Time Flying (24 page)

As in the other timeline, my parents and sister moved to San Diego in the mid 80s, though I didn't follow them here this time, despite having a career in the Navy. Amanda and I made our home on the Puget Sound, Whidbey Island, though work brought me to San Diego occasionally. The ship my Squadron was attached to, USS
Ranger
, based here at North Island.

I'd rented a car at Lindbergh Field, after getting a lift across the Bay Bridge to the airport and drove north on I-5 toward Carlsbad, where my parents lived. The weather perfect, if a little chilly, but clear and sunny, so driving with the window open to better admire the Pacific Ocean on my left proved to be a wonderful idea. I was looking forward to visiting my parents, who were aging into the mother and father I remembered from my other timeline. Despite my taking this different path, the world was organizing itself into what I remembered. I wore a uniform in this one, had a different wife, two sons instead of one daughter, but I lived in a world I recognized.

Sometimes little things changed from what I remembered, sometimes big things. Example: My parents had purchased a new house in North County in the late 80s. I had been house sitting for them a couple years after they'd moved in, while they were on a cruise. A plumbing fixture broke and flooded the upstairs. The water rushing in the walls had awakened me, and I was able to shut the water main off before much damage had been done. In this timeline however, I hadn't been house sitting, so no one was home, and the entire house flooded.

I remembered my father inspecting the damage when they returned from their vacation, and saying, “I wish you'd just gone back to bed. The insurance company would have replaced the furniture and everything!” My getting the water shut off saved a complete loss.

When I walked through the front door, I hugged my Mother and shook my Dad's hand and looked around at all the furniture, nodding. “Nice,” I said, complimenting my Mom on her design sense and choices.

“Yea, I wouldn't want to go through it again,” my Dad complained, shaking his head, “but I have to admit, the timing worked out pretty well. The insurance company replaced everything, with no argument. The only thing I wish we could have saved was Maggie's table,” referring to the short, mid-century coffee table that had been his Grandmother's, and sat in his downstairs den.

I smiled, glad my gamble had paid off. I hadn't been here to house sit, nor did I warn them about the plumbing, figuring a total loss would be better than a pain-in-the-ass partial loss. But I felt a moment of guilt over the table. I hadn't considered that.
Damn
.

My Dad picked up my small leather flight bag, put his hand on my back and ushered me through the entryway, past the redesigned kitchen, and into the family room. My Mom made a bit more of a fuss over me, trying to push a beer, then a Coke into my hands. I agreed to the Coke, carrying it to the sofa to sit down. She excused herself to go check on my room, since I was going to be staying the night before getting to work at North Island, in preparation for the squadron's arrival in five days.

“So, you guys getting ready to ship out?” my father asked.

“Almost,” I answered. “We're loading the birds on
Ranger
, so the logistical stuff is a bit more complex.”

“Why do that?” My Dad asked. He consulted on construction projects for the Navy and Marines, so he had a security clearance. Not high enough for deep ship's operations stuff, but the information he asked about had been published in the Navy Times, so it was public knowledge.

“Fear of Jimmy Carter Syndrome,” I answered, to his puzzlement. “Remember those helicopters that crashed before they even got halfway to Teheran to rescue the hostages?” He nodded his understanding. “Well,” I continued, “they don't want any accidents marring the run up to the show, I guess.”

“Ah,” he answered.

“In reality, it adds more danger, between winching the planes onto the ship, and then the crazy flight schedule to get everyone qualified when we get to blue water,” I explained. “We're better off  flying out to
Ranger
, but…” I shrugged my shoulders.

“Decision's above your pay grade,” the former Army officer said.

“Aye,” was my nautical reply as I took a drink of the Coke.

My Dad, staying true to form, shifted gears. “Your Mother's worried about this thing,” he said, shaking his head. “She's glued to that CNN. I hear that woman anchor more than I do your mother. I walk around the house turning off TVs!”

I smiled slightly, a little jolt hitting me as I listened to him rail at the “woman anchor” on the new cable news channel. I knew what CNN would become, and how the entire News industry would change because of this war. “It’s going to be fine,” I said, “Saddam won't back down, but believe me, it's going to be much harder on him than on us.”

My Dad eyed me skeptically, not as reassured as I intended for him to be. Still, he nodded, and appearing to change the subject, but not really doing so, said “I  read 'Flight of the Intruder…’”

Oh jeesh.
But, I played along. “Good book!” I answered. “You'd almost think the writer flew Intruders!” I laughed. “We all had a pretty good chuckle over it.” In the truly well-written and completely authentic novel, written by Stephen Coonts, who HAD flown Intruders in Vietnam, the story opens with a VC grunt firing a single round at an egressing A-6E and hitting the B/N in the throat. I was a Bombardier/Navigator, and I knew when I first read the book if my Dad got hold of it, in his mind, it would be me in that role from page one. Of course, the character dies right away, so I hoped the novel escaped Dad's notice.

“Dad,” I continued, “our birds are so much more advanced than the planes they flew in Vietnam. The avionics, targeting and ECM (Electronic Countermeasures) packages are light years ahead of the old ones.” He nodded, trying not to appear too concerned.

I took another quick drink of Coke and added “Hell, we've got the Queens always flying with us,” referring to the specially adapted A6s, which had an impressive suite of electronic surveillance and jamming equipment, in addition to a third crew member. The aircraft were called “Queens” because of the bright gold trim necessary to shield the electronics from electromagnetic interference and attack. “Trust me, we're more a danger to ourselves than Saddam's boys are to us,” I again tried to reassure him. “I’ve…Been shown some things very few people have...That's all I can say, but it's going to be fine. Iraq's a paper tiger, but we're bringing flamethrowers to the fight, not Bic lighters. The fight won't be easy, but it will be devastating to him.”

My dad still not convinced, put his game face back on as my mother came back into the room. “Oh Rich,” she said, “someone is here to see you.”

I twisted around in my chair, curiosity turning to disbelief, because Amanda stood in the doorway to the family room with my mother, a small, shy smile on my wife's face, a bigger one on my Mom's. I jumped up and met Amanda halfway, as she leaped into my arms. I kissed her, and then hugged her, my face buried in her blonde hair as she softly sobbed, so I hugged her tighter, stroking her back. Finally, after half a minute or so, we drew apart and I asked her “where are the boys?”

“Upstairs,” Amanda answered. “Before I told them you'd be here, I wanted…”

“DADDY!” came a squeal from Aaron, my little one, who rushed into the room, after being herded downstairs by his grandmother. Michael followed, tears starting to glisten on his face.
Such a sensitive boy,
I thought, a lump having appeared in my own throat
.
The boys slammed into Amanda and me, laughing, and we all hugged each other as I silently mouthed the words “thank you” to my mother. Her smile showed me she was happy to do oblige.

I wasn't naive enough to think the tension between us completely gone, but I think circumstances dictated in the end, our family's bond was much more important than what had gotten between Amanda and me the past couple weeks. We didn't talk about time travel, alternate lives, or anything but the here, the now and the future over the next few days as I took care of the logistical challenges involved in bringing the squadron down from Whidbey, getting our aircraft scheduled for loading onto
Ranger
, and the aircrews billeted on the ship. Chris Bradford, being the junior officer between us, had to deal with the enlisted members of the squadron, the mechanics, clerical and other assorted personnel who kept the Swordsmen flying. My challenges were easier, and much fewer in number, which left plenty of time to spend with Amanda, the boys and my parents.

On two occasions, I ran into people from my other life, but was able to stop myself before saying anything. On one of these occasions, when seeing my neighbor Jeff at the Carl's Jr. in Rancho Bernardo. I smiled and almost spoke, but caught myself when I saw him look my way, without recognizing me. Amanda caught it, and after a couple seconds, said, “You knew him, didn't you?”

I nodded. “My neighbor...From...Here. His name's Jeff, and he's a runner. Works for Intel.”

Amanda nodded, and got up, walking toward the restroom, just behind where Jeff sat, eating a salad. As she passed, she seemed to do a double-take, pausing at the side of his table. “You're...Jeff, right?” Amanda asked him.

Jeff nodded, but didn't say anything, obviously stunned that this beautiful woman seemed to know his name. “We met at an Intel party a couple years ago. My sister works there.”

“Oh yea!” he answered, and I had to smile. Jeff didn’t lie well.

“You run marathons, right?” Amanda continued.

“I do,” Jeff replied, smiling through a slightly red face. Amanda did that to men. I remember a time when she did it to me on a regular basis.

“Well, nice seeing you! Say ‘hi’ to Grace for me!” Amanda said, before continuing on her way to the ladies room and leaving Jeff to wonder who the hell “Grace” was.

When my wife returned, she sat down and I asked “Who is 'Grace?’”

Shrugging, Amanda said, “I have no idea,” and took a drink of her coffee. I laughed, somehow aware that everything would be okay.

Unfortunately, I was wrong.

TEN

Cruise

The cruise supporting Desert Shield, which later became Desert Storm, was only my third cruise, but the stress level on
Ranger
seemed much higher than usual this early on. I'm sure our destination and mission caused some of the stress, the bigger part being the hassle involved in winching our aircraft aboard, instead of flying out to meet the ship.

Under normal circumstances, the ship would sail and within a few days, the air wings would begin to arrive. Each crew had to execute four carrier landings, or 'traps' in order to be qualified to fly during this cruise, something a pilot would move heaven and earth to make sure he accomplished, because not getting qualified meant a cruise full of admin hell, where the non-qualified pilot spent his days behind a desk doing paperwork, extra watches, all the stuff combat flyers hated doing. Plus, being a pilot who didn’t fly wasn’t exactly “career enhancing.” When the Wing flew out to the ship, the first trap accounted for 25% of a pilot's qualification, carrier landings we wouldn't have, since the Navy had loaded our A-6 Intruders onto
Ranger
. Spread out among an entire air wing, it meant a lot of activity to make up, since a briefing, refueling, a pre-flight check, a cat (catapult) launch, and the actual flight mission were all mandatory elements of each hop, before the trap was logged. Furthermore, because of the logistical nightmare of shuffling aircraft around the deck, up and down the elevators, etc...We had to 'hot seat' during these qualification missions, meaning changing aircrews while the engines still turned, quite dangerous if you didn’t stay on your toes, as well as stressful, having a bunch of different guys flying your aircraft.

The thing about other pilots and BNs flying your airplane, aside from the personal turf thing, was the very real phenomenon of “stranger-breaking.” In my other time stream, my best friend, Gary Danner had once explained to me that materials get used to being handled in a certain way. Plastics, wood, even metals physically change as they are used, structurally adapting themselves to the forces acting upon them. Along comes a different person, who exerts different forces and stresses on the item and it breaks.

No Naval Aviator wanted to break another flyer's kite, but we had little choice, and if we wanted to fly during this cruise, we had to get cruise qualified, so we shared aircraft.

One of the reasons Pat and I made such a good team, involved proactivity, both of us hating procrastination with a passion. I hated putting off what I could do today because that kind of behavior had created a lot of the problems I lived with in my other life. Armed with this self-understanding, I had made a point to change my ways and not let procrastination live in me this time, and I succeeded. I think Pat's hatred of procrastination came from being the youngest of 6 Irish Catholic boys growing up in Boston, where if he didn't jump at the chances life offered, one or more of the other five would. Also, Pat was blessed with having too much energy to postpone something he either wanted, or HAD to do. “JFDIN,” pronounced “Jeff-Din” was his mantra. “Just Fuckin’ Do It Now.”

So, we held no discussion about our strategy. When we weren't flying, or otherwise engaged, we'd be suited up and ready to jump in if an Intruder opened up. The flight schedule was so stacked up, an aircraft with no crew to fly would bring things to a grinding halt. So, Pat and I would hang out in the passage way just inside the hatch to the deck, in case the launch officer found he was an A-6E long, and needed someone to fly. Though he never would have done it, in one particularly long stretch of inactivity, while blue water came closer and closer, and the qual-deadline with it, Pat, obsessed with having his name first on the Qual list in our ready room, claimed if a two-seat F/A 18 Hornet came up, we would hit the ladders. The strategy paid off the second time we did this, when a pilot from the other Intruder squadron slipped while climbing the ladder to enter his aircraft. He hit the deck hard, throwing his right arm out to break his fall, breaking the wrist. The jet's turbines were still turning from the aircraft's last flight, and the cat officer remembered we'd been hanging around the day before, and had one of his sailors come looking for us. The young swabbie, clearly on his first cruise, poked his head around the open hatch, and seeing us, shouted “Lieutenant Biggs says if you guys wanna fly, you're up!”