POINT OPTION: A Time-Travel Military Thriller

by Ian A. O'Connor

  “Any bogies in the area, Dasher one?”

  “Negative, Bigfoot.”

  “Dasher one, this is Ajax, do you read?” Ajax was CAG's call sign.

  “Roger, Ajax, go ahead.”

  “Can you raise Sabre six visually?”

  “Give me a second.” Dasher one slowly inched closer until both canopies were only feet from each other. It was impossible to see into the cockpit.

  “Negative, Bigfoot. I can't get a visual. They could be dead in there, flying on autopilot.”

  As he spoke, his backseater alerted him to the fact that the damaged Hornet had just powered back its engines and had extended the speed brake. For some reason Robinson was slowing down. But at least they had proof he was alive.

  Dasher one and Dasher two backed away from the cripple, waiting to see what would happen next. Robinson kept bleeding off airspeed until he was down to one hundred and eighty knots. His next move caught both pilots by surprise. He blew away the canopy. The semi-cylinder of plexiglass began turning end over end as it began a long, graceful tumble down to the Mediterranean. The expected ejection of the crewmembers never materialized.

  “Bigfoot, Dasher one. Sabre six has just blown his canopy. He has his speed board out and he’s down to one eight zero knots. I'm going in for a closer look.”

  Dasher one again inched into a position beside the damaged airplane and was greeted by Robinson trying to wave a feeble recognition. He then held his hand to his helmeted ear indicating that his radios were gone. Dasher one rocked his wings to acknowledge that he understood.

  “Bigfoot, this is Dasher one. I'm in visual contact now with Sabre six. We'll guide him back to the boat. Recommend you be prepared for a hard landing. He's in bad shape and will not be able to do a go-around. Frankly, at this point I don't know if he'll be able to get his gear down. Also, I have no way to determine the condition of the backseater, he’s slumped low.”

  “Dasher one, this is Bigfoot. Understood. Be advised that Rocking Chair is your alternate in the event of a problem here.”

  “Roger.'' Rocking Chair was the Truman, and the Combat Direction Center was telling them that if Saber six crashed on the LBJ’s deck while attempting to land, then Dasher one and Dasher two would fly to the Truman for recovery.

  It took twenty minutes to get back to the carrier, the damaged Hornet flying slightly below and aft of Dasher one, so that he could always keep it in sight. Dasher two had pulled in as Tail End Charlie.

  Dasher one had planned the return trip for the three planes to descend rapidly to twelve hundred feet while maintaining a constant one-eighty airspeed. Dasher one wanted Saber six down from the freezing temperatures aloft. He knew that Robinson and his backseater would not last long in open cockpits at that higher altitude.

  They overflew the carrier for Robinson to get his bearings and set up his approach.

  Dasher one stayed with him all the way, realizing that Robinson was having a hard time just trying to see. Two rescue helicopters hovered nearby, and the destroyer escorts had been alerted to the very real possibility of the plane going into the ocean.

  The landing gear had come down only after Robinson had manually blown it down. It was an incredible feat of flying skill. He was high coming over the carrier’s lip, but must have realized there would be no go-around because he forced the huge jet onto the deck, and as the tail hook caught the number 3 wire, the impact tore off his left main landing gear. The plane sank to one side while the wheel assembly skidded crazily along the remaining length of the angle deck, and disappeared over the side. Before Robinson could shut down the engines, several asbestos-suited figures were already busy covering his plane with foam, while others had climbed up to the cockpits and were feverishly working on getting the crew out. Within moments, both men were on stretchers and being rushed down to the hospital. Damage to the angle deck had been negligible, and Dasher one and Dasher two landed ten minutes later without incident.

  Blizzard had gone down to the hangar deck, accompanied by Gowdy and Commander Ted Seymour, the chief maintenance officer. The plane had been cleaned of foam, and was now propped up on jacks, but basically looked as it had after landing an hour earlier.

  They spent several minutes carefully examining the aircraft, saying nothing, but seeing everything. The hangar deck crew kept a respectful distance; the department chief, a lieutenant commander, hovered nearby, making himself available for questions.

  Their inspection was interrupted by the arrival of Admiral Taylor and Captain Eisenhauer. The three officers were so preoccupied, that their first indication of the admiral’s presence was Eisenhauer clearing his throat and saying, “Gentlemen.'' All came to attention and saluted.

  “Tried calling you, Miles, but Al Paige said you had already gone below, so I took the liberty of coming down for a look-see myself.” Taylor pointed to the plane. “What in the blazes could have done this?”

  Blizzard shook his head. “I'm at a loss, Admiral,'' he said; then quickly added, ''we all are. Never seen anything like it. This plane was being torn apart, literally from the inside out, and we have no idea how or why.” As he spoke, he began a slow walking around the plane, pointing out various things for the admiral to take note of. The skin was so badly buckled and wrinkled that it resembled a prune. The paint had been stripped from all of its surfaces, and the now-bare metal and all of the advanced composite materials were dulled and pitted. The Hornet was a total loss.

  “Come look in the cockpits, Admiral,” Blizzard said as he climbed a ladder on one side, Taylor on the other. “For some reason, the electrical system was blown out, burning everything. You can see some of the wiring harnesses are completely fused together, telling me that one hell of an electrical charge went through them.” He gestured with his right hand to encompass the entire instrument panel. “All the static pressure instruments are kaput, and the only things the pilot had left to navigate by was his standby compass and Attitude Reference Indicator.”

  “Speculate for me, Miles. Say anything that comes to mind, no matter how wild. What do you think happened?”

  Blizzard shrugged his shoulders. “I can't even do that, Admiral. CAG and I both saw the two aviators as they were being taken to the hospital. They looked as if they should have already been dead. The back-seater was unconscious, but the pilot was in-and-out of it. Doctor Potter and his folks are working on them now and should have a preliminary report ready by early evening. Something bad happened to those two up there, Admiral, and I intend to find out what it was.”

  “I sure hope you do. Appreciate the walk-around tour, Miles.”

  Blizzard, Gowdy, and Commander Seymour spent another half hour studying the plane.

  “I’m going to have my metallurgical engineers go over it also, Captain,” Seymour said, “and I'll make sure you get a complete report when the admiral and Captain Gowdy get theirs.''

  Later, before Blizzard fell asleep, he kept thinking of something the injured pilot had managed to tell him and Gowdy. Robinson had whispered that he had flown into a heavy fog which had come out of nowhere in the blink of an eye and said that’s when their troubles had started. But that critical piece of information was totally at odds with what the meteorological officer had told him later. There had been no fog anywhere over the entire Mediterranean Sea at the time.

  Something is very, very wrong, Blizzard thought wearily as his mind harkened back to the admiral’s prophetic, earlier warning. “I have a feeling this is going to be one of those days.''

  “No, Admiral,” he now whispered aloud, “I have a feeling we’re about to go where no mortal should ever dare to tread.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Sunday morning -Daybreak – June 20th

  Blizzard joined his XO on the bridge at oh six hundred hours. Less than a day had passed since the incident. They took their mugs of steaming coffee outside to the catwalk.

  “Looks like rain,” said Blizzard, turning a full 360 degrees. Af
ter days of seemingly endless blue skies, he noted that the horizon was now blotted with low scudding cumulus, and the seas had turned a sickly grey color.

  “Joel Hirshberger says it's just a small front, Boss, and that we should be back to clear weather long before nightfall.''

  As he spoke, a sailor came out onto the catwalk carrying a portable phone in his left hand.

  “Doctor Potter conveys his compliments, Sir, and would like to speak with you.”

  Good morning, Doctor, what’s on your mind?'' His face turned solemn as he listened. “I'll want you with me when I see the admiral. Plan on it within the hour.” He hung up and waited for the sailor to withdraw.

  “The back-seater died ten minutes ago. Doctor Potter said the heart just stopped. The man never regained consciousness. Of course, they're going to do an autopsy to determine the exact cause of death. The pilot is still listed in guarded condition, but he appears to be getting stronger. I guess you heard me tell Potter I want him with me when we speak to the admiral.”

  Paige shook his head. “I don’t understand it. They weren't injured, at least not anything that we could see, yet their plane was nearly destroyed by who-knows-what. Now that young fellow is dead because something killed him. We’ve got to find out what that something was.”

  Blizzard cradled his steaming mug with both hands. “After looking at that banged up plane yesterday, I went to see Joel Hirshberger and kicked over some ideas with him.” Blizzard paused to regroup his thoughts, then continued. “I suggested that just maybe those guys had flown into one hell of a freakish, highly localized sandstorm. That maybe there had been a disturbance deep in the Sahara which caused thousands of tons of sand to be swept up into a jetstream, that Robinson tangled with this huge cloud of sand which would be whirling every which way, and before he could fly out, his plane was damn near torn apart.'' He paused, then added, “Of course, Joel confirmed that everything was calm in the Sahara, and quite correctly pointed out that such a huge sandstorm would have painted a picture like some great mythical monster on every radarscope from here to hell and back.” He harrumphed. “So much for that idea.''

  Twenty minutes later as Blizzard stepped into the admiral’s sea cabin, he heard Taylor say to someone, “Miles has just walked in.” The admiral waved him over to the desk. On the flatscreen monitor was the image of his father-in-law, Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Wayne Turnbull Christensen. He was seated behind his desk in the Pentagon.

  “That about cover everything?” asked Christensen.

  “Yes, Admiral, I think it does,” replied Taylor.

  “If you'd be so kind, Stanford, I'd like a word with Miles alone for a moment.”

  “Of course, Admiral.”

  “Hello, Miles,” came the familiar voice from the other side of the Atlantic. “I hear you’re having some problems.”

  “Nothing I can't handle, Chris,” he replied, addressing his father-in-law by the nickname everyone in the family used. “Did Admiral Taylor brief you on what’s happened here, or did the news reach your desk via the daily rundown?”

  “Both, but I’ve got to admit, it sure sounds strange.”

  “Well, it’s now gone beyond strange, Admiral,” said Blizzard. “The young back-seater died within the hour. My medical folk are doing an autopsy now to determine the cause of death.”

  Admiral Christensen rubbed his jaw and eyes. It was three o’clock in the morning in Washington.

  “You been there all night?” Blizzard asked.

  “Yeah. The Secretary of Defense has to go up on the Hill later this morning to defend our new ship-building program, so my staff’s been busy getting him prepared for a grilling.”

  “Try to get a couple of hours shuteye between now and then. You look like hell, Admiral.”

  Christianson smiled. “Thanks for the compliment, Son. I’ll let Anita know we spoke.”

  Blizzard saluted the image of his father-in-law, and Christensen returned the salute. As the picture faded, there was a light popping sound, and the screen went black.

  Taylor returned with Doctor Potter fast on his heels. “Clarence told me about the bad news outside while you were talking with your father-in-law,'' he said, a not too subtle reminder that Christensen was family, and not just the Chief of Naval Operations. “When will the autopsy report be ready, Doctor?”

  “Late this afternoon, Admiral.”

  “You plan on keeping the body on board until we get back to the fleet anchorage at Naples?” Again, Taylor swiveled to address Blizzard.

  “Hadn't really given it any thought,'' replied Blizzard. ‘But now that you mention it, unless Clarence objects, I would just as soon notify the next of kin and have the body escorted home as soon as possible.”

  “I see no conflict with that,” interjected Potter. ‘Once the autopsy is completed, we’ll have no reason to keep the remains. If any of the organs reveal something out of the ordinary, then of course, we'd hold onto them for further study.”

  “OK, do what has to be done. Try to pick an escort who is familiar with the boy's family. Was he married?”

  The admiral's question caught both men unprepared. |Blizzard and Potter exchanged glances. Neither knew.

  “Well, take care of it,” Taylor said, not wanting to press the issue. “We still have a lot of flying to do before returning to Naples. Sadly, accidents happen aboard carriers. It's part of our way of life, something we’ve learned to accept.”

  * * * * *

  Fleming heard of the systems operator's death while sitting in a barber's chair. The news made him dwell for a long moment on the dangers of his chosen profession. His thoughts then turned to Susan.

  They had been married almost one year, each day better than the one before. He hoped that he would never lose that feeling. He had almost gotten married on two prior occasions: once, soon after graduating from the Air Force Academy, and again, a few years later while stationed in Europe. After his second almost misstep, as he referred to it, he had resigned himself to the fact that he probably was not the marrying kind. He enjoyed his bachelor’s lifestyle and knew he was the envy of more than just a few of his married friends.

  Two months after reporting to the 412th Test Wing at Edwards Air Force Base, California, he was at Club Muroc having dinner with another pilot in the squadron when he spotted a young woman seated at a table nearby. She was with Colonel Tanner, the base commander, his wife, and another young woman about her own age. Fleming could not take his eyes off her.

  She appeared to be in her mid-twenties, with long blonde hair and a face that was perfection. And when she spoke, her large eyes sparkled. The other girl was certainly pretty in her own right, but to Fleming, she didn't hold a candle to the blonde.

  His dining companion had no idea who she was when asked, suggesting that maybe both girls were the colonel’s daughters. Before Fleming’s main course arrived, the blonde and the other members of her party rose and departed, amid a phalanx of appreciative stares from the men in the room.

  She faded from his mind. He spent his days flying special test missions and enjoying every minute. His social life remained active as there were no shortage of good-looking women in Southern California.

  He was driving off base one Saturday morning when he spotted her. She had just stepped off a curb while he was waiting for the light to change, then disappeared into a crowd. He knew it was ridiculous to park to try to find her, but that quixotic notion did not deter him. It was a wasted hour. She was nowhere to be found.

  Later that week, he decided to track down the base commander’s daughter and ask about her friend. That too failed. Jenny Tanner had gone to San Francisco for a couple of weeks to visit her brother. Fleming was crestfallen: it was just not meant to be.

  But the third time was the charm, and it came from a totally unexpected source. Lieutenant Colonel John Dillon, his squadron commander, had asked Fleming to join him, his wife, and a few others for an informal barbecue fo
r a Sunday afternoon two weeks later. The boss offhandedly suggested that Fleming not bring a date. He didn't elaborate and certainly didn't make it sound like an order. Fleming was assured there would be other singles present. He said yes.

  And there she was, dressed in skinny jeans with a shirt knotted at her waist, sipping a tall drink and chatting with two pilots from his squadron.

  Before Fleming could move, Marjorie Dillon, his boss's wife, linked arms and guided him toward a portable bar on the other side of the patio. “What will you have, Dave, I mean, besides Susan?” she said, with a know-it-all smirk.

  “Excuse me, what? I didn’t quite hear you.” He was flustered and couldn't remember having had a similar feeling in years.

  “Oh, a little bee told me that you’ve been trying to meet Susan Renninger, so, hearing how all else has failed, I felt I had a duty to step in and at least introduce you. After that, my boy, you're on your own, so follow me.”

  She dazzled him with a smile upon introduction and did something he had not expected: She took the lead and reached out her hand to shake his. The group continued to chat, but now included Fleming in the conversation. To a keen observer, it would have been readily apparent the three young men were each silently wishing the other two would simply vanish.

  Fleming finally managed to steer Susan Renninger away and found a quiet corner to talk.

  She volunteered that she taught fifth grade in the elementary school in Lancaster and had been there since the beginning of the school year. It was now early May. By evening’s end he had asked her out for the following Wednesday, and she had said yes.

  Late that night, lying alone in his bed, he realized he had fallen madly in love. ‘This is the woman I’ve been searching for all my life,’ his pragmatic ego crowed to the darkness, only to be immediately challenged by his superego. So, what do you plan on doing about it, David?