A waiting Navy captain stepped forward to greet them. “Good morning, Gentlemen, I’m Captain Jon Buff, senior aide to Admiral Christensen.” He held his hand out to Blizzard. “Good seeing you again, Miles, it’s been awhile.”
Blizzard introduced his companions, and the group set off to the CNO’s suite in the E Ring.
Ten minutes later they stood at attention as Admiral Christiansen entered the conference room through a connecting door from his office. He was all smiles. “At ease, gentlemen, please be seated.”
Fleming studied the man, thinking, this guy looks like an admiral. Wayne Christensen was tall, slim, and tanned. His uniform was obviously custom-made, enhancing the dashing look of a Central Casting Agency admiral. But Fleming knew this admiral was no make-believe officer. He had studied the man’s biography the night before.
Christensen had graduated first in his class at the Naval Academy forty years earlier; first in his naval aviator class, and later as a Distinguished Graduate of the National War College. He read through the many postings culminating with this Presidential appointment two years ago.
“Let me begin by welcoming you to Washington. I realize it was on a very short notice, but I felt the circumstances required immediate action. The President was briefed on what little we know so far. He is not dismissing any part of what happened this past week, and neither am I. In fact, President Bradley has asked that you gentlemen come to the White House tomorrow at five o’clock for a meeting in the Oval Office. He had wanted you to wear civilian clothes to keep the White House Press Corp from becoming overly curious, but I suggested you be in uniform so that your cover story reflects what’s on your TDY Orders: You’re here to discuss the LBJ’s air wing transition from flying Hornets to the new F-35C. I said that wouldn’t raise any undue curiosity. He agreed and requested that I accompany you.” He looked around the conference table, his eyes coming to rest on Fleming. “I bet you never dreamed you’d be sitting in the Pentagon with a very tall tale to tell?” He raised a questioning eyebrow, then added with a smile, “Would I have won that bet, Major Fleming?”
“Yes, Admiral, that bet would have been a sure thing.”
“No adverse effects from your bailing out?”
Fleming shook his head and tapped on the gleaming mahogany table. “None so far, Admiral. It was a controlled emergency situation, so my back-seater and I had enough time to prepare.”
“That’s good to hear.” The CNO turned and addressed the group. “For the next few days, you will be debriefed by experts in several disciplines. Your collective experience is unlike anything the U. S. Navy has ever encountered, so we’ll need to get all of the facts gathered and collated in order to determine what really happened, and where to go next. So, here’s how we’ll proceed.
“You will each be debriefed separately. That way you’ll be free to recount your own experiences in your own words. Of course, the interviews will be videorecorded for in-depth studies later.” He glanced at his watch. “You’ll get to meet your analysts after a short break for coffee. They will be dressed in civvies, so you will have no idea if they’re military or civilian. I haven’t a clue as to what questions they will ask, or even if some of their questions might be considered offensive. However, I do anticipate that at times they might try to goad you into making an angered response, so I would strongly suggest you listen carefully to each question and take the time necessary to think through your answer. But above all, just tell the truth. They come from different federal agencies; and the hope is that by working as a team we will uncover the absolute proof for what you say happened last week in the Med, and then determine if such a journey could ever be deliberately replicated sometime in the future. Which leads me to my final thought. Do not see these analysts as inquisitors, but as practitioners of the scientific method as they all approach the idea of time-travel with a healthy dose of skepticism.” The admiral rose. “Good luck, gentlemen. I’ll join up with you tomorrow when we go to the White House.”
* * * * *
Fleming slumped low in his chair. He was worn out. His debriefing partner had thanked him for his candor when he had called it a day at seven o’clock.
The man had introduced himself as Eric, and encouraged Fleming to address him by that name. Eric would call him David, but only if that were OK. Otherwise, he would address him by his military rank.
Although they had covered a lot of ground in almost eleven hours, Eric seemed to concentrate on the conditions aboard the airplane immediately before, and then right after he had collided with the unknown wall. At times, Eric would unexpectedly circle back to ask Fleming about something already answered, but he did so in a very disarming manner.
“Oh, before I forget, do you remember if you felt any nausea the moment you found yourself transported back to the 15th century?”
“Nauseous? No, but I do remember a sensation of vertigo, but that disappeared almost immediately.” Fleming frowned, then asked, “Didn’t we cover this topic earlier?”
He had tried to ferret out a sense of the man during their long hours together. Eric appeared to be about his same age, and though he exuded a natural casualness, Fleming could readily see the man was a serious professional. His probative questions would be interspersed with innocuous queries regarding his homelife or his time aboard the LBJ. How well did he get along with his squadron partners? Did they see and treat him as an outsider, or was he fully accepted by the group? Had he any second thoughts regarding his choice of career? Fleming had answered all questions truthfully, but with an underlying wariness. He realized he was being sized up to determine if somewhere deep within his psyche lurked an unstable personality, something he saw as unnerving. Was he capable of retreating into some dark world of denial when faced with a serious problem, or worse, a life-threatening emergency? Was it possible that he had hatched the entire flying back-in-time drivel to coverup a gross “pilot error” which had caused the loss of a 75 million dollar Super Hornet? Or instead, maybe he was a true-to-life character sprung from “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty,” James Thurber’s classic tale of a milquetoast finding escape in a daydream of being a derring-do military pilot whom everybody admired?
They would meet again in the morning at eight sharp.
Because of the top secret classification, Fleming was careful with what he said to his wife of the day’s events. She believed he was in Washington to give an Air Force officer’s perspective of life flying with the Navy and was delighted to have this unexpected time together.
“Honey, I’ve been thinking about something,” Fleming said, pushing aside a dessert plate which minutes earlier had held a huge, shared-slice of decadent Black Forest cheesecake. It was the perfect finish to a dinner at the Willard’s famous Round Robin Bar. “We could be in Washington for as long as a couple of weeks. This is a pretty expensive hotel, so I’m wondering if maybe we should move to somewhere cheaper like a Hilton or a Marriott?”
Susan smiled. “That’s sweet of you, Dave, but really, I can afford this. It’s my treat.”
“I know you can, honey, but the rest of the guys are staying at hotels they can cover with the money allotted them by the government for travel expenses. I don’t want them thinking that I’m some rich kid who spends money like water. No one knows I’m married to a wealthy woman, and I would like to keep it that way. It’s important to me, sweetheart, OK?”
Susan Fleming nodded. “You’re right. The last thing I’d want is to embarrass you. I’ll get us a different hotel tomorrow while you’re at work, and I’ll text you when I’ve moved our things.”
CHAPTER 27
Washington Dc
Tuesday Evening – June 29th
After a second day of intense investigation, the group was ushered into the Oval Office at five o’clock. President John Bradley III was known for his punctuality. He stood flanked by the Vice President and his chief of staff.
“Welcome to the White House, gentlemen, I appreciate you
r coming on such short notice. Please, have a seat.” The President waited until the officers were comfortable and asked, “So, do any of you have a change of mind about what happened last week in the Med? I guess what I’m really asking is this: Upon reflection, do you now believe it wasn’t a time travel event that you experienced, but something else? That maybe there’s a more fitting explanation?”
All five shook their heads, then Blizzard spoke up. “Mr. President, nothing will change our minds. Speaking for myself, I can say that before last week’s experience I scoffed at the very notion spaceships could exist; that aliens are secretly being housed and studied in Area 51; that travel to distant galaxies will one day be possible, or that journeying into the future or back to the past is real. And I dismissed those folks who held such beliefs as crackpots. Well, no longer, Sir. The constant thought that we might never return from the 15th century was absolutely terrifying, and I still get goosebumps just thinking about it. No, what happened to us, and the entire crew of the LBJ was real, I can assure you of that.”
“Which leads me to my next question, Captain. Has the rest of your crew been told?”
“No, Mr. President. They believe the LBJ was undergoing a special test directed by the strike group admiral, and that was the reason for a communications blackout during those few days. Now, how long will it be before that secret gets out, I can’t say because keeping it from five thousand men and women is quite the tall order.”
“I agree, but do try to keep a lid on it until we know the how and the why of what happened.”
The President then addressed each man in turn, asking probative questions and listening intently to their answers. He was particularly interested in what Father Caffarone had to say about his time with Leonardo da Vinci, and if the President doubted for a moment what he was being told, his poker-face did not reflect it.
The meeting lasted twenty minutes, and after individual photos were taken with a smiling President Bradley, the official White House photographer promised autographed prints would be delivered to Admiral Christensen’s office in the morning.
On the drive back to the Pentagon, Christenson’s phone chirped loudly, interrupting the back-and-forth banter.
“Admiral Christensen,” he announced, then listened as someone seemed to be giving him instructions while his fellow passengers feigned a disinterest in the conversation by staring out the windows. “We’re on it, Mister Secretary, and thank you,” he said, and hung up.
“That was the Secretary of State calling to say there’s been a ‘change of plans’ to use his exact words. We’ve been asked—that’s really a polite euphemism for ordered—to attend a meeting with none other than the Russian ambassador, and my counterpart, Admiral of the Fleet Yuri Gorshkov, who flew into DC a few hours ago. He’s traveling under a diplomatic passport, which in itself is highly unusual. It seems no one at State, or Defense, knew he was coming, and he’s scheduled to fly out right after the meeting with you. The Secretary claims he has no idea what it’s about, but we must assume it has something to do with the submarine surfacing in the middle of the Med last week. The question being discussed was where would we meet with the Russians? The Pentagon was out of the question; the Russian Embassy was a non-starter for obvious reasons, but then the Secretary of Defense suggested using the conference room at Blair House. It’s a neutral site, a residence used by foreign heads of state and other dignitaries when visiting the White House which is just across the street. The President gave it his green light moments ago, so, we’ll grab a quick bite and meet with the Russians at seven.” Admiral Christensen let loose a chuckle. “This should prove interesting, gentlemen. My advice is that whatever information the Russians are looking for, we play our cards close to the vest. I also have a feeling President Bradley knew about this sudden ‘change of plans’ well before he met with us.”
* * * * *
Admiral of the Fleet Yuri Gorshkov towered over the Russian Ambassador. Both men seemed tense and wore worried looks. After everyone was seated around a magnificent black cherry conference table, Gorshkov looked to his ambassador who signaled with a slight nod that the stage was now his.
“Gentlemen, thank you for agreeing to this meeting,” he began, his accent sounding more London than Leningrad. “You see, I am facing a problem that has no answer. At least none I have found yet, and yes, Captain Blizzard, I’m referring to the incident last week in the Mediterranean Sea, where one of our submarines surfaced right in the middle of your strike group. That is why I come looking for your help.”
“Good evening, Admiral,” Blizzard replied, “but before I answer, I’m curious to hear how it is that you knew to find me in Washington?”
The Russian’s shrug was immediate, and matter of fact. “I was briefed by our naval intelligence at Fleet Headquarters that you were coming to the Pentagon for a conference about the new Navy F-35C program. It was no secret. There was a press release from your 6th Fleet Headquarters about it, and a follow-up story was written in the Stars and Stripes military newspaper. We monitor both because they give us a lot of good information. It was nothing more nefarious than that. I hope that answers your question, Captain Blizzard.” His wry smile suggested he had delivered the perfect gotcha moment.
“It does. So, how can we be of help?”
“There is much I don’t know, so I begin by asking what you remember about that day?”
Blizzard spent the next several minutes recounting what he remembered, from the moment the submarine had surfaced, until the LBJ and its strike group sailed away. He summed up. “By then, a Russian trawler was alongside the Yakutsk, and we were told that two Russian frigates were en route to render any needed assistance. We were thanked for our help and were asked not to come closer than one hundred meters to the submarine. We complied.”
“Thank you, Captain. A couple of items you mentioned struck me as possibly being important. First, you said the submarine captain seemed surprised when he learned that the longitude and latitude coordinates he was given by the Tacoma placed him in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea?”
“No, Admiral, I said his reaction was one of genuine shock, not merely surprise. The captain of the Tacoma and the captain of the Yakutsk spoke directly to each other using loudspeakers, they were that close. Our captain definitely saw the shocked expression on the Russian’s face through his binoculars the moment he learned of his exact position.” A fact that Blizzard had deliberately withheld during his summary was that the Tacoma had also been eavesdropping and had a videorecording of the entire conversation between the submarine commander and the other Russian officer in the sail. The Americans had clearly heard the two quietly talking about how the coordinates given by the Americans had to be wrong because their last known position before losing all of their navigation aids was some fifteen miles off the coast of Southern Spain which was over a thousand nautical miles away. What they were now being told was a physical impossibility, yet the stunned looks on their faces suggested they believed the Americans were telling them the truth.
Admiral Gorshkov spent several seconds digesting this new information. He glanced at his ambassador who had remained stone-faced throughout. Finally, “I do have a question to ask regarding the health of the Yakutsk’s crewmen. You mentioned that the captain informed Tacoma some of his sailors were ill, but also declined medical assistance when it was offered?”
“That’s true, Admiral. Your captain was gracious in his refusal; he thanked Tacoma for the offer to assist, but said his crew would be taken care of by Russian medical officers when the frigates arrived. I saw his refusal for any medical aid as a matter of Russian pride; nothing more, nothing less.”
Again, Blizzard had deliberately chosen not to reveal all he knew. When the captain of the Tacoma had briefed Admiral Taylor and the strike group commanders an hour later about the ill sailors on the submarine, he recounted how the videorecording Tacoma had made of the captain and the other officer with him in the sail c
learly showed how they had discussed whether or not to accept medical aid from the Americans. The junior officer wanted the Americans to know that the entire submarine crew was desperately ill from some unknown cause, that several sailors were already dead, and the ones still alive needed immediate help. But the captain was adamant; he was having none of it.
The videorecording had also shown that while they waited for the Tacoma to confirm the coordinates of the submarine’s position, the captain, still visibly shivering, had mentioned in a low voice to his colleague that based on the unique acoustical signature generated by a very large ship with four screws, it was highly probable that the LBJ had been the unidentified US aircraft carrier they had shadowed several days earlier in the Mid-Atlantic. After several moments of silence during which both stared at the LBJ through their binoculars, the captain segued into a muted recounting of how they had also tracked and identified the English cruise ship Princess Royal using their suite of sophisticated listening devices while submerged off the French Coast. At this juncture, the Russians still had no idea they were in the Mediterranean Sea, and Captain Blizzard had reminded Admiral Taylor that a stealthy Russian intercept of the LBJ while running deep and well astern, could easily have happened during their crossing from Norfolk.
“Thank you,” Admiral Gorshkov said. “I appreciate that you offered to treat the sick on board our submarine. I can tell you it was not radiation sickness. The reactor on the Yakutsk was never in danger of a meltdown.” Gorshkov turned to his ambassador and spoke rapidly in Russian. The ambassador nodded his agreement to whatever it was being said. The admiral turned back to Blizzard. “Captain, I sincerely hope you will truthfully answer me this question, and please take no offense with my asking. Were you caught off guard when our submarine suddenly appeared out of nowhere? I mean, had your escorts not been tracking it before she surfaced?”
POINT OPTION: A Time-Travel Military Thriller Page 21