“WHAT! I GOT HER LINED UP!”
“HOLD ON, I SAID!”
USS MIDWAY
Seated beside the bridge console, Cameron repeated the message.
“HAWKEYE THREE-SIX, THIS IS DIMPLES ONE. ABORT MISSION. ELECTRON! REPEAT, ELECTRON! DO YOU READ, HAWKEYE THREE-SIX.”
MARY JANE
“He gave the codename, Ian. What do we do?” Loran said, excited.
Clayton shrugged. “We have no choice but to turn back.”
“After all we’ve been through, they’re going to cancel the mission! The city’s in our bombsight! Something’s fishy.”
“Maybe the Japs did surrender like Dimples One said.”
“HAWKEYE THREE-SIX, THIS IS DIMPLES ONE. PLEASE ACKNOWLEDGE LAST MESSAGE. OVER.”
Clayton pressed the radio button. “I HEARD YUH, DIMPLES ONE. WE’RE TURNING AROUND.”
Loran shook his head. “I don’t get it.”
“COMMANDER TO CREW. MISSION IS AN ABORT. REPEAT MISSION IS AN ABORT. CLOSE UP THE BOMB BAY, PAUL. WE’RE PACKING UP AND HEADING HOME.” He turned to Loran. “Geez, Carl, what a ride this has been!”
USS MIDWAY
The bridge cheered. Prentice shook hands with Cameron and Robert Shilling.
Robert was elated. His son was safe. Actually, both sons were safe.
Prentice buzzed the CIC. “STEDNER.”
“YES, COMMANDER.”
“LET HULK KNOW THE BOMBER’S RECEIVED THE CODENAME AND HAS TURNED OFF THE BOMB RUN.”
“AYE, AYE, SIR. WITH PLEASURE!”
MacDonald was delighted and went around shaking hands and patting men on the back. “There, it’s finally put to rest,” he said to Cameron.
“Looks like it,” Cameron replied. But he wasn’t that convinced. He remembered the Mary Jane was found intact on Guam. How did that happen? Was something still missing? A scene left unplayed?
“What were Clayton’s orders now?”
“Disarm the bomb and drop it in the ocean,” Cameron answered MacDonald, the celebration around them.
“That means the crew will go back to their own time. And goodbye Mary Jane. We have Typhoon Matilda to worry about now. We had better get back to Guam.”
We’ll see if this is the end, Cameron thought. Suddenly, he realized that in 1945 dropping an A-bomb into the ocean wasn’t a problem. But in 1990, with greater awareness of environmental hazards, an atomic bomb on the ocean floor could be a great risk. If Fat Baby was dropped in the Pacific, the salt water would dissolve the metal casing causing the plutonium to eventually leak out. If dropped in 1990, however, then at least the US Navy might have time to take appropriate action.
Should I say something?
This wouldn’t be the first naval nuclear accident. He recalled an incident that had taken place twenty-five years earlier near the island of Okinawa, where a US Navy hydrogen-bomb-equipped A-4E Skyhawk strike aircraft had fallen off the flight deck of the carrier Ticonderoga and was never found. And what about the handful of nuclear Russian subs that were probably at the bottom of the Pacific and the Atlantic, including the one he had read about in The Devil Seas?
Oh, what to do.
“We’re forgetting something,” Cameron said out loud. The room grew quiet.
“What’s that?” Prentice asked.
“We lost a fighter pilot today. Tiger is gone.”
Prentice sighed. “That’s right. Thanks for the jolt of reality, general. Lost in time. Imagine.”
“Could we at least drink a toast to him?”
Chapter fifteen
JAPAN
It didn’t take Tiger long to find a Japanese military air base. From 25,000 feet up, he saw runways crisscrossing north of Osaka. He performed a series of wide, slowly descending circles over the base, at the same time keeping his eyes open for enemy fighters on patrol. He made one low pass over the tower at 1,000 feet to have a look and turned away to come around again. This time, he screamed across one runway at 100 feet, hurtling towards the hangars at a speed of 500 knots. Up and down the hardstands were closely-parked, single-engine fighters that he recognized as Zeros. Fifteen of them at a guess. He was close enough to see their camouflage colors. Several people near the planes scrambled for cover. To the left, one of the fighters had just touched down and was about to hang a left onto the taxi strip. Tiger banked to starboard so that he could meet the fighter head-on for the next pass.
For armament, Tiger was now down to the nose-mounted cannon, his four missiles used up. He flicked to GUN on the weapon-select switch. The HUD displayed the gun mode, complete with a reticle and gunfire impact point to aim for. The modern Hornet was full of wizardry, but Tiger wanted to operate the system manually, just like the good old strafing days of World War II.
By the time Tiger banked and came around again, the anti-aircraft fire had opened up on him. But the gunners couldn’t find the range. Tiger was much too fast. At 400 knots, he brought the F-18 right down to the deck — 100 feet — and held his finger on the trigger. Two lines of 20mm cannon firing 100 rounds a second chewed a path towards the fighter until she exploded into a fierce fireball. Tiger pulled his F-18 straight up, over the explosion, giving full throttle. He heard small pieces of debris banging against the underbelly. He quickly checked the instruments for any damage. No change. Nothing.
By now, more distant black puffs appeared in the sky, the closest explosion two or three hundred feet off his port wing. He outran the puffs as he poured on the afterburners and soared into the sky in a near-vertical climb. At 15,000, he looped the Hornet over and aimed for the base. Once again, he brought the fighter down to the deck, five hundred yards from the nearest target. Closing in, he aimed for the line of fighters on the dispersal track. He wanted as many as he could get in his final pass. Fifty yards away, at a height of eighty feet, he pressed the stick trigger and held it down until he passed the line of airplanes and he was out of ammo. All 570 rounds. He banked to port to look over his wing. Three fighters were in flames. Then a fourth exploded. Followed by a fifth. Suddenly, Tiger was rocked by a flak burst. The instruments to the port side told him the port engine was on fire. He quickly lit the extinguisher button to douse the flames. Then he shut down the engine, skimming the ground at 400 knots. His digital display told him he had a fuel leak. He turned the fighter away from Osaka, towards Osaka Bay, and brought the nose up until he reached 2,000 feet.
Now what?
Tiger was still finding it hard to believe where he actually was. He was stuck in August 1945, mere days before Japan surrendered. About three days. He could abort and send the fighter into the bay. Could he hide out for three days? What other choice did he have at the moment?
Osaka Bay loomed dead ahead, a distance of two or three miles. Tiger determined that 200 miles of fuel remained in the tanks, which meant that if the fighter kept to its present course, it would run out of fuel over the ocean. By now, half the Japanese air force were probably looking for him and his aircraft. He quickly made up his mind that no one would find the F-18.
Tiger glanced below. All the way out to the bay looked deserted, only a single road and a few odd buildings close together, others scattered. He flicked the stick-mounted autopilot on with his little finger. He disconnected the canopy and was immediately met by a stunning turbulence of air. He was ready for ejection.
The F-18 Hornet was fitted with the Navy Common Ejection Seat, which contained a fully automatic step-by-step system of escape, controlled by an electronic sequencer. Tiger engaged it by pulling a loop — the seat firing handle — situated between his thighs on the front part of the pilot seat. A rocket exploded below him, sending him through the top of the aircraft, seat and all, his leg restraints keeping his legs together. Once Tiger was free of the fighter, a rocket motor beneath the seat fired the drogue deployment catapult as it reached the end of its stroke. Then a parachute deployment rocket fired. His leg restraint system freed his legs, and his seat fell to earth. In a short time, his parachute inflated and he was descending slowly. He glanced southward, at the last sight of his fighter. Only the starboard engine was belching red.