Time Flying

by Dan Garmen

  Open-mouthed, Pat and I both turned to see where the tug was headed, realizing if the sailor didn’t change course, he would drive out the hangar door and off the end of the deck. I couldn’t imagine any way to stop the tug from careening off the edge of the ship into the sea.

  But then, out of the corner of my eye, a flash of blue appeared, as another young, black sailor tore into the hangar deck from outside, and jumped onto the tug, almost losing his grip on the driver's seat, barely managing to hang on. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a Stanley knife, extending the blade and hacking at the other sailor's foot once, twice, then three times. As a line of sailors followed the tug at a jog, trying to get into position to do something to help, I recognized the sailor who had jumped onto the tug as Jefferson Campbell. The shock of this realization made the whole situation unreal, and Jefferson, having freed the other sailor from the runaway tug and push him off to the deck, stomped on the tug's brake, causing the vehicle to skid, then overcorrect in the other direction as he lost his balance and pushed down on the steering wheel.

  The tug skidded, hitting a metal lip not far from the edge of the deck, causing its back end to straighten out, giving the tug a smoother, easier outlet for the stored energy it still hadn't used up. The tug would be going for a swim.

  At 13,000 pounds, the spotting dolly didn't fly off Ranger's hangar deck, but had enough momentum to roll awkwardly off, front first, followed by a hideous grinding noise as the bottom of the tractor scraped against the metal of the decking and the back wheels disappeared. Campbell, realizing he wouldn't be able to save the tug, tried to leap onto the deck, but did so half a second too late. The momentum of the tug meant he traveled toward the edge of the deck at the same speed as the tug tractor when he jumped, even though he leaped at a right angle to the tractor's direction.

  He almost made it, but only one foot hit the deck, which didn’t prove to be enough to stop him. It was, however, enough to spin his body around as he fell, and above all the noise of the deck, the machinery and the shouting sailors, the sickening crack of Seaman First Class Jefferson Campbell's head hitting the deck sounded as he disappeared from view over Ranger's starboard side.

  Pat and I got to the edge right a couple seconds behind four other sailors, and I gazed down to confirm that Jefferson hadn't been as lucky as Dennis Martin, the kid from Ben Davis who as a Yellow-shirt on the USS John F. Kennedy, had jumped 12 feet down to the catwalk to avoid being run over by an F-14 just over a year ago. Dennis had been conscious and aiming for the catwalk, though. The crack of Jefferson's head against the edge of the deck was pretty strong evidence he was at the very least, unconscious as he fell, and most probably dead.

  A couple seconds later the klaxons started, accompanied by the 'Man Overboard' announcements. Pat and I looked at each other though, knowing if they did find Jefferson Campbell, he wouldn't be alive. Several sailors helped the shaken driver up to his feet, his head in his hands, one denim sleeved arm red and wet with blood. He lived because Jefferson Campbell, an unwilling time traveler, had given his life to intercede in an accident he must have known about in advance. Campbell had been a Bosun's Mate, whose work involved the running of the ship, not the maintenance of aircraft. He had no business on the hangar deck, so his presence was evidence he must have known what was going to happen. For him, it was a replay of an event in his life, from the time stream he had traveled before this one, a time stream that clearly had played out differently.

  It didn't take me long the next day, to discover why Jefferson had been present to save Seaman Rodney Malkin, who was in sick bay, under observation, when I went to visit him.

  “Brave thing Campbell did, Seaman,” I said to the sailor, who seemed in good health, despite a heavily bandaged left arm, also in a cast. His appearance also suggested he had been administered a good sized dose of some kind of sedative, understandable, considering the situation.

  “Yessir,” he said, trying hard not to slur his words. “I can't figure out what he was doing on the hanger deck. Makes no sense,” he shook his head. “He just…appeared, cutting my pant leg away. I'm like...What the hell, J?”

  “I know,” I said, gently patting the sailor on the right shoulder. “You knew Jefferson?” I asked.

  Malkin squinted up at me slowly, probably more confused at my using Campbell’s first name than knowing it. “Yea, my cousin...Sir. We grew up together.” His gaze drifted off into the distance, remembering something.

  “He's my kids Godfather,” the sailor added, then, starting to sob a little, “What am I going to tell Cecie? Aw shit, what do I to tell his little girl?”

  I realized comforting Seaman Rodney Malkin would have to wait. Right now he needed the truth, or at least as much as I intended telling him, to form a solid baseline for the memory of these events he would need in the years to come, if Campbell’s death would come to mean something.

  “You're going to tell them Jefferson Campbell was a hero. You're going to tell his little girl he saved her uncle’s life, and did what he needed to do, putting another person's safety before his own, and that's the definition of ‘hero.’”

  Malkin had stopped sobbing, appearing to consider my words. “Yes, sir, I’ll tell them.”

  I nodded. “Jefferson Campbell was a friend of mine. A good man. Your job is now to make your life worth the price he paid for it.” Malkin, focused on me, eyes wide open, nodded without saying anything. “You rest, sailor,” I continued, again patting him on his non-damaged shoulder. “Get better, and get back to your duty. That's how you honor your cousin and the Godfather of your children,” I said.

  If laying at attention was possible, Malkin did so. “Aye Aye, sir,” he replied, using Navy speak, saying I understand your order and will follow it, looking straight ahead.

  “How many kids do you have?” I asked, my tone softer, more personable.

  “Three, sir,” Malkin said, relaxing a little, then adding, “twin boys, and the baby, she’s one.”

  I nodded. “How old is Campbell's daughter?” I asked.

  “She's three...No, four, a few weeks ago,” Malkin replied.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled the square of paper with the stock symbols out, handing it to Malkin, who accepted the paper without taking his eyes from mine. Finally, he looked down at the writing on the paper and wrinkled his brow. Looking back up at me, he said, “Jefferson gave me a piece of paper with this stuff on it, too. Just last night.”

  The sailor handed the paper back to me, and I smiled, nodding. “I figured as much. What did he say about it?”

  Malkin shrugged and replied. “Something to do with stocks. He said to buy them. Scrape as much money as I can together and buy the stocks.” His eyebrows went up as if to ask what the instructions meant.

  Still nodding, I said, “Excellent advice, sailor. Your cousin was a very smart man. Make sure you do what he said, OK?”

  He answered with another “Aye, aye.”

  I left sick bay, aware of the curious look I'd gotten from the corpsman manning the front desk. An Aviation Officer visiting a Boatswain's Mate wasn't something he saw every day, I guess. I wandered the passageways for half an hour, no real destination in mind, just wanting to lose myself in the bowels of the ship and not run into anyone I would have to talk to.

  Eventually, I found myself stepping through the hatch leading out to the fantail, where a few days ago I met a young sailor who would soon die, though neither of us were aware at the time of what would happen. Or was he planning to interject himself into the deadly situation even as we spoke, looking out at the sea? For the past 24 hours, I'd been worriedly discussing with myself the possibility that I had helped Jefferson make the decision to give up his life for his cousin. Standing where he stood, a mere two days before, I gazed out at the wake Ranger made in the water, my attention drawn to the EA-6B Prowler on final approach to the ship, watching the smooth path it cut through the air, looking so much like the A-6E Intruder I flew in, but with th
e sunlight glinting off the gold plating used to defeat enemy radar and shield its sensitive electronic gear. I thought I smelled the hint of cigarette smoke as I thought about my last conversation with Jefferson. Aware of what fate awaited Malkin, he probably felt guilty for not saving his cousin’s life last time. But if last time he was a Bosun’s Mate like this time, it wouldn’t have been possible for him to, unless last time he had a different job and did something stupid costing his cousin his life? Maybe Jefferson talked Rodney into enlisting with him.

  Whatever inspired Jefferson Campbell's heroic act, the choice had been his and I promised myself not to dig deeper into the back story, because learning everything was impossible and pointless. Campbell did what he did. Some of the responsibility for it lay at my feet though, because of my unwitting help. We are both accountable and not accountable for what happens on the roads we build. To try and make sense of everything leads only to despair and frustration. Seaman First Class Jefferson Campbell decided saving the life of Rodney Malkin was worth risking the life he had every reason to believe would continue for several decades. What he did here sent him back to his body as it existed (or will exist) in 2048, dying from complications of Multiple Sclerosis. His choice, and I had to accept it.

  Up to this point, I realized as far as I knew, the changes I caused on this trip through the decades between my 17th and 33rd years had only prevented death, not caused it. Changes though, almost certainly had other, unintended consequences; perhaps a person who would have attended Amanda and Steve's wedding were injured in a car crash on the day the wedding would have occurred causing an ER doctor to get a page to come in causing them to miss their son's baseball game, sparking an argument ending with their wife leaving them…The matrix of ramification could go on and on.

  But I had definitely crossed a line. My time here had very possibly resulted in someone dying, someone who had not died the last time they experienced these years.

  Little did I know however, this was only the beginning.

  What is difficult about a dark mood, especially one involving the sudden loss of someone important to you, is the assumption the pall won't ever go away, that it’s static and stable and with you for the duration. Which is why it’s so surprising when something worse happens.

  After wandering Ranger for a couple hours, I found myself in the squadron admin compartment, where you could usually find a few officers in varying states of work. Mid watch, you might find a couple doing paperwork, catching up on performance reviews, maybe studying for an upcoming promotion test. Often, a few might simply be hanging out, watching the small television mounted on a bracket a few inches from the ceiling in the corner of the room opposite the hatch. When I entered the compartment after my walkabout, normality didn’t appear to be in effect, instead all eyes were on the television. I wondered what had happened, if Saddam had thrown in the towel early this time, or to the other extreme, deployed some terrible weapon he hadn't used the first time around. I quickly dismissed both possibilities, since in the 15 years I'd been in this timeline, I hadn't experienced a single major variation from the history I had lived before.

  I started to ask what had happened, when my presence was noted, and Lt. (J.G.) Rob Meier's eyes widened a little as he elbowed the junior officer standing next to him. The minor commotion alerted the other guys following the story on the TV and they all turned toward me. A pilot, Lt. (Senior Grade) Mark Clevenger spoke first. “Hey Wax,” he said, a slight grimace on his face, “your 'honey' bought it. Condolences, man.” I was aware of a muffled snicker, cut short by the sharp smack of a pulled punch to the shoulder, but that didn't really register until later.

  It took a second for the reality of the situation to hit me. My eyes shifted to the TV just in time to see her picture appear, the words “Molly Wallace, 1963 − 1991” underneath. What the... I felt the world tilt and start to spin slightly, my ears ringing. I turned and slowly made my way to one of the metal straight back chairs near the bulkhead to sit down and could make out bits of talk, fragments of what my squadron mates were saying about this. “SCUD got through...Saudi Arabia...Dhahran...Barracks...22 killed...Damn shame...What the Fuck is she doing over here? Reporters…”

  “Come on, let's go,” a voice said, low and next to my ear, cutting through the noise and confusion. Pat, bending down, speaking to me to try and get me out of the room. I learned later Pat had been searching for me since the news hit, wanting me to be the one to tell me, aware the information, for reasons he didn’t understand, would hit me hard. I hadn't told him about my time traveling, not sure whether he would treat the disclosure with serious concern or derision, not wanting either reaction from him.

  We made our way to a mess compartment where mid-rats were being served, got some food and sat down at an out of the way table to talk. We ate for a few minutes without saying anything, until Pat broke the silence. “So...You never explained this thing to me. Did you know her or something?”

  I nodded, not looking up. “Yea, I did,” I answered. “We had a...uh...thing.” I still didn't look at Pat, keeping my eyes on my food.

  “Mmmm,” he replied, “how has it been since you were with her? Was that what was going on with Amanda before we sailed?”

  “College,” I interrupted, irritated. “I haven't seen her since college,” which technically, was true, since the only time I'd been around her in person in this timeline was on the Iowa campus with a couple other members of the Purdue basketball team, and gazed mutely at her as she and two friends walked out of their dorm past us. I'd been looking for her the whole day on campus, and had found out where she lived from a student directory.

  “College…” Pat repeated.

  “Right. But it was a serious thing, Pat.”

  Pat raised his hands, palms out, in surrender. “OK, OK, I get it, Richie. Serious. I hear you.”

  “Goddamn,” I said, trying hard not to let my voice waver, but failing. “I just can't believe…”

  “I know. What a stupid, fucking war this is,” Pat replied, taking another drink of his coffee.

  He had no idea.

  A bit of quiet, and the support of my best friend had centered me again, so when we parted ways at the intersection of the passageways leading to our respective staterooms, Pat's and my relationship had returned to its normal balance. As I made my way alone, I reflected I didn't have a friend like Pat in my original timeline. Sure, there was Dan, but my relationship to him, an odd blend of student and mentor rolled into one beard little in common with the one I had with Pat. I respected him like no other person, which I knew to be mutual. Pat was my best friend, but Dan...Dan was...is... family.

  I sat down on the edge of my bunk, glad Bill wasn’t here, and I remembered he had a tanker hop launching about an hour ago. Jesus, I thought, exhaling and shaking my head. I realized even though I had married and was raising a family with Amanda in this timeline, I thought about Molly and our family of three in the other timeline every day. I loved Amanda, not in the silly teenage puppy love that had ruled my teen years, but a love grown into respect, admiration and a deep bond. I'd never faced it before, but now realized something I should be embarrassed about, but wasn’t. I had those same feelings, solid, unyielding and deeply rooted for two women. Two different women.

  But were the two women all that different? Both smart, independent and beautiful without having to work hard at any of those things. Both thought me funny, put up with my 'wild hare' ideas, my uncertainty about myself and my qualifications to do any of the things I do. Most importantly, they put up with my bullshit were able to channel the misdirected energy into something useful. Physically, the women couldn’t have been more different, one with dark, chestnut hair, one blonde. One short, one tall. Both relationships important parts of me I couldn't live without.

  But the universe, in its infinite wisdom, has set the whole thing up so only one of them gets to out-live me in any single timeline. I get to live out two lives, two dramas with completely different script
s with one thing in common. They both include a scene where one of the women I love dies, and apparently, my influence, or lack of influence, determines who survives and who doesn’t. I’ll admit, on the surface this story may appear heroic, with me, the hero, saving the damsel from death. In truth, it’s tragedy, me having to make a choice where one lives and one dies.

  Great, I fumed silently, standing up in frustration, looking for something to hit. Unfortunately (or fortunately, I suppose) almost everything on an aircraft carrier is made of metal, so a frustration punch would have been an “ensign mistake” I avoided. I sat back down, and rubbed my head as the reality of the situation unfolded like the narration of a movie in my mind. I somehow travel in time from age 47 to 17, and caught up in the opportunity to “do things over,” steal away the girl of my high school dreams, and marry her. I follow this path partly because I'd always wondered if I'd missed out on the great love of my life, but also because if I didn't, two years later, she would die in a car crash caused by the alcoholic boyfriend I hadn't stolen her away from in the original timeline. Not content, or even able, to rejoin the course of events as they would play out otherwise, I marry her, we raise a family and my life plays out in a very different fashion than before. One of the prices being Molly, who is following a path far different from the one she had with me, ends up dead, killed covering the Gulf War when an Iraqi SCUD missile hits an Army base in Saudi Arabia. A base where she worked as a journalist, the career I interrupted when we met.