POINT OPTION: A Time-Travel Military Thriller Read online

  POINT OPTION

  A Time-Travel Military Thriller

  IAN A. O'CONNOR

  Pegasus Publishing & Entertainment Group

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGUING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2021912135

  O’Connor, Ian A., 1944-

  Point Option

  Fiction - -Novel

  Thriller – Military – Mystery - Action – Adventure – Sci-Fi (Softcover)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7374229-0-7 – Trade Paperback

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7374229-4-0 – Kindle e-book

  ©2021 Ian A. O’Connor. All rights reserved

  Pegasus Publishing & Entertainment Group - USA

  First Printing, October 29, 2021

  Cover artist: Kim D. Lyman

  Jacket design: Muhammad Hassaan

  Interior design: Accuracy4sure (fiverr)

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. Brief passages may be quoted by reviewers to be printed in a newspaper, magazine, or online review site.

  Visit the author at: www.ianaoconnor.com

  Contact the author at: [email protected]

  This is a work of fiction.

  Printed in the United States of America

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  Pegasus Publishing & Entertainment Group

  Acknowledgement

  In the Pacific Theater during WWII … “In order to allow pilots to navigate back to their aircraft carriers after a long search, or strike mission, they had to know where the carrier would be after the mission was completed. This was known as “Point Option.”…Point Option was given as a course and speed the carrier would follow while the aircraft were away, allowing each pilot to calculate where his carrier would be, depending on the length of the mission.”

  SCRATCH ONE FLATTOP: THE FIRST CARRIER AIR CAMPAIGN AND THE BATTLE OF THE CORAL SEA

  By Robert C. Stern

  Indiana University Press, Kindle Edition, May 14, 2019

  *Carrier Air Wing Twelve (RCVW-12) is portrayed as being aboard the USS Lyndon Baines Johnson. In reality, it was a Reserve Wing which was disestablished on 30 June 1970. In this story it is portrayed as the active Carrier Air Wing Twelve based at NAS Oceana, VA. (See Chapter 2)

  I owe an extra special thanks to Margaret Datzman O’Connor who again undertook the unenviable task of editing my manuscript

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my wife, Candice Myers O’Connor, still my forever very best friend.

  Fiction Titles by Ian A. O’Connor

  The Twilight of the Day

  The Seventh Seal

  The Barbarossa Covenant

  The Wrong Road Home

  Point Option

  Nonfiction Titles by Ian A. O’Connor

  With Howard C. “Scrappy” Johnson

  SCRAPPY: Memoir of a U. S. Fighter Pilot in Korea and Vietnam

  Short Story Title by Ian A. O’Connor

  “The Last Grandmaster”

  Contents

  Acknowledgement

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 32

  EPILOGUE

  About The Author

  PROLOGUE

  The Eastern Atlantic - Off the Spanish Coast

  June 16th – June 20th

  The Russian nuclear-powered, multi-purpose submarine Yakutsk was cruising at a depth of 200 meters and on a heading of 170 degrees. She was twenty miles off the coast of Southern Spain, moving quietly at sixteen knots which was less than half of her thirty-five-knot capability.

  Yakutsk was the pride of the Northern Fleet. The Laika-class, fifth generation submarine was built at a cost of 180 billion rubles (USD three billion) and had taken nine years to complete. Her ten officers and one hundred twenty-four submariners were the best of the best.

  “Captain, here it comes again,” the sonar operator called out in an excited voice. Captain First Rank Dimitri Gasparin quickly moved to a position behind the seated sailor, donned a set of headphones and listened intently while studying the acoustical “waterfall” display on the sizeable flatscreens before them. Until an hour ago, this sound was unlike anything he had ever heard. His puzzled frown spoke volumes. Activity in the control room had now ceased, all eyes on their captain and the passive sonar operator.

  “You’re saying this thing is surrounding us again, but it’s closing faster than before?”

  “Yes, Captain, and it’s pulsating as it moves towards us. At the present speed we will collide in thirty seconds, maybe less.”

  “And you still insist the thing has no mass, yet it’s painting this return on your screen?” The captain removed his earphones. What the man was telling him was a physical impossibility.

  The sailor clamped both hands all the tighter over his headphones. “This is not a false return, Captain, I’m certain. Fifteen seconds to impact, and this time it will be bad.”

  “Prepare for impact,” Gasparin called out, and his executive officer immediately repeated the command on the boat’s intercom to all compartments.

  The Yakutsk and the unknown object collided with such force that it caused the twelve thousand ton vessel to be tossed to starboard, creating a violent rolling motion which pitched it ninety degrees off vertical. For a horror-filled moment, Gasparin thought his boat would roll over completely. A thunderous, external explosion erupted somewhere close to the hull, causing a series of undulating shudders up and down the entire structure.

  As the Yakutsk struggled to right itself by activating its computer-assisted trim tanks, a huge globe of emerald green ball lightning appeared out of nowhere, raced the length of the boat, careening from deck to ceiling and back down again, passing through the watertight steel bulkheads, and leaving dozens of flashing and arcing electrical panels in its wake. Several men screamed as the hellish sphere bounced off them, but not before setting two sailors’ heads afire. The fiery mass exited the hull, a lingering smell of burning sulphur a testament to its unholy presence. The boat’s lights flickered once, went out, then came back on a few seconds later. And above all the noise in the control room, everyone heard the sonar operator’s terrified scream as he tore off his headphones, blood pouring from both ears.

  Pandemonium reigned.

  This cannot be happening, Gasparin thought, his heart pounding and mind racing, refusing to believe what he was seeing. Ball lightning only occurs during a severe thunderstorm; it can’t enter a submarine five hundred feet down in the ocean! He heard his crew calling out to on
e another, the fear in their voices a confirmation they realized their deaths were imminent.

  A minute passed … another … a third … then silence and answered prayers. They were still alive, and the Yakutsk was intact.

  “Stop engine,” Gasparin commanded. Charging ahead without knowing the damage done to the Yakutsk would be foolhardy. Plus, he had no idea how his mainframe computer and inertial navigation system had fared under the power surge. He flicked on the intercom. “This is the Captain. I need damage reports from all departments. Nuclear Engineering, report immediately.”

  It took a minute for him to hear back. “Captain, this is nuclear, Serdyukov reporting. The reactor is intact, it seems to be functioning normally, there are no radiation leaks, but the ship’s computer is telling me the reactor shut itself down for several seconds. I know that’s impossible, Sir,” he added quickly, “but that’s apparently what’s happened.”

  “Very well, Lieutenant, give me a full report once everything else is under control.”

  One hour later, Gasparin sat huddled with his executive officer, Captain Second Rank (Commander) Ivan Medvedev to summarize what they knew. No one was dead, but four sailors were severely injured: the passive sonar operator, two with severe burns to their heads and faces, and one with a broken leg. However, the hull was undamaged, and no water leaks were found. But the best news was the reactor. Captain-Lieutenant (Lieutenant) Alexander Serdyukov, the head of Nuclear Engineering declared it completely safe, a finding supported by the civilian technical representative aboard from the reactor’s prime contractor, Afrikantov OKBM.

  But the report from the communications department was not good. Nearly all the Yakutsk’s electronics were inoperable, destroyed by the electrical power surge.

  * * * * *

  Thursday Morning - June 17th

  “Captain to the control room.” Medvedev was unable to hide the worry in his voice. It was midnight, and he had the conn. Gasparin arrived in less than a minute.

  “Captain, Alex is now reporting problems with the reactor,” he said in a low voice. “It started acting up about five minutes ago, but he says things are deteriorating. He might have to initiate an emergency shutdown. Also, more men are complaining they’re feeling ill.”

  “Tell Alex to update us every ten minutes, and I want you to monitor the men. Now, do we have any of our onboard navigation and communications capabilities back online yet?”

  “Very few, Sir. My recommendation is we take the boat up to deploy the photonics mast and look around. That will also let us call Severomorsk on the external satellite link. They need to be informed of our condition. And, if something happens to the reactor, well, at least we’ll be close to the surface.”

  Gasparin had full confidence in his second-in-command. He nodded his agreement. “Very well, take us up to periscope depth.” The word periscope was a misnomer, a throwback to a bygone era. Modern submarines had ceased using periscopes decades earlier in favor of the less obtrusive, but highly effective digital photo scanning devices.

  Ten minutes later Gasparin had his eyes glued to the photonics, flat-panel display screen showing a 360 degree collection of real-time, color photographs of the ocean’s surface. For some inexplainable reason, the photonics mast was one of the few electronic instruments still working. Using a joystick, he turned the camera around for a second sweep, this time moving it more slowly, having switched to an infrared lens. Nothing but empty ocean. He made a decision. “Rig for surfacing,” he called out, loud enough for everyone to hear and spring into action.

  Five minutes later Gasparin was up in the sail with two lookouts and a communications officer. He was surprised to find the weather considerably colder than he had expected. “Plug in the satellite phone, Stephen, and we’ll talk with our friends at Northern Fleet Submarine Command. It’s likely they’ll order us home.”

  Fifteen minutes later, a visibly exasperated Gasparin had given up. He had been unable to make a connection with any secure Russian Navy satellite. At the same time, below in the control room, the senior communications officer had attempted to contact any Russian vessels on the portable UHF and HF radios, and then as a last resort, any ship at all. Nothing. Because they were on the surface with multiple antennas up, he had tried picking up FM stations in Spain on his personal Apple iPhone. Again, nothing but static. He assured the captain that the two radios he had used were undamaged simply because they had not been connected to the ship’s communications suite when the power had surged. But he couldn’t understand why he had failed to receive any signal from the many FM stations, or even make a phone call.

  As Gasparin was readying to dive the Yakutsk, Medvedev made another suggestion. “Captain let’s stay on the surface but move closer to the coast. It’ll still be dark for three more hours; we know there are no ships out there, which means we’ll be safe from prying eyes.”

  Two hours later the Yakutsk was sailing just below the surface on a southeasterly heading, making five knots. Captain First Rank Dimitri Gasparin was now a very worried submarine commander. He had sailed to within three miles of the Spanish coast and, from his vantage point high up in the sail, neither he, nor the two lookouts, had seen a thing. No lights from any towns lit up the night sky. There was not a single sign of civilization along the entire coastline.

  “My best guess is there’s been a widespread electrical power blackout in Spain,” he said to Medvedev. “It could also be affecting Portugal, possibly parts of Southern France as well. We know this has been an unusually hot June in Southern Europe, which means their electric grid couldn’t keep up with the high demand. But that’s nothing new; it’s happened in the past.”

  “You must be right, Captain, there can’t be any other explanation. But that doesn’t explain the bad satellite link.” He shrugged. “Maybe things will be better after the sun comes up.”

  At six A. M., Nuclear Engineering reported that the reactor was now operating normally, and the problems of the past few hours had completely disappeared. The computer confirmed this finding, causing Gasparin to smile for the first time in hours. Forty-five minutes later, he ordered the Yakutsk back down to 200 meters, but instructed the helmsman to idle-in-place, using only enough power to compensate for the moving current. There was much work to be done before getting fully underway again.

  * * * * *

  Friday Morning - June 18th

  Twenty-four hours later, Captain Gasparin knew the Yakutsk was doomed. The entire crew was now suffering from the unknown ailment, some close to death. Without warning, the reactor had ceased functioning entirely and was undergoing a time-consuming emergency shutdown to prevent the core from melting. The final blow had come when he had given the order to surface the boat. Nothing happened. Unbeknown to him, the air flasks had been damaged in the collision, so much so that they could no longer pump the compressed air necessary to displace the water in the ballast tanks, a task crucial for raising the boat. And even the emergency manual surfacing procedures had failed. The heating, ventilation, and air conditioning system (HVAC) had also been inoperable for the last seven hours, and the temperature inside the hull was showing 40 degrees Fahrenheit and falling. Water droplets had formed on all metal surfaces, and the glass screens on the monitors were obscured under a haze. The Banks of Lithium ion batteries were now the lone fragile lifeline powering the oxygen generators and the carbon dioxide scrubbers, the latter critical for removing that deadly gas from the air. The men had been ordered to their bunks to conserve precious oxygen, and the lighting had been reduced to only a few bulbs throughout the boat. Captain Gasparin and his crew were all aware they had just enough battery life to maybe last another forty hours if lucky then after that …

  All aboard the Yakutsk prayed for the miracle they knew would never happen.

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER 1

  Thursday morning - June 17th

  It wouldn't be correct to say she heard it first because he never heard it at all.
Bolting upright, she covered her ears to shut out the offending clamor. After what seemed like an eternity, she reached across his sleeping figure and brought a hand down on top of the alarm clock. She found the light switch and snapped it on. What noise couldn’t accomplish; light did. His breathing stopped, and an arm reached up in reflex action to guard his eyes against the enemy.

  “Five o'clock, Dave,” she whispered. “Are you sure you've got to go?'' A long moment passed and she added, her voice wheedling, “Couldn't you call in sick or something?”

  Dave Fleming laughed, then yawned. “Fat chance, but nice try.”

  “Just a thought,” she mumbled, then threw her arms around her husband’s neck and buried her head in his throat.

  Fleming held her close for a long moment, stroking her hair, saying nothing. Finally, he glanced at the clock. Time to move.

  Fifteen minutes later, both were seated at the kitchen table sipping coffee, she dressed in a flowered housecoat, he in an Air Force flightsuit.

  “How long will you be gone?'' she asked for the umpteenth time since being told of this assignment in February. It was now June, and both knew the answer.

  “Honey, I'm not going to war,” he said, reaching over and tweaking her nose. “This deployment is still considered part of the Lyndon Baines Johnson’s shakedown cruise. The carrier will be joining up with the rest of its strike group which is already in the Med. Its official name is The Lyndon Baines Johnson Carrier Strike Group, but I’m told all her sailors just refer to the carrier as the LBJ. Anyway, my guess is we’ll be out there for about six weeks, maybe eight, tops. Then I'm taking leave, and we'll have a whole month to ourselves.'' He drained his cup then added softly, “I'm really looking forward to this assignment, Susan; it's a dream come true. A lot of guys I know would kill to be in my shoes.”