Time Flying (33 page)

We had bound Pat's arm as best we were able, not wanting the noise of trying to put his shoulder back into its socket alerting the Iraqis to our presence. He was in pain, but told me he’d “cowboy up” until we got back to the ship. Pat Maney was my pilot, business partner and best friend in the world, and once again, in the Iraqi night, he proved he was John Wayne, Dirty Harry and Pappy Boyington all wrapped up in a five foot eight inch frame, everyone who knew him (older brothers included) admitted fought at about six three. As good a friend as Pat was, I hadn't told him about my experience, though, and sitting in the dark, looking at the magnificent Milky Way above us, and knowing men with AK-47s who wanted to kill us, or worse, capture us, were near by, I wondered whether not confiding in Pat had been the right decision.

He knew something was up because of my frequent contact with Walter Steinberg, recently, but probably figured the matter was a health concern and made the choice not to pry, something completely outside of Pat's normal operational envelope. I thought maybe I should tell him now, so if something happened to me, he would be aware what I'd gone through. Pat would consider all I had said bullshit, but then again, I considered the possibility of my friend surprising me.

As we listened to the distant sounds of those searching for us again fade, Pat shifted uncomfortably and came out with it, voice sub-vocal, but clearly audible to me in the silence. “So, what's been up with you the past few months?” he asked.

“You really want to get into that right now?” I asked in reply.

“Why not?” He countered. “Look, Richie, we may not make it out of here. Those guys are Republican Guard, and we're on their home court. I'm not going to be a POW in this one,” Pat explained, shifting his seat again, his sub-vocalized voice thick with the pain caused by the movement. “It’s not gonna be 'Hogan's Heroes’” he said, referring to the 60s television series about a German POW camp in World War II.

“Well,” I shrugged, realizing Pat's stated intent to not be taken alive was bluster designed to help him buck up against the pain, and because he was Pat. “Just in case, I DID draw up some plans for a tunnel, and we figure we could put a mic in a picture of Saddam. They have them everywhere,” I answered, to which Pat grunted a short, quiet laugh.

“Seriously though, what's been up? The stuff with your head doctor buddy from High School?” Pat pressed. “You and Amanda split…”

“We didn't split up, Pat,” I replied, as harshly as the near total silence of our communication allowed, “and Walt’s a neurologist, not a shrink.”

“Right,” he responded, ignoring the issue of Walter’s medical specialty. “You bunk at the BOQ before deployment, then skate to San Diego ahead of the squadron.”

“Amanda and the boys came down before we sailed…” I answered. What Pat said was true, but then his assertion we had split was pretty right on target, too, Amanda's confusion over my revelations about what had happened to me…was happening to me complicated and serious. I hadn't even come close to telling her the whole story, realizing doing so represented the nuclear option, and would probably set the whole situation on another path altogether. Sure, the path disclosure might set us one could turn out to be the right one, but the chain of events created could also put my family (at least the one in this timeline) out of reach forever. I closed my eyes, the irony of worrying about what my wife would think if I told her I was a time traveler, while I hid in the black of night, in the Iraqi desert, Saddam's Republican Guard looking for me, was just too bizarre.

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 mood.

“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.”