by M. L. Maki
Sam and Gloria laugh.
“What’s so funny, guys?”
Sam says, “Un, he’s so shy, he’ll run in the opposite direction as fast as his legs will carry him. Great pilot, best wingman in the world, doesn’t do females very well.”
“Oh.”
Her copilot finally says, “A guy who won’t try to get you in the sack, CB? Now, I’ve seen it all.”
“Behave, Mr. Ski. You haven’t seen anything yet.”
They’ve flown for about 20 minutes, then CB says, “I think I see the Fife. There must be a carrier around here somewhere.” On radio, “Gold Eagle, this is Eightballer 416, request to marshal.”
“Eightballer 416, Gold Eagle, approach at 087, make your altitude 500 feet and report when you have us in sight. You’ll be landing on spot 1.”
“Roger, Gold Eagle, spot one, report when in sight.” On intercom, “That Thud is good. They didn’t change my course.”
“Yes, he reads technical manuals for fun,” says Sam.
“Might just have to look him up for that kiss, oh, there it is,” and switches to radio, “Gold Eagle, Eightballer 416, I have you in sight, approaching the bow to land on spot 1.”
“Roger, Eightballer 416, you’re cleared to land. Once chalked and chained, you will spin down our engine.”
“Did we get them all, or do they just not want us flying around without a direction finder?”
“Maybe both,” says Smooth.
CARL VINSON FLIGHT DECK, SPOT 1, 0022, 21 DECEMBER, 1941
After a long night flying, Cargo Britches still makes the landing look easy, kissing it in without a bump. While the engines are spooling down, Sam and Gloria unload their passengers. Even after their ordeal, because they were in a life raft, most of them are ambulatory. They save the Japanese body for last. Sam tells the Vinson sailors taking the body from her, “The Captain needs to know about this one. Take it to medical and inform Captain Johnson a Japanese sailor is on the boat.”
She and Gloria finally climb out of the chopper and shake hands with Cargo Britches and Smooth. Turning to go, they see their XO, LCDR Carleton walking toward them. Gloria says, “Now what?”
Even over the noise of the flight deck, Carleton can be clearly heard by all four of them, “Just what the hell do you think you were doing? You want to be the fucking hero? You’re pilots, not fucking SAR swimmers. I’m writing you both up for conduct unbecoming an officer.”
Sam slumps, exhausted, “Really, sir?”
“You have a discipline problem, Lieutenant, and I’m going to nip it in the bud and end our career.”
The two women, soaked to the skin, covered in blood and diesel oil, thirsty, hungry, and exhausted, look at each other. Sam says, “Yes, sir. Request permission to go below and clean up. And sir, fuck you very much, sir!” Not waiting for a reply, Sam walks away.
Gloria looks after her friend, smiles wryly, and says, Sir, you might have missed the fact that we were saving lives. I thought lives mattered, sir!” and follows Sam below.
FLIGHT DECK AT THE ISLAND
When they get to the hatch on the island, they bump into Chief White, “Are you two, okay?”
Sam smiles, “Yeah, thanks, Chief.”
“I checked, neither of you are on rotation tonight or tomorrow morning. I got the division. Get some sleep. You too, Hoolihan. I’ll tell your Chief.”
FEMALE HEAD, 03 LEVEL, PORTSIDE
The female junior officer stateroom area is a small group of six staterooms. Four of the six hold two officers apiece, and two have six each. The shower area, where Sam and Gloria are cleaning off layers of gunk, has only three stalls and push button shower heads. Water is precious on a Navy ship, so Hollywood showers, where the water runs continuously, are not allowed. They have no trouble hearing each other, “Do you think Book will actually write us up? It’s stupid,” says Sam.
“I think ‘Book’ is really short for ‘stupid’,” answers Gloria.
“What will we do? All I’ve ever wanted to do is fly.” In her exhaustion, her head is spinning.
“He might write us up, but it won’t go anywhere. He’ll just come off as an idiot. I’ve known guys like him before, and so have you. He wants us to fail.”
“An Admiral’s mast will do that. All it takes is the request being made, and we’re done.”
“We won’t get a mast, hon, no way.”
BLACK KNIGHT COMMANDER’S OFFICE
“I’m finally going to get those two. They departed their duty station without orders. They had no business out there risking their necks doing someone else’s job. While they were out hot-dogging, Hunt missed a flight call. I’m going to put them back in the kitchen where they belong, uppity bitches. Hunt told me… she said ‘fuck you’ to her superior officer. That can’t stand, it’s insubordination. The way Hoolihan looked at me,” he pauses, “she won’t be smug in front of the admiral.”
Holtz wearily raises his hand to stop the tirade, “Book, just drop it, it won’t fly, and you should know that.”
“I’m writing her up, anyway.”
“I’ll disapprove it.”
“I thought you hated them, too?”
“I’m trying to save your sorry ass. CATCC told me they were out there. That’s why I pulled them from the rotation. It won’t wash.”
“Jim, this will fly. No one wants them here.”
“The Navy does, now drop it.”
EIGHTBALLER COMMMANDER’S OFFICE
“I’m telling you, sir, their XO was really pissed. Those ladies saved the lives of some forty sailors tonight. They were amazing, and he’s going to write them up. We have to do something.”
“Sandra, what do you want us to do?” asks CDR David Yankee Crocket, OIC of the Eightballers Detachment on the Carl Vinson.
“I want them put in for medals.”
“They don’t work for us.”
“They did when they were in the back of my bird.”
“Okay, write it up.”
CHAPTER 12
SAMANTHA AND GLORIA’S STATEROOM, 0500, 21 DECEMBER, 1941
Sam is jarred awake by a knock on the door, “RT classroom in 30 minutes.” Rolling over, she looks at her clock, 0500. Groaning, she crawls out of her rack, finds her footing, and tries to stretch the pain out of her cramped muscles, “I need Motrin.”
Gloria sleepily asks, “Flight call?”
“No, honey, go back to sleep.” She gets dressed, swallows a couple of Motrin, gets a quick bite and coffee in wardroom 3, and makes her way to the RT classroom. She’s the last one in.
RT CLASSROOM
“Grab some coffee, Lieutenant.” Gratefully, she gets another cup of coffee and sits down. Captain Klindt continues, “The situation has changed. We will be briefing Admiral Ren and all the captains in two hours. We need definitive answers. John, why don’t you take the white board, and MM1 Hughes, you’re still the clerk. John the following facts:
Freak lightning storm that caused no damage,
Loss of communications with satellites, an all other high frequency comms,
Hewitt is missing,
Loran station could not be located,
Old airplane of possible Japanese origin,
Old music on AM frequencies.”
Sam speaks up, “Add the attack on the Benjamin Stoddert and a Japanese sailor’s body recovered from near where the attacking sub was sunk.”
Klindt asks, “We recovered the body of a Japanese sailor?”
“Yes, sir. Not sure he came from the sub, but he was wearing a Japanese Navy uniform. I fished him out of the water.”
Warren asks, “What were you doing in the water?”
“SAR swimming. It isn’t relevant. Trust me, he’s Japanese.”
Lt. Mike Mohr says, “Sir, don’t forget the torpedoes were the old WWII straight line, leaves bubbles type, not modern guided ones.”
“Right, put it all on the board,” waiting for Warren to finish.
“Next list:
EMP, short of electro-magnetic pulse,
Solar Flare,
Russian secret weapon, similar to EMP,
Mass hallucination,
Bermuda triangle,
Alternative space time continuum,
EMP directed only at satellites,
Time travel.”
After a moment, Klindt says, “Okay, now, no matter how seemingly ridiculous, let’s take each theory and check off how many facts fit them. EMP – one, maybe two, maybe three. Solar flare, the same. Russian weapon, again, the same. EMP at satellites, it’s all the same thing. Right, all these amount to the same thing, some electro-magnetic disturbance and none of it explains what is happening down here. Mass hallucination, anyone want to take a crack at that?”
“No, all of us? All the techies? I don’t think so,” says Hunt.
Hughes adds, “Hallucinations can’t burn or kill. I helped move guys from the flight deck to medical. No way.”
“Next, the Bermuda Triangle. Never mind we’re half a world away from Bermuda, and I don’t think we’re near the Devil’s Triangle here in the Pacific. What do you think?”
CT1 Barr says, “Sir, I asked the bridge watch. They said Lt. Hunt was on the helm. Did the compass swing randomly?”
“It was the first time I ever steered a ship, but I don’t recall the compass ever changing except when we changed course. I was on the helm after the storm. And I really need to get my SWO.”
Barr nods his head, “I talked to the helmsman in medical. He’s partially paralyzed. He said it was steady until he got knocked out. I know the gyro compass in combat never moved. Always, in Bermuda Triangle stories, they say the compass spins. Also, we’re not lost. We found the atoll fine, and the Quarter Masters had no trouble getting fixes. We are not lost, so I don’t see the Bermuda Triangle working.”
“If I recall, it was you that came up with it,” says Klindt.
“Yes, sir, but I realize it doesn’t work.”
“Okay, that leaves alternative space time continuum and time travel. Lt. Mohr, would you agree that ASTC is essentially the same as time travel?”
“Well, no, sir, the concepts are totally different. With time travel, you go back in your time stream creating all kinds of paradox. In ASTC, and I love the initialism, a new time line is created, avoiding paradox.”
Hughes sighs, “Oh my God. Geek alert.”
Klindt says, “Okay, conceded. But, if we’re experiencing one or the other it would look the same. We could not be aware of our own paradox.”
Hughes moans, “Oh no, it’s contagious.”
Sam is staring, her eyes unfocused. Warren asks, “Hunt, are you okay?”
She shakes her head, “My God, if we’ve traveled back in time, they are all gone.”
Klindt asks, “Who’s gone, Hunt?”
“Everybody, sir. Everybody. Our families no longer exist.”
Stunned, they look at each other in silence. Hughes shakes his head, “Yeah, but it’s just a theory. There’s just no way we could travel back in time.”
Mohr replies, “Um, it works for the facts we have.”
“Yeah, like that count down movie, but that stuff just don’t happen,” say Hughes.
Exasperated, Mohr says, “All I’m saying, is it works. You have a better explanation that fits the facts, then give it.”
“Gentlemen,” Klindt interrupts, “We have to brief the Admiral and a slew of captains in about an hour. Let’s WORK the problem, not BE the problem. Does time travel actually work to answer all the facts?”
“Yes,” says Mohr, “It works if we are now in World War II. That would, or could, explain everything. No GPS, coms, or Loran, they didn’t exist then. The Stoddert, the non-homing torpedoes, the Japanese sailor, and even the patrol plane are explained, if we went back in time.”
“If we have, then denial is fatal,” says Hunt, looking at Hughes. “We already lost the Stoddert because we couldn’t figure it out.”
Barr says, “There is a problem with all of this. What time is it? Heck, what say is it” Has the war just started, or is it almost over? That matters.”
“He’s right, how do we figure it out?” asks Sam.
“First, do we all agree that time travel is the most plausible, if seemingly preposterous explanation?” asks Klindt. They all nod their heads. “Okay, now how can we determine the date?”
Denton asks, “Celestially?”
Klindt says, “That can tell where we are, if we know when we are, or, when we are, if we know where we are. It can’t do both.”
“How do you know so much about navigation?” asks Denton.
“My last ship, the cruiser Virginia, I was her captain. A skipper has to know where he’s going.”
“I can tell if we’ve dropped the bomb yet, or not,” says Warren. “We do an internal dose count on the dead Japanese. That would make me a believer.”
“How does that tell us anything?” asks Barr
“Good idea,” says Hunt.
“I don’t get it. What if he wasn’t near the bomb site to get irradiated?” asks Barr.
Hughes smiles, “He doesn’t have to be. We all have higher dose counts then he will.”
“I’m not a nuke,” says Barr.
“Hughes is right. Because of all the testing since 1945, it is ambient. We all have elevated radiation counts, which the Japanese won’t have. Warren, Hughes, see to it. We’ll catch you up when you get back,” says Klindt. He looks at the remaining five, “Can we narrow it down further?”
Richardson says, “History books? Overfly an island, like Tarawa, where the photo was taken on a specific date. If the Japanese hold it, then we’re before that date.”
“We could try to get somebody on the short wave and ask,” says Denton.
“Klindt says, “What would we tell them, most people know what day it is.”
“I don’t know, maybe say I’m a ship wreck survivor on Gilligan’s Island?”
“Why don’t you say you’re a private sail yacht and you’ve lost track of time. Keep it simple,” says Sam.
“Okay, that’s better than Gilligan’s Island.”
Richardson asks, “Did people sail around in private yachts back then?”
Mohr answers, “Yeah, it happened, though it was rare. My step-dad is a sail boat nut.”
Klindt picks up the wall phone and dials the bridge, “Sir, it’s Klindt, I would like to send Petty Officers Denton and Barr up to radio to raise someone on short wave… Yes, sir, it’s worth breaking radio silence. Thank you, sir.” He turns to the petty officers, “Boys, up to radio with you, and practice a good lie.
“Now, folks, we are testing our theory. Good. While they’re gone, let’s talk about what we ought to do should it be true.”
“Sir, anything we do will change history. That’s not good,” says Sam.
Mohr tilts his head, “We sank a Japanese submarine, and have one of its sailors on ice. That already changes history.”
“Point.”
“I agree, that ship has already sailed. Now what?” asks Klindt.
Mohr says, “We kick some Japanese ass, sir, then report to higher.”
“Who, Roosevelt?” asks Richardson.
“Why should we fight first, Mohr? I’m not sure we should expend irreplaceable assets until higher has a chance to think it through,” says Klindt.
“Well, sir, this is what I’m thinking. Picture yourself as, say Admiral Nimitz. We show up and say ‘Hi, we’re this kick ass ship from the future here to help.’ And he’s like, ‘cool, but what can you do?’ Much better if we say, ‘Hi, we’re a kick ass ship from the future and look at what we’ve already done,” says Mohr.
“Good point.”
“Shit, I have a good history of WWII in my stuff for some light West Pac reading. May I go get it, sir? We’ll know where they are. Know, not guess,” says Richardson.
“Light reading?” says Sam.
“Yes, I’m not a wing wiper. I’m way past ‘see spot run’,�
� says Richardson, as he leaves to laughter.
DOSIMETRY OFFICE, 0550, 21 DECEMBER, 1941
It was actually easier to move the body to dosimetry, than to move the big radiation detector to the body. Hughes and Warren carry the body bag to the dosimetry office, trying to ignore the stares from the crew. The engineering laboratory tech, MM1 Klegman, stops them at the door, “Hey, hey Hughes, what the hell are you doing?” You can’t bring a body in here. Hell, you aren’t allowed in here. Get the heel out…”
Lt. Warren cuts him off, “Stow it, Klegman. We’ve got orders.”
Klegman gets a good look at the dead Japanese, who’s swollen and a dark red from the pressure that killed him. He retches, motioning them out, “I don’t care. Get it the hell outahere!”
Muscling past him, they get the body into the small office and Hughes says, “Listen, Klegman, he’s kinda heavy and sorta squishy. Are you going to fire up the internal monitor, or should I just set him in your lap while I do it?”
Klegman turns green and howls, “Sirrrr?”
Warren says, “The orders are from the RO. Now, are you going to run your machine, or hold the body?”
Klegman starts setting up the internal dose detector. Hughes says, “Come on, man. Hurry up. I think he’s leaking into the bag. Oops, I’m losing him!” Klegman starts to answer, raises his thumb, indicating the machine is ready, and sticks his head in the trash, vomiting violently.
Hughes and Warren maneuver the body so its chest is against the tester. Klegman, head still in the trash can, says, “You hafta open his shirt an…oh, um, ya hafta dry him off. Sea water will, ugh, oh man, throw off the test.”
Hughes mutters under his breath, “ELT pussy. He oughta clean the oily waste tank sometime.” He and Warren struggle to get the shirt open while still holding the body, then he uses chem wipes off the desk to clean the now bare chest. They put the body against the test plate and Hughes says, “Hey, Vomitus! Turn this fucker on.”
The ELT lifts his head long enough to push a button, gets another look at the dead sailor’s face, and goes another round. Between dry heaves, he says, “When the light turns green, tell me what it reads.”