POINT OPTION: A Time-Travel Military Thriller

by Ian A. O'Connor

  Blizzard gave a command to the helm. “All engines emergency stop.”

  The four huge screws slowed, then stopped. and the LBJ began its glide to a halt.

  The admiral had remained silent while Blizzard was assessing his situation and that of his command. “What do you suggest we do next, Captain?” he finally asked.

  “I suggest following your earlier recommendation, Admiral. Let's hold our position and wait for daylight. We’re facing something that's beyond our combined experiences, and I don't relish the idea of thrashing blindly around the Med in a state of utter confusion.'' He paused and looked at the assembled group. “As stupid as this might sound, let me throw out an idea for all of you to weigh in on. Is there any possibility that the Russians have come up with the ultimate weapon that can black out our entire communications suite? I mean like some newfangled type of jamming, but it’s being done on a scale never before thought possible?”

  They all mulled the possibility. Taylor was the first to reply. ‘I don't think so, Miles,” he said with a shake his head. “I say that because we know for a fact that one of their nuclear boats was damn near blown out of the water right next to us only a few hours ago. No, I’m pretty sure we can bet the Russians aren’t behind any of this.”

  The others slowly nodded their agreement.

  Taylor turned back to Blizzard. “Captain, I would like your permission to address the crew. Rumors will start flying, especially since all communications to the outside world are down, even if it’s only temporary. Right now, just a handful of us know how serious the situation is, but I don't think wild speculation on the part of the crew will serve any useful purpose. I would like to tell them that we have undertaken a special assignment ordered by the joint chiefs-of-staff, and that if things don't appear normal for a short while, then they must understand that this is precisely what we are wanting to achieve. I will further explain that this challenge calls for LBJ to operate without escorts.”

  “Good idea, Admiral, but I think as their captain, I should make the announcement.”

  Taylor's face reddened, and his jaw hardened. Finally, “Very well, Captain.”

  “Thank you, Admiral.” As Blizzard reached for the microphone, a call came from the CDC.

  “Captain speaking. What is it?”

  “Sir, we've got something really strange to report. As you know, all our radios are dead, at least as far as receiving is concerned, yet we’re now picking up a confirmed distress signal on guard channel. At first we thought it might be a false return, but it checks out. The signal’s coming from quite a way off on the Italian mainland.”

  “Are you sure?” asked a visibly incredulous Blizzard.

  “Positive, Sir. If we had a chopper up we could triangulate and pinpoint the location exactly, but it's coming from the mainland all right.”

  Listening to the conversation, the same thought was on everyone’s mind standing on the bridge. Could it be Major Fleming? If, yes, then why was his distress call the only radio signal being received by the LBJ?

  Admiral Taylor spoke up. “Negative on the chopper launch, at least until dawn. Get as close a fix as possible and keep monitoring it throughout the night.”

  “They might be badly hurt, Admiral,” said Manny Eisenhauer, speaking for the first time. “Maybe they won't make it 'til morning,”

  “Nothing doing, Manny. This is my decision. There are over five thousand sailors on this ship, and another two thousand plus in the strike group. I'm responsible for all of them. I know how you feel, but my order stands. No aircraft are to be launched until further orders from me.” He continued, but his tone softened. “The very fact that their signal, if indeed it is their signal, is coming from Italy, tells me that they somehow made it to the coast, and were able to have ejected over land. So, at least they're not in the water, and that's the main thing. Now, once we have daylight and know where we stand, then I'll allow a chopper up to triangulate a fix and recover the two flyers.” He turned to Blizzard. “Captain, I'm going back to the flag bridge. Inform me of any change, no matter the hour.”

  The assembled officers stood as the admiral departed.

  The uppermost thought on all minds was: What new phenomena would the morning bring?

  CHAPTER 11

  Tuesday morning -Early – June 22nd

  It was as if nature was a mind reader. Shortly after midnight the skies turned leaden, and it began to pour. Since the moment of the explosion earlier, the temperature had dropped steadily, and by dawn the thermometer had gone from 81 degrees Fahrenheit down to forty-nine.

  Lieutenant Commander Joel Hirshberger was embarrassed. He had assured the admiral the weather would stay clear with unrestricted visibility for at least twenty-four, and possibly as much as thirty-six hours. He had no good explanation for what had happened, so he just reported conditions as he found them.

  The LBJ was cut off from the rest of the world; the only radio signal received was the distress call on guard channel which had continued uninterrupted throughout the night. All the ship’s radar scopes were working in that they continuously painted a return of the Italian coastline, and showed a smattering of small fishing boats in the distance. No aircraft were seen, nor any of the larger surface vessels one would expect to see in the Mediterranean. Whatever the special test the admiral was conducting at the behest of the joint chiefs, it had crewmembers scratching their heads trying to figure out exactly how it was being done.

  The navigation department, under Birdwell's personal supervision, plotted the carrier’s exact position manually, and although they had tried to get star fixes throughout the night using sextants, the weather had turned against them, so they waited, hoping to shoot the sun later in the day.

  The hard-driving rain of darkness had turned to a light drizzle by morning, but coupled with the fifty degree temperature, life had turned miserable for sailors outside standing the boatswain’s mates deck watch or those working on the carrier’s flight deck.

  At seven-thirty A.M., the same group of officers had reassembled on the flag bridge and were now huddled around a walnut conference table. They had been served coffee and croissants by stewards who had since withdrawn. The sole newcomer was Doctor Potter, who quickly briefed the others that the helicopter flight crews seemed to be in perfect health and would be released from sick bay later in the morning.

  The conversation then turned to the distress signal still being received. Commander Sewell could not discount the possibility the signal was coming from the Emergency Locator Transmitter (ELT) in the wreckage of the Hornet, meaning its crewmembers were dead.

  “Well, I intend to find out,” the Admiral said. “I'm giving the go-ahead to send up one chopper to triangulate, and I’m doing so based on what Doctor Potter has just told us about the well-being of the two helicopter flight crews. However, it must be clearly understood it will return to the LBJ once they have a good fix.” He looked at Blizzard. “Is CAG ready to launch?”

  “Aye, Sir. A crew’s been briefed and is standing by for your order.”

  Taylor nodded. “Tell Gowdy to send them up. We'll monitor their transmissions back to the CDC from here while we continue this meeting. Also, Miles, please direct the CAG to take command in the Combat Direction Center for the time being with your approval of course.” He quickly explained, “I know the CDC is a ship's function and not a responsibility of the combat air wing commander, but CAG’s aware of what's going on, the CDC personnel are not.”

  “Very good, Admiral.”

  They covered other topics for about a half hour, monitoring the conversation between the helicopter pilots and Gowdy with one ear. When the crew reported its position to be some fifty miles east of the LBJ, and operating in heavy rain with almost zero visibility, the group became more attentive when it was announced that the helicopter and the carrier now had a good fix on the signal. It was definitely coming from the coast.

  “Admiral, we put it one hundred ninety-fou
r miles north of Rome,” said Gowdy. No sooner had he spoken than the helicopter pilot came on the air. He was extremely excited. “Ajax, this is Hound Dog. I'm picking up a voice signal, it's weak, but it's a definite contact. Request permission to fly closer to the coastline.”

  All eyes went to Taylor. “Roger that. Permission granted to get in closer for a readable transmission.”

  The OK was relayed to the pilot via CAG.

  Ten minutes later the jubilant voice of the chopper pilot came back over the airwaves. “Ajax, this is Hound Dog,” he fairly yelled into his mike. “It's affirmative! The contact is Major Fleming. Both he and Lieutenant Lafayette are high and dry, and report they are in good condition. I've told him exactly where he’s located, where we are, and where the LBJ is. He sure sounds happy to hear from us.” There was silence for a few seconds, then the pilot continued, sounding somewhat subdued, “Standby, Ajax, we're getting instructions from Fleming.”

  The officers in the conference room broke out in cheer at the good news from the helicopter pilot, then waited in silence for more news.

  The anticipation lasted three long minutes.

  “Ajax, this is Hound Dog. Major Fleming has just made a strange request. He asked if communications were normal between the LBJ and the rest of the world? I told him we were experiencing some intermittent difficulty but said it would be fixed momentarily. When he heard this, he requested that no attempt for a pickup be made until nightfall. He was quite adamant. He further states that it's vital he speak directly to the admiral and to the captain. I don't know what to make of it, Ajax. I await your instructions. Over.”

  “Stand-by, Hound Dog,” came Gowdy's voice over the intercom.

  Admiral Taylor spoke into the speakerphone. '“Gowdy, can the chopper pilot relay Fleming's signal to the LBJ?”

  Moments later he had his reply. “Negative, Admiral, it's too weak.”

  Taylor spoke again. “CAG, what sort of officer is this Major Fleming? A straight shooter?”

  “Aye, aye, I mean, yes, Admiral. If Major Fleming says stay away, then something is very wrong. He's got two tours of combat flying in the Middle East under his belt, and I trust his judgment implicitly.” Gowdy let that sink in for a few moments then asked, “Admiral, how about us moving into voice range ourselves? That way you can talk direct to the major and find out what's on his mind.”

  “Good idea, CAG.” Taylor gave the command to Blizzard to rendezvous with the helicopter’s position. He told Gowdy that since the LBJ would be at their new position in an hour and a half, permission was granted for the helicopter to remain aloft and stay in radio contact with the two downed airmen.

  * * * * *

  The air was filled with static, and the radio link was faint, but Fleming's voice was audible.

  “Bigfoot, this is Liberty one, do you copy?'' came Fleming's voice.

  “That's affirmative,” replied the CDC. “We read you five by five. Stand by for the admiral.”

  Taylor sat next to Blizzard in a massive captain's chair. “Fleming, this is Admiral Taylor, we hear you fine. Tell me, what's this request about waiting until nightfall for a pick-up?”

  “The request still stands, Admiral,'” came Fleming's reply. “Sir, before we ejected, I flew the coastline looking for an airfield, and found none. In fact, Admiral, if I didn't know better I'd say it wasn't even Italy! There is nothing here that's recognizable.” He paused to gather his thoughts then asked, “Admiral, just before you lost all communications capabilities on the LBJ, did you hit something, or did something hit you which caused instant darkness for a second or so? Was there a violent heaving aboard, an explosion, and then a blinding flash of green light?”

  “Affirmative, Major. Why?”

  The faint voice continued. ''We experienced the same thing, and moments later found ourselves totally alone. I couldn't find the LBJ, so I headed for Rome as my alternate landing field, but when I got to the coast I became lost due to instrument malfunction. But before running out of gas, I overflew a sizable harbor some ten kilometers north of my present position and made two passes. Admiral, I was low and slow and what I'm about to say is going to shock you. The land below was not the Italy we know. We have somehow gone back in time. My best guess is this is the Fourteenth or Fifteenth Century. The reason all of us can't pick up any radio signals for either navigation or communication is that they simply don't exist in the here and now! Admiral, I know this must sound like the rantings of a fool, but that's the way things are. We all have one hell of a problem on our hands.”

  The group collectively felt their flesh crawl as they listened to Fleming.

  It took the admiral some moments to digest what he had just heard, then he spoke. “Major Fleming, you have taken us by surprise, and, no, I don't for a second think you are deranged. There's a logical explanation for what you think you saw. Coming on the heels of a severe in-flight emergency, I'm sure things don’t seem quite right, especially since we on the LBJ admit that we too are having difficulties with some of our electronics and comm gear, but putting that aside, our primary mission at the moment is to recover you and your radar intercept officer.”

  Fleming replied immediately. “Admiral, I respectfully request you delay our pick-up until nightfall for obvious reasons.”

  “And those obvious reasons are what, Major?”

  “Admiral, if what I am saying is true, that somehow we have all gone back in time to some past century, then how would you expect those folks to react to the sight and sounds of a helicopter? Believe me, I saw their reaction when I overflew the port yesterday. Those people on the ground were frightened out of their wits and started running for their lives.” Fleming rushed on before Taylor had a chance to cut in. “Sir, Lafayette and I are safe. We're out in the boondocks, miles away from all habitation. The area is rolling countryside and well-suited for a night pick-up. I'll secure a landing zone and guide the chopper in by radio and flares from our survival packs. It's a no sweat operation, Admiral.”

  Taylor squirmed slightly in his chair, chewing on his lower lip as he gave Fleming's proposal some thought. He looked at Blizzard, then to Paige. Shrugging his shoulders, he spoke to the group. “Why not humor him? Apparently, they are both unhurt and won't come to any harm for the next ten hours, so I’ll do as he requests. Meanwhile, I want a reconnaissance plane standing by for launch. As soon as the weather lifts, I want to make a run along the coast to collect imagery from Rome up to the Florence area.” He quickly added, “This doesn't mean I’m buying what Major Fleming is selling, but I will go so far as to admit that something strange is happening, and I want to know what that something might be.”

  “You think this should be a low-level run?” Paige asked.

  “Only if the weather forces us down low,” Taylor replied. “And if that’s the case, I suggest a fast run up north following the coastline, then head inland for a short ways, then back to the LBJ out over the water so no one down there gets his medieval codpiece in a twist. We'll be getting real-time imagery transmitted directly to the CDC, so we’ll see what the pilot is seeing, and we’ll have plenty of opportunity to get all the backup film processed and interpreted by the intel folks before we pick-up Fleming. But I’m sure we’ll be back in communication with everyone else on planet earth by then, so, to repeat myself, I’ll humor the major.”

  The admiral keyed his mike. “Fleming, this is Taylor. We'll go along with your request, but stay in contact with us, and if your situation changes and you need to be pulled out of there in a hurry, just holler, and we'll come running. I'll see you when you come back aboard. Out.”

  “Thank you, Admiral, I sure hope this all turns out to be a big nothingburger, but I have my doubts. Over and out.”

  For a couple of seconds, the ensuing silence was absolute, but quickly interrupted by the downed pilot’s emergency locator transmitting its incessant, high-pitched plea for help.

  CHAPTER 12

  Tuesday morning -Late
r -June 22nd

  CAG had convinced the Admiral that he should fly the reconnaissance mission. “Until we have a better understanding of what's going on, it makes sense to keep our misgivings to as small a group as possible,” he had argued, “and also, because I know what we’re looking for, I’m the best judge as to when to turn on the cameras and sensors.”

  The admiral agreed. Tom Dowling, the air wing Deputy CAG, was brought into the picture so that if anything untoward happened to Gowdy, he would be in the loop. His almost colorless eyes betrayed no reaction to the startling information he was now hearing from Admiral Taylor, and his only comment was to recommend that Gowdy fly with a Lieutenant Liam Prescott, the systems officer he considered the best in the air wing.

  Taylor spoke directly to Gowdy by radio as he sat in the catapult a mere minute before launch. “Good luck, Sean. If anything happens to your radios and other nav aids, then your magnetic compass and your watch become your failsafe means to guide you to your Point Option. You and I know this crude method of navigating back to a carrier hasn’t been used since the Pacific battles in WWII, and the kids flying our jets today have probably never heard of it. But if Major Fleming is right in his assessment of the situation, and you miss us for any reason, you will be lost forever. Knowing how to get to your Point Option is absolutely critical to your survival! You read me, CAG?”