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Time Flying

Page 26

by Dan Garmen


  I realized that given all of this, there was little threat in telling my best friend about the situation. “Okay, here's the deal.”

  I took a deep breath, held up my right hand, signaling for both of use to listen for the sounds of our pursuers getting closer. Nothing, and I figured they had given up for the night, deciding to bring in reinforcements and wait for daylight and our S&R (Search and Rescue) assets to point out where we were hiding.

  “This is 1991, right?” I began, seeing Pat nod slowly, listening, so I continued. “It’s your first time in 1991, but my second. I'm an unwilling time traveler, who, when my car got smacked in an intersection in 2007, traveled back to 1976. I found myself in my 17 year old body in 1976, knowing everything that had happened. I've been here since that day, living these years for the second time.”

  “Well, I’m glad you didn't tell this story to anyone else, or I'd be out here with some nugget replacement bean…” Pat began, laughing almost sub-audibly, but then stopped. His head sagged to one side. “Oh fuck, you told this to your high school buddy...and Amanda, didn't you, you crazy, stupid shit?” He asked, shaking his head.

  “Yeah.”

  Pat closed his eyes and exhaled in resignation. He sat motionless for a few seconds, then his eyes opened suddenly. “Why didn't Steinberg ground you? He's a Flight Surgeon. The minute you told him that nonsense, he would have pulled your ticket, high school friend or no.” Pat looked at me, his brow knitted in concentration, the pain of his shoulder forgotten.

  A few seconds passed before he continued. “Amanda, I get. Jesus, what a thing to lay on your wife. I'd get my kids away from you too, if I'd been her. But why didn't Commander Steinberg yank your flight status?”

  “Because he believes me,” I answered, returning Pat's hard gaze.

  “Why the HELL, would he believe you?” Pat demanded, as loudly as the noise discipline we were under allowed.

  “He did a bunch of research, and found a number of other cases like mine,” I replied. “It’s real, Pat. Happened to me, and has happened to a lot of other people, too.”

  “No shit,” Pat said. “Un-fucking-believable,” he added. “And I don't believe it for a second, but I have to admit, it’s a pretty good story.”

  “It’s true, Pat. Swear to God, I wish it weren't. I've lived these years before. I know what happens at the end of this war, what happens in the next one…” I replied.

  Pat let this sink in, thinking, trying to figure out if I was bullshitting him to pass the time, then he shrugged. “Well, hell. The world's a strange place,” he said, looking back at me. “So, if you've been through this before, how do we get out of here?”

  I shook my head. “I have no idea. I didn't do any of this the first time,” I explained. “I wasn’t even Navy.”

  I had just told my best friend I had traveled in time, and had lived through these years before, but what surprised him the most, as evidenced by his eyebrows shooting up and his subtly leaning back against the rock behind him, turned out being the first time I lived these years, I didn’t wear the wings of a Naval Aviator. My not flying in airplanes off of an aircraft carrier surprised him more than the fact that I had traveled almost 30 years into the past. “What do you mean? What did you do?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “I broke my leg really bad when I at 16, and didn't work so hard to recover the first time. Felt sorry for myself. Got addicted to pain meds,” I answered, not any prouder of my past here than I the first time I lived it. “Finally got straightened out and did okay for myself. Lived in San Diego, but no Navy and…”

  “No Amanda?” Pat asked. “Jesus. What a fuck up,” he declared, grimacing in pain. “Gunny Alvarez nailed it, you're an idiot, unworthy of his disdain,” he laughed. Gunnery Sergeant Javier Alvarez had been our Drill Instructor at Pensacola Naval Air Station, and made the character played by Louis Gossett, Jr., the movie “Officer and a Gentleman” look about as tough as Fonzie from “Happy Days.”

  “Yea, well, as much as I fucked up, I never found myself hiding behind a pile of rocks with a bunch of god-damned savages with guns looking for me,” I replied, as I tried to peer into the darkness and look for signs of anyone searching for us. I noticed our language had turned decidedly rougher with our circumstances, the adrenaline and pent-up tension coming out in the way we talked.

  Pat nodded in agreement. “Yea, this is major fucked up, buddy. If I didn't know better, I'd swear it was an Army operation.”

  A few seconds of silence passed, and Pat continued. “No Amanda, but someone else, right?”

  “Yea,” I replied.

  “God damn,” he hissed. “I knew it. You told Amanda about that, didn't you? THAT'S why she's pissed.” He seemed to be laughing, but silently. I stayed quiet.

  “You are a stupid motherfucker, my brother,” Pat said, patting my knee in sympathy.

  “It’s a long story, Pat…” I said, trying, but not succeeding in sounding like something other than a “stupid motherfucker.” We let the next couple minutes pass in silence as I prayed he wouldn't connect this with my fascination with Molly, because that would tie the knot on my crazy, as far as Pat was concerned.

  I needed to change the subject, not above using Pat's infirmity to help do it. “How's your shoulder?” I asked.

  “Hurts like a bitch, but I'm not going to cry,” he said. “I swear,” he continued, “I can't wait until I'm mashing the fucking pickle again, dropping hurt on these pussies,” referring to the green button on the pilot's stick that triggers the release of weapons. The B/N does the bombing, but the A-6 pilot gets the satisfaction of pressing “go” on a bomb or missile run, and Pat was already imagining himself getting retribution for the Iraqis' shooting our airplane down.

  Agreeing, we both nodded, and fell silent, each alone with our thoughts, wondering about our immediate future. Pat, I knew, would worm our way into the crew rotation of another Intruder, now that 314 lay in the desert, a collection of tiny, far-flung pieces. I didn't have the confidence my best friend had, though. I was not optimistic about the next few hours. I had no doubt rescue was being planned, a mission briefed, aircraft fueled and Marines, if not SEALS, locking and loading. I wouldn’t be surprised if they brought in an AC-130 Spectre Gunship. But, we had no guarantee of rescue.

  The night continued, though sleep impossible, the adrenaline our bodies had manufactured and sent coursing through our veins did eventually break down, and we both began to doze a little, jerking awake every few minutes. At one point, I glanced over to where Pat quietly slept, somehow, practicing noise discipline and not snoring, something he would normally have been doing. I let him sleep. The longer his shoulder stayed dislocated, the more pain and longer recovery he faced. Noting that I could see better than I had since bailing out, a quick check of my watch showed sunrise wouldn’t be long in coming. The glow of the sun wasn't yet visible in our small cul-de-sac of rocks, but the sky’s black didn’t seem quite as deep. As if on cue, a faint “chirp” sounded in my earpiece, notification of an inbound message, giving me the opportunity to make sure the volume of my comm device was low enough to not give away our position.

  “Spicoli two-two,” a voice said. “Mister Hand, actual.” Call signs for our rescue came from the movie “Fast Times at Ridgemont High,” in the hopes enemy forces wouldn't get the references and be able to impersonate someone involved in the rescue. It was a crude system, but an effective one. A step above “who won the 1938 World Series” kind of thing used in World War 2. The “actual” tag meant the message came from the officer in charge of the rescue. It told me the “A” Team was on the job.

  “Mister Hand, Spicoli two-two,” we're sitting here, waiting for the bus,” I replied, seeing Pat's eyes open and looking at me. We'd decided since I was uninjured, I'd do the talking for us.

  “Any sign of mall security? Go ahead,” came the reply.

  I had to smile at the reference to the Iraqi troops looking for us, and appreciated Mr. Hand’s attempt to lighten the moo
d.

  “No, probably hanging out at Cinnabon,” I said. We hadn't heard a sound for at least three hours. We kept radio conversation to a minimum, even though our units were satellite transceivers that bounced the signals off orbital communications satellites, and as such didn't need much power to get the signal to us. They were almost impossible to track.

  “Okay,” came the reply after a few moments. “Help inbound. Feet dry in three-five minutes, then 6 minutes enroute to your location.” I again carefully peeled back the black nylon cover from my watch and calculated that the evac chopper would be here as the sun climbed, so any opposition they encountered would be looking into the bright morning sun, while our guys had the light at their back. Big advantage. I didn't want to ask what kind of equipment to expect, in case our guys got suspicious about the question, but there had been a pretty good number of voices and feet pounding the ground when the Iraqi search teams had gotten close a few hours ago.

  “Pretty well staffed mall security team, Mr Hand,” I offered.

  “Standing room only on the buses inbound, Spicoli two-two. Varsity Football team,” Mr. Hand replied.

  “You go to high school in Texas, or Indiana, Mr. Hand,” I asked, not able to resist responding to the “football” comment.

  Some background laughter accompanied Mr. Hand, as he exaggerated his already considerable drawl, and said, “Plano, Texas, USA. Mr. Hand out.”

  I double-clicked the transmit button in acknowledgement and looked over at Pat, who smiled grimly at me. The United States Navy had notified us they were sparing no expense in retrieving two of its expensively trained flyers. I gave my friend an equally grim, twisted smile in return, and lifted my eyebrows in an expression I knew he understood. The Hadjis scampering around in the dark last night were going to regret ever picking up an AK, before the fat lady sang. It hadn’t been clear if “football team” meant Marines or SEALS, but whichever it was, today was not going to be a good day for Saddam’s Republican Guard.

  Hell broke loose, right on schedule 40 minutes later. Because no plan survives the first shot fired, “Murphy,” the Irish God of Random Failure, reached out from wherever he exists to smack our hopes of rescue on the side of its head.

  The whole thing started with urination. About half an hour after we first talked to Mr Hand, we heard the shuffling of boots against the ground, accompanied by the undisciplined murmurs of soldiers going about work they don't believe is important. “Go out and look for the Americans,” was what I imagined the commander of these obviously second or third-rate troops said to their officer, eager to be rid of them for a while, not realizing the direction he had waved his hand in happened to be directly in line with where we hid. Pat and I looked at each other, as if to say, “Man, these guys make a lot of noise.”

  We figured if we stayed quiet in our little, out of the way ring of rocks part-way up a small hillside, maybe they would pass by, and be long gone by the time our rescuers came, and no one would get killed.

  Nice thought, but not the way it played out.

  One voice grew a bit louder, as Pat and I pressed further in to the rocks at our backs, our 9 mm Berettas out, with rounds chambered. Fortunately, it was Pat's right shoulder that was dislocated, since he was left-handed. I had needed to help him pull the slide back a few hours ago, chambering a round in the pistol, but he needed no help to fire with his left hand. We both had two Berettas, each of us having supplemented our US Navy-supplied armory with personally purchased weapons. My second 9 mm stayed snug in a shoulder holster tucked under my right arm, so I could draw from either side. Pat had his second gun under his right arm as well, so if he emptied the magazine in the Beretta he held, he would drop it, and draw the other one. Pray God it doesn't come to that, though, I thought.

  The loudest voice laughed as he came into our little circle of rocks and set his AK-47 on the ground, leaning the gun against a large, smooth boulder, and reaching down to unzip his pants. He had a freshly lit cigarette in his mouth, which explained why he didn't see us as soon as he entered the space we hid in. He didn’t expect anyone to be in here, and the flare of the match he'd lit the cigarette with had ruined his night vision for several minutes. Probably not Republican Guard after all, I reasoned.

  I couldn't imagine him just taking a leak against the rocks well away from his AK, picking the rifle back up and leaving without seeing us, but I didn't know what to do. I knew what I SHOULD do, quietly take my survival knife out of the sheath strapped against my right leg, sneak up behind him and covering his mouth, drive the knife into his neck, and I'd been trained to do it, but to be honest, wet-work killing wasn’t an option, and a flash of embarrassment shot through me. The men coming here, risking their lives to save me, who would do that without hesitation. My job was killing from a distance. Sure, I braved anti-aircraft fire, SAM batteries and high-speed collision with the earth and sea, not to mention riding 30 tons of A6 Intruder as it crashed onto the deck of the carrier at night in the rain, but the bravery needed to be close enough to look into a man's eyes while I ended his life with a knife just didn't live in me.

  The Iraqi soldier's reaction when he finished peeing, and turned toward us, made all of that moot, anyway. At first, our being here didn’t seem to register in his brain at all, and he stared at us as if he didn't really believe what he saw. His eyes went wide, and he shouted something in his language, and while lunging for his rifle, I learned I had no trouble killing at a distance of 8 feet, nor did Pat. Both of our Berettas barked at the same time, Pat's twice, and mine three times. Even though Pat held his in one hand, I believe Pat’s 9 mm scored both significant hits, hitting the Iraqi in the chest, and just below his nose. The exchange happened in a micro-instant, but time slowed down so much when I remember it, I truly believe I can watch the 9 mm slug hit the Iraqi, square in the middle of his mustache. I think I hit him once in the left arm, before my following shots hit the rocks above and to his left.

  The noise had been deafening, and created a chaotic jumble of scrabbling boots on rocks, yelling in Aramaic and even a couple fired rounds from the Iraqi patrol a few yards away, nothing more than the startled jerking of an inexperienced trigger finger, I’m sure. The last words I heard Pat say was “It’s on, buddy…” as we separated to opposite sides of our little sheltered circle, and I, in a moment of clarity that writing this today, I have a hard time believing I experienced, holstered the Beretta under my left arm and slipped over toward the still-twitching Iraqi soldier, grabbing his dropped AK47 as I regarded his ruined face, eyes open in an expression of surprise, but not a lot recognizable beneath them. I pulled the charging handle back to make sure a round was chambered in the AK, and thumbed the safety off.

  There were a few seconds of silence, as the squad of Iraqis obviously tried to figure out what the hell was going on. Even the most inexperienced combat personnel would have recognized the sound of more than one firearm discharging, and I wondered just how long they might linger outside our small shelter, and whether the cavalry would show up in the form of a couple of Apache gunships, and maybe some SEALS, before they decided what to do. We weren't so lucky.

  I had dropped back from the opening in the rocks and crouched, the AK sighted toward the place from where the Iraqis would come. We didn't have long to wait, and in a few seconds, two gun barrels inched around the corner in the rock. I waited another couple breaths, and pulled the trigger on the AK to send a 3 round burst toward them, but held on a little too long, and the harsh, metallic rattle of the rifle ripped the silence of the night, the recoil pulling the end of the barrel up higher than I'd expected, and 5 rounds chewed up the rocks near where the Iraqis were starting to enter, sparks flashing, the bullets ricocheting off the hard stone. I didn't hit anyone, but the violence of the rounds impacting on the rock face must have been intimidating, because the Iraqis didn't seem to be all that eager to inch in further to blind-sight their rifles, an action which would have been devastating to Pat and I. If enough rounds had been poured int
o this small space, a number of them would have most certainly hit us both. They quickly realized they had us cornered, with nowhere to go. At the same time, they must have understood a cornered animal often proved to be the most dangerous, especially since we'd already killed one of their number, and had his weapon in addition to whatever hardware we had brought to the fight.

  Our rescuers were going to be here soon, so I tried to appeal to the survival instinct of these guys, and shouted to them, hoping to cut through the ringing they probably had in their ears, like us, “Any of you guys speak English?”

  Aramaic discussion erupted for a few seconds, soon quieted by an angry voice clearly belonging to the guy in charge. “Yes, I speak English, American. You are our Prisoner. Come out and you will not be harmed.” A softer, but insistent voice added something to him. “Drop your weapons first.” Ah, it wasn't the leader, but his interpreter. The speaker had little accent, so I figured he was probably educated in the US. It might help, I hoped, glancing over at Pat, who had his Beretta angled down at the ground, but when our eyes met, raised his gun back level again.

  I still had the feeling these guys weren't first line troops, and on instinct, pulled my com-gear earpiece from my ear and reached into the pouch on my belt with my left hand and turned the volume up. I wanted these guys to when I got the next call from the cavalry.

  “Well, we're not going to do that. My friends and I think it is best if you guys move away from this position.” I used the word “friends” in the hopes they might start to wonder how many of us were in here, armed to the teeth. At the perfect moment, a com chirp sounded.

 

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