Timeshadow 02

"Boomer Five-oh-five, this is Two-nine Bravo," Colonel Tom Courville said into his mic, calling the lead F-35 as each approached Joint Base Pearl Harbor.

"Five-oh-five, go."

"We're only getting some low level VHF, commercial chatter. Nothing on UHF or Z-band, no VOR/TAC. We've got three very low level search radars targeted, but no long range stuff. You picking up anything?"

Lieutenant Bob Sandusky, leading the reconstituted VA-165 "Boomers" back to Pearl, was now about fifty miles north of Two-nine Bravo, directly over Honolulu. "Nothing except VHF, the radars are so low power they're barely registering."

"What does Pearl look like? Can you see anything?"

"Several ships in harbor, looks like a small carrier heading out. Uh, I'm gonna go down, make a high speed pass, see if I can get some eyeballs on the field...looks like some unusual traffic down there."

"Okay, Five-oh-five, we'll go active ECM and jam 'em from here." He looked to his co-pilot, saw her telling the EWO, the electronics warfare officer, to light up all the shoreside scanners, then he got back to Five-of-five: "Alright, we're active now. Start your run."

"Roger." Sandusky reefed the F-35 into a long, arcing descent, let his speed build up to mach 1.2 as he lined up on what he hoped would be PNL's runway 4. Ten miles out and two hundred feet above the ground, he flew straight for Hickam's tower, but as he flew by his stomach knotted. He kept flying right over the city and roared past Diamond Head before he went ballistic, the F-35 going straight up into the sky before leveling out at twenty thousand feet.

Sandusky shook his head, tried to come to terms with what he'd just seen, then he got on the radio. "Five-oh-five, Two-niner Bravo."

"Bravo, go."

"Uh, ramp at Hickam had a few B-17s, a couple of squadrons of P-40s, I think an old Brewster Buffalo, and a couple of float planes. Maybe they were called Kingfishers. Bunch of battleships are lined up in the harbor, and I saw nothing of PNL. No ramps, no runways, but I think I saw an old Pan Am Clipper coming in."

"Bravo received." Courville looked at Sinclair, then shook his head.

"Just like that old 80s movie, The Final Countdown," she said. "I used to have it on my phone."

"Yeah, right. What freq is Kilo Echo on?"

"243.3"

Courville dialed in the numbers, called the refueling tanker, told them what the F-35 had just reported and to pass it on the other F-35s and the Qantas jet, then he switched back to Five-oh-five's frequency. "Five-oh-five, can you estimate how much runway we've got?"

"I'd say five thousand max. Those B-17s used to eat up a bunch of concrete, but not like a 767 or that 380."

"Okay. I'm going to enter the pattern, uh, start our downwind out over Diamond Head. Why don't you hang around and show the flag, in case anyone wants to start shooting..."

"Roger that...uh...looks like two P-40s taking off now. I'll go down and keep 'em company now. Uh, you guy's carrying?"

"Yup, four B-85 warheads onboard. 200 megatons each."

"Swell."

"Starting our checklist now. Let me know if those -40s look like they're getting angry."

"Roger." Sandusky watched the Curtis P-40s retract their gears and start to climb as he came in behind them, and he dropped some flaps to help bleed off more speed. The P-40 pilots apparently had no idea he was behind them as he nudged his throttle and squeezed in between them, and the pilot on his left stared at him as he pulled alongside. Sandusky reached for the landing gear lever and flipped it down, dropping his landing gears in the universal "I'm not a threat" configuration, then the guy on his left indicated Sandusky should follow him down; Sandusky watched as the other P-40 fell in behind his aircraft, then he looked towards Diamond Head and saw the B-2 flip on it's landing lights.

"Okay, Bravo, I've put the gears down and am following their lead back around for final. I've got your lights and the pattern looks clear, as far as I can tell, anyway."

"Okay. I'm gonna head out west a little and extend our final. When you get down let 'em know they've got a lot of traffic coming in, including that heavy. Better warn their fire crews in case that runway isn't long enough."

"Roger that. Good luck, Bravo. I'll stay on this frequency until you're down."

"Roger, and you too, Amigo. See you in a few."

+++++

Todd Parks and Sara Goodman stood as if frozen beside their telescopes in the middle of an open courtyard; June, the almost blind seven year old girl, sat nearby on a vast tile floor, hyperventilating. It was dark outside, wherever it was they were, so it took a moment to orient themselves to this new space. As their eyes adapted to the dark, Sara walked over to what she thought was a wall, but she stopped suddenly and jumped back. "Whoa! We're up a few floors, and this is a low wall, so be careful."

Parks knelt beside June and held her; she was shivering now, plunging towards hysteria, and the little girl jumped when she felt Parks' hands on her shoulders. "What happened, Dr Todd?" was about all she managed to say...

"I don't know, darlin'. Something, uh, I don't know...strange happened, and we're not in the park anymore."

"Did we fall asleep?" the little girl whispered.

"Maybe, but I just don't know. I want you to sit right here...and don't move."

"Don't leave me, Dr Todd," she cried, "please, don't leave me!"

"Okay, put your arms around my neck," he said as he lifted her and held her close, then he stood and looked around the courtyard again -- and now he saw there was a man standing in a far corner -- looking at them. "Sara? Better come here."

"What is it?" she said, then she saw Todd pointing -- and she too saw the man in the corner.

The man took a few steps towards them, then stopped when he saw the computers on Parks' camp table; they were in 'night-vision mode' and so almost invisible, but Parks motioned to the man, in effect asked him to come closer. Much to Parks' surprise, the man did.

Both screens had immense star charts displayed and the old man leaned over and examined them, then grew almost enraptured, crying with effusive joy -- then an explosion of language burst forth from his lips at such speed both were left gasping.

"Is that Spanish?" Parks asked.

"I don't think so," Goodman said.

"It's Italian," June said. "My Uncle Geppetto speaks Italian. He taught me too."

"June, did you understand what he said?" Parks said, holding her close.

"Most of it."

"What did he say, June?" Sara asked.

"It is fantastic. What is this thing, this window, and why are the heavens inside?"

Parks bent down, looked under the camp table, saw all the cables were there and still attached, even the three golf cart batteries were still under the table, and he was struck with an idea. Someone, somehow had moved exactly what he needed right here. Nothing superfluous or extraneous had been moved, and even the girl served some purpose, even if she was just to act as their translator. He heard Sara and June talking to the man while he looked at the battery monitor; he'd just topped them off so he had about seventy hours of life left with normal usage, more if he conserved power. Still, why would someone bring them here, then leave them?

"Left to do what?" he asked aloud as he heard Sara calling his name, but he ignored her, instead asked: "Sara, can you find out where we are?"

"Todd! Come here!"

Somewhat miffed, he walked over to Sara and June, and the man -- who was looking at him now with something akin to frank admiration. "Yeah? What is it?"

"Frank, we're in Florence. Italy. As best as I can tell, it's the seventeenth of November, 1618. And our friend here? His name is Galileo Galilei."

Parks stared at the man a moment, then walked over to the wall, looked out over the sleeping city as the significance of the date rattled around in his head. He recognized the Duomo, and Giotto's campanile, and he looked down at the cobbled street below, at the flickering pools of torchlight -- and everything he saw fit with what Sara had just said. "June, tell him this. Whatever else may be happening, we have been brought here for a reason. Someone or something has brought us here just before one of the most significant moments in human history is about to occur. We don't know why we are here, or who brought us here, but it's my guess we are here to help him."

Parks walked over to his computer and input the current date and location, and he asked the man what time it might be. The man, Galileo, Parks forced himself to say, came to him and watched as he input the data, then he commanded the scope to slew to the coordinates he'd input. The Takahashi whirred and spun to a spot in the sky, and Parks looked through the eyepiece, then centered the object and commanded the scope to track it. He switched eyepieces, put in an ancient TeleVue 12mm Nagler, then he re-centered the object once again. It was as breathtaking as it was legendary, and he stepped aside, let a 17^th century man look through a state of the art 21^st century refractor, and the man gasped, almost fell away from the scope.

"Todd, what is it? What did you find?"

"I didn't find it, he did, four hundred years ago, well, tomorrow night. It's Galileo's comet, and the scientific world was never the same after his discovery."

He held June up to the scope, let her see what no one alive -- in her world -- had ever seen before, and never would again, and he wondered out loud as he held her... "Just why are we here -- now?"

"What?" Sara said. "Why is that so important?"

"Important? It's vital! Right here, right now, with all our equipment? You and me, trained astronomers, thrust into Galileo's world on the eve of a complete paradigm shift? This is not a coincidence, Sara. This is anything but a coincidence. I just don't know why. Yet."

+++++

Boomer Five-oh-five was configured for a conventional landing, and when Sandusky hit the numbers he deployed the spoilerons and popped the drogue -- and the F-35 decelerated smartly on the black asphalt runway. An olive colored Jeep pulled out onto the runway ahead of him, a large "Follow Me" sign clearly visible as it turned and started down the runway ahead of his aircraft. The F-35 was clearly marked as US NAVY -- but he had to wonder? Would they believe him? Well, why wouldn't they? This aircraft was certainly real enough, but nothing compared to what was coming in just a few minutes.

When his speed had slowed to 45 knots he popped the canopy a few inches, braced for the expected blast of hot air -- but cool air streamed-in hitting his sweat covered flightsuit, chilling him quickly. He pulled to a stop just behind the Jeep, and dozens of troops and military police surrounded his fighter, everyone aiming some sort of machine gun at his face, and he laughed.

He opened the canopy all the way, then addressed the men below: "Well, just don't stand there! Get me a goddamn ladder!"

"And just who the devil do you think you are, bucko!" a line chief snarled.

"Lieutenant Jake Sandusky, United States Navy, and if you don't get me a goddamn ladder you're gonna regret the day you were born! Now, MOVE IT!"

Sandusky smiled. It never failed to amaze him...the louder you yell, the faster they run.

Another Jeep came racing through the massed men, and a naval officer with four stripes on his boards hopped out and walked over to the ladder being put up by Sandusky's cockpit.

"Captain," Sandusky said as the man stepped on the first rung, "y'all best not shoot at my friend there," he said, pointing to the black, bat-shaped bomber on short finals, "'cause he's a colonel and he get's real pissed off when people do that."

Everyone turned and looked at the B-2 as it flared and popped it's drogue, then the engine sounds hit and the men dropped to the ground, most covering their ears. The captain climbed the ladder and looked at the instrument displays on the panel: he appeared to be shaking, and extremely confused.

"Captain," Sandusky said in his best poker face, "y'all sure look like you could use a drink. I'm buyin', so the least you could do is help me out of this crate."

"Five-oh-five!" his radio blared.

"Go ahead, Bravo."

"The date, find out the date!"

"Captain," Sandusky said as he turned to the man on the ladder, "today isn't December 6^th, 1941, is it?"

"Of course it is, you idiot!"

"Yes. Right. Of course." He turned back to the cockpit, "Two-nine Bravo, looks like company's coming tomorrow morning."

"Uh-huh. Look, have those base security guys find out who's in charge around here, and get them down here pronto. And tell 'em about the other incoming aircraft!"

"What's that?" the captain said. "There are more of you coming?"

"Oh, Captain, you got no idea. Three more like me, a really big aerial refueling tanker, and a Qantas airliner so big I guarantee you that every one around here is going to shit their knickers."

"How soon?"

"Ten minutes, and that airliner needs a lot of runway. You better get your fire and rescue guys organized. And who's in charge here?"

"General Short."

"You might want to get him down here real soon, Captain. We need to talk."

"Why? Why did you want to know the date?"

"The Japanese are going to attack early tomorrow morning. You ready for that?"

"How do you know that!? How could you possibly..."

Sandusky pulled out his DoD ID card, which of course had his date of birth and date of issue for the card, and the captains eyes went round before he went down the ladder and sprinted away.

"Five-of-five, this is Kilo Echo, how's the weather down there?"

"Kilo Echo, this is Two-nine Bravo. Start your downwind at Diamond Head, extend west. Wind out of the east, very light right now. Can someone get us a pressure?"

"Captain?" Sandusky said, "got a barometer around here?"

"29.92!" someone called out, and Sandusky relayed the information.

"What in God's name is that!" he heard someone cry, but Sandusky didn't really need to look. Nothing in 1941 was as big as the tanker, yet as old as the A380 was, it was something else again. He saw they were pointing at the tanker as he unclipped his harness, so he knew the best was yet to come. He climbed out of the F-35 as the B-2 followed the jeep up to the ramp, and he saw all kinds of garbage on the tarmac and ran towards the bomber with his hands crossed over his head.

Courville saw the signal, then all the stuff on the ground and he braked hard, idled the engines and hoped for the best.

Sandusky was beside himself... "All of you, let's get all this crap off the ramp! Now! If an engine sucks this stuff up, that's it. End of airplane!" The men responded, swarmed all over the area, and soon it was clean enough -- then the tanker touched down just a few yards away and immediately went into reverse thrust -- and while the entire base felt the rumbling, men near the runway flattened on the pavement, covered their ears when the tankers left wingtip passed just over their heads.

Two of the three F-35s landed in quick succession, while the third automatically assumed CAP duties high over the base, and while the Qantas 380 entered the newly established pattern out over Diamond Head.

The B-2 taxied to a vacant area and shut down it's engines; Courville slid down his crew ladder under the cockpit and ran over to Sandusky, just as a General Staff car drove out onto the ramp and over to Sandusky's F-35. Courville and Sandusky saluted as a General exited the olive colored Buick, and the man returned the salute absent-mindedly as he looked at the F-35.

"I suppose there's some sort of explanation for this," General Walter Short said as he walked directly over to the ladder and climbed up to the -35's cockpit. "If there is, keep it brief and to the point." Sandusky pulled another ladder and climbed up and stood beside the general. "What IS all this crap?" Short said, clearly more confused than he looked as he pointed at the cockpit displays. "And who the hell are you!?"

Sandusky handed over his DoD ID again, and Short looked at it closely. "This shows an issue date of 2032. What the hell's going on here?"

"We don't know, General," Courville said from the tarmac, "but we need to face some facts..."

"What the FUCK is that!" the general shouted, pointing at the A380 on final, nearly losing his balance when he stood up on the ladder.

"General! We need to talk, now!" Courville said again, but Short stood in silence as the 380 flared and touched down, then Sandusky saw huge chunks of asphalt flying up behind the Airbus' main gears...

"The weight!" Sandusky yelled. "It's too goddamn heavy! That pig is going to tear up the runway!"

"Too late now," Courville said, kicking the tarmac. "Goddamn it! How the hell do we get out of here now!"

"Get out? Now?" General Short said angrily. "You're elements of the armed forces of the United States of America, and you told one of my men we're going to be attacked tomorrow morning. Just where do you think you're going?"

"General?" Courville said. "We NEED to talk NOW!"

Short turned to the navy captain. "Get that runway fixed before sundown."

"Aye-aye, sir!"

"Now, Colonel, let's go see what..."

The last F-35 was coming in now, and due to the runway damage the aircraft was coming in to make a vertical landing on the ramp, like the old AV-8 Harriers used to, and everyone scattered again when it's massive thrust blasted the tarmac. Short jumped down the last few rungs of the ladder and rolled to the ground, tearing his khaki uniform in places, then he stood and glowered at Courville and Sandusky.

"Any more surprises!?" The General growled as the F-35s engine spooled down, then he looked at the A380, which seemed to be sinking deeper into the asphalt. "How much does that goddamn thing weigh!" he yelled.

The giant Airbus managed to clear the runway before one of the main gears broke through the pavement completely, sinking into the sand underneath, and the Qantas captain wisely decided to shut the engines down right there.

General Short limped over to Courville and Sandusky, stopped to pick bits of gravel out of his bleeding knee, then stood and glowered at the two aviators. "Which one of you sons-a-bitches is going to tell me what the hell is going on here! I want answers, and I want them NOW!"

+++++

Lieutenant Judy Aronson sat with all the pilots in Beagle Group, and as a group they went over what they knew. They were in San Antonio, in the 19^th century unless some elaborate hoax had been played on them, and probably as a result of some interaction with the blue sphere they had encountered earlier that day. The Alamo was a few hundred yards away, and the Mexican Army under Santa Anna was marching their way, it's arrival imminent, within a day or two, anyway. Each helicopter had approximately two thirds of a full fuel load left. The helicopters in Red and Green sections were each armed with 16 AGM-114N Hellfire II, while Blue section aircraft each carried 76 Hydra rockets. The 30mm Gatling guns in most ships had 1200 rounds on board, but each section leader's aircraft had been fitted with 'directed energy' weapons -- laser-type weapons that were effective against targets as varied as tanks, incoming missiles and, of course, human beings.

They were wearing their flight jackets, sitting on olive green nylon and aluminum camp chairs just outside 24 one man tents, arranged in a circle, and so far, while Aronson had done most of the talking, everyone was cold. None of them had experienced temperatures in the 80s since they'd been kids.

"Does anyone have any idea what that sphere was," she asked. No one did. "Okay. Well, so it's my guess we've, apparently, been transported back in time. To a very specific point in time, and we are at a location, and a time, where something critical to the development of the United States is about to happen..."