushed voice, “Our young visitor was none other than Leonardo da Vinci!”

  “Josephus?” This one word response from a stunned Manny Eisenhauer.

  “Yes, Josephus. I asked him his real name as he was about to get off the chopper and his exact words were ‘I am Leonardo, from the town of Vinci.’ The same Leonardo we know as the world's most famous inventor, scientist, painter, dreamer, or whatever else you choose to add. And now we know why. That twelve year-old saw the twenty-first century from the vantage point of a nuclear carrier, and he remembered everything his young eyes beheld. And boy oh boy, did he ever get an eyeful! Helicopters, airplanes, scuba divers, cannons, machinery of all stripes, and even anatomy books,” he added, fishing a medical journal from a pocket with his good hand and placing it on the chart table. “This was in his pocket. God knows what else he might have had hidden under his clothes, there simply was no time for me to search him.”

  A deflated Father Caffarone paused for several seconds to look at each man individually, then said, “Leonardo da Vinci got to peek behind the curtain, and we in turn got to uncover the truth behind his brilliance. Leonardo da Vinci, the Renaissance Man, was an utter fraud!”

  None spoke, all too stunned by the revelation.

  Caffarone shook his head and shuffled silently off the bridge without a backward glance.

  A shocked Major David Fleming kept hearing Caffarone’s damning indictment ringing in his ears: Leonardo da Vinci, the Renaissance Man, was an utter fraud!

  CHAPTER 24

  Thursday early morning – June 24th

  Fleming stood by the railing on the hangar deck flanked by Hamilton and Caldwell. The three were watching the Félicité being lowered into the water.

  The day was young, but already the temperature was seventy degrees, and not a cloud marred the sky. It was ten minutes past six. The LBJ lay still in the water, and the trio could clearly see the Truman standing-by some three miles in the distance.

  Blizzard and his XO appeared, escorting the rescued group of five men and two women. Their clothes had been laundered during the night, and as they made their way toward the stairway, they showed no physical signs of their recent hellish nightmare.

  Probably still don't know what to make of it all, Fleming thought as he studied them, knowing what their fate would have been had Blizzard not intervened.

  The Félicité’s captain carried several nautical charts tucked under his left arm, but before descending, saluted Blizzard, then proffered his hand. Blizzard's words carried to the three pilots.

  “We’ve provisioned your boat with food and water, Captain, and we've thoroughly checked your radios and navigation aids. You already had plenty of fuel on board, and my weather officer tells me you can expect clear sailing all the way to Monte Carlo.” He paused to look down at the Félicité before continuing. “I suggest you, your crew, and your passengers forget your unpleasant experience of the past couple of days. Should you tell your story to the press and mention my ship in any way, I would deny everything. I would counter by telling how the LBJ had come to the aid of a stricken luxury yac
ht in the middle of the Med and discovered everyone aboard incapacitated from partying with alcohol and illegal drugs. You see, Captain, what happened cannot be revealed at this time, and possibly never.”

  The sailor stared a long moment at his rescuer. “Then so be it, Captain. I understand what you say, but I don't for the life of me know why. None of us have suffered lasting injuries, praise Allah, yet you are telling me that those days we spent in that filthy dungeon never existed. And you have shown me that today’s calendar supports what you are telling me. It is beyond my grasp.” He glanced back at his passengers standing a few feet away, then lowered his voice. “I do not think the two owners would want to explain to their wives back in Bahrain just who their female companions were when the incident took place. Nothing will be said of our experience.”

  Fleming watched the Félicité cast off and remained at the railing as it motored away, a frothy white rooster tail blossoming as it gained speed.

  Caldwell suggested they go below for breakfast. “I've been in this man’s Navy a long time, Dave, and I’ve never experienced a week like this. First, we stood down from flight quarters, just like that,” he said with a snap of his fingers. “No explanation given. Next, we hoisted a civilian pleasure cruiser on board like it’s an everyday occurrence, and a day later a bunch of Arabs from God knows where arrive in one of our helicopters accompanied by Captain Blizzard, CAG, you, and a couple of SEALs. Aircraft carriers on station don't do those things, yet we sure did.” After a long pause, he asked, “Will us peons ever find out what really happened this week?”

  Fleming exhaled loudly. “I honestly don't know,” he replied. “I was ordered to keep my mouth shut, and until I'm told otherwise, I'm afraid I can't say anything more about it. But I can tell you with certainty it’s over, and life should be back to normal before day’s end.”

  At ten o'clock the captain announced that a return to flight quarters would resume at twelve hundred hours and continue for the next three days.

  Fleming's Tiger Sharks launched first. The day's flying schedule called for the air wing’s entire complement of the combat aircraft to be aloft at the same time. Bringing the fight to the enemy in a shock and awe display of overwhelming force was the raison d'etre for the existence of all of the Navy’s nine air wings.

  With the first wave of fighters aloft, the deck was re-spotted with Hornets to be fueled, loaded, and then launched, with all this taking place before the first flight could be recovered. It called for an intricate ballet of exquisite coordination and split-second timing on the part of sailors working in seven disciplines, each identified by their blue, purple, green, yellow, red, brown, and white shirts. A carrier flight deck during air operations is the most dangerous place on earth and is a testament to the bravery and skill of men and women whose average age is just nineteen.

  * * * * *

  Fleming was returning to his cabin when CAG called him into his office.

  Gowdy was seated behind his metal desk, his booted feet perched on top, his helmet and oxygen mask lying nearby. He was drinking iced-tea and reading a journal about the F-35C.

  “At ease, have a seat,” he said, pointing with his can of tea toward the lone metal chair by his desk. “How did the day’s flying go?”

  “Fine, Sir. No twinges of apprehension because of the ejection,” he added. “Same goes for Chuck. It was a good flight.”

  “Glad to hear it. I've been flying for over twenty years and I've never had to part company with my plane … and I hope I never will,” he added with a lopsided grin. “I'm now way too old for that kind of an adventure.” He took another swig from his drink. “I spoke with the admiral a few minutes ago, and he informed me that you, Captain Blizzard, myself, Father Caffarone, and Commander Birdwell are going on a TDY (Temporary Duty) trip.”

  “Can I ask where we’re going, Sir?” said Fleming, showing surprise.

  “Home. More precisely, Washington. It seems that the Chief of Naval Operations wants to be briefed personally by the five of us about what happened this week. “We're to fly off the LBJ on Saturday and grab a flight to DC later that same day.”

  “How long do you think we'll be gone, Sir?”

  Gowdy shrugged. “No way of knowing. The ramifications of what we went through are enormous; heck, I don’t have to tell you that. The Pentagon will be setting up a top secret task group to study the whole possibility of traveling into the fourth dimension now that we’ve actually done it. We could be there a week, or maybe a month, I really can't say.”

  “Two questions, Sir. Can I tell my wife I'm coming, and can I tell her that I had to bail out a couple of days ago, or is that classified?”

  CAG took a moment to gather his thoughts and smiled. “Actually, that’s three questions, Fleming. First, there's nothing secret about the TDY. Two, its real purpose has been classified top secret, so we're going to DC on the pretext of preparing the LBJ and the air wing for transitioning to the F-35C later this year. You’ve been included because as an Air Force officer serving with a Navy Air Wing, the CNO thinks your unique input will be invaluable. That's what you’ll tell your wife and any of your buddies who ask. It’s the perfect cover story. As for your third question, there’s nothing to stop you from telling your wife that you had to punch out during a mission. However, the why is definitely classified, but the fact that you did so is going to become a part of your permanent medical record. That’s in case you develop problems later in your career because of the ejection. My advice would be that if you tell her, try to do so in a matter-of-fact way, as if you don’t see it as any big deal. Pilots’ spouses tend to worry. A lot. You follow me?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Good. That's all,” said Gowdy, returning Fleming's salute with his feet still up on his desk.

  Rank sure does ‘hath’ its privileges, Fleming thought with an inward smile as he headed to his cabin, delighting in the prospect of seeing Susan again so soon.

  * * * * *

  Four Navy officers and one Air Force officer boarded a Navy C-37B aircraft, a variant of the Gulfstream 550 Executive Jet, in Naples, Italy, on Saturday evening for a night flight to Washington DC.

  Fleming had called his wife that morning. “It’s about a nine-hour flight,” he explained, “so with all the time changes, we should be arriving about midnight, DC time. If you can catch a flight today, we can meet at your favorite hotel, the Willard. How does that sound, honey?”

  “Dave, is everything OK?” she had asked, the concern he heard in her voice was real. “I've had that horrible dream again all week, and it’s really frightened me. I’m worried I might be losing my mind.”

  “Everything's fine, I promise. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow. Love you, babe.”

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 25

  Washington Dc

  Sunday Morning - June 27th

  Fleming woke with a start. It him took a moment to remember where he was. Yeah, I’m in the Willard. He lay still and smiled into the darkness, the only sound a faint rustling coming from the room’s two air conditioning ducts. He turned to gaze at his still-sleeping wife. You really are one lucky dude, he reminded himself for the gazillionth time since their marriage eight months earlier. The illuminated dial on his Apple smartwatch showed 7:12, which meant the sun had been up for over an hour. Time to begin a day of just hanging out together.

  “You’re awake,” the voice beside him murmured. “Can we just stay in bed? We can order room service, watch TV, and maybe rut a time or two. How does that sound?”

  Fleming laughed aloud. “Well, I like the rutting part, but I’m thinking we should at least make a pretense of doing some other things.” He switched on the bedside lamp.

  Susan Fleming sat up wearing a pout, maintained the charade for two seconds, then burst into laughter. She threw her arms around his neck and the two embraced. For the next half-hour they made love with exquisite tenderness.

  Forty-five minutes later th
ey were finishing a leisurely breakfast in the Café du Parc. A day of sightseeing had been planned, beginning with a bus tour of the city. Fleming had learned long ago this was a must-do when visiting a new city, or one he hadn’t been to in ages.

  “I’ve loved this town and this hotel since I was a little girl,” Susan said, an index finger absently circling the rim of her empty water glass. “Daddy would take me here twice a year when he had business meetings, and we always stayed at the Willard. Once it was at Christmastime, and I’ll never forget the mountains of magical decorations in all the public areas. To me it was better than Disney World!” She sighed at the memory. “Mother tried to continue the tradition after daddy passed, but it was never the same.” She turned silent, lost in a memory of those days long gone.

  Fleming waited a few discreet moments, then said quietly, “I wish I had met your dad; he sounds like he loved his little girl a lot. Too often fathers get wrapped up in their busy careers as the years slip away until one day the little girl or little boy is all grown up and gone. I hope I’m not that kind of a dad when we have kids.”

  Susan reached across the table and entwined her fingers in his. Her smile melted his heart.

  “You’ll be the best father in the world, David Fleming. I’ve known that from the moment we met; it’s one of the reasons I fell head over heels for you.” She squeezed his hand harder, and the smile got bigger. He was in Heaven.

  “Let’s go play tourist, Mrs. Fleming,” he said, rising to his feet. Still holding hands, he guided her out of the dining room.

  CHAPTER 26

  Washington Dc

  Monday Morning early- June 28th

  On a sunny but steamy late June morning the five officers stepped through the door at the Mall Entrance to The Pentagon at eight o’clock, and into the air conditioned coolness of the world’s largest office building totaling a staggering six and-a-half million square feet.